So, hoping for a closer and
better shot, I let this opportunity pass. Of course I should have
taken it. The gobbler clucked and began to trot up the ridge, with the
others after him. They were not frightened, but they appeared rather
suspicious. When they disappeared in the woods Romer and I got up, and
hurried in pursuit. "Gee! why didn't you peg that gobbler?" broke out
Romer, breathlessly. "Wasn't he a peach?"
When we reached the top of the ridge we advanced very cautiously
again. Another open place led to a steep, rocky hillside with cedars
and pines growing somewhat separated. I was disappointed in not seeing
the turkeys. Then in our anxiety and eagerness we hurried on, not
noiselessly by any means. All of a sudden there was a rustle, and then
a great whirr of wings. Three turkeys flew like grouse away into the
woods. Next I saw the white gobbler running up the rocky hillside. At
first he was in the open. Aiming as best I could I waited for him to
stop or hesitate. But he did neither. "Peg him, Dad!" yelled Romer.
The lad was right. My best chance I had again forfeited. To hit a
running wild turkey with a rifle bullet was a feat I had not done
so often as to inspire conceit. The gobbler was wise, too. For that
matter all grown gobblers are as wise as old bucks, except in the
spring mating season, when it is a crime to hunt them.
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