I peered sharply. These objects were turkey heads. I got a shot
before Copple saw them. There was a bouncing, a whirring, a
thumping--and then turkeys appeared to be running every way.
Copple fired. "Turkey number one!" he called out. I missed a big gobbler
on the run. Copple shot again. "Turkey number two!" he called out. I
could not see what he had done, but of course I knew he had done
execution. It roused my ire as well as a desperate ambition. Turkeys
were running up hill everywhere. I aimed at this one, then at that.
Again I fired. Another miss! How that gobbler ran! He might just as well
have flown. Every turkey contrived to get a tree or bush between him and
me, just at the critical instant. In despair I tried to hold on the last
one, got a bead on it through my peep sight, moved it with him as we
moved, and holding tight, I fired. With a great flop and scattering of
bronze feathers he went down. I ran up the slope and secured him, a
fine gobbler of about fifteen pounds weight.
Upon my return to Copple I found he had collected his two turkeys, both
shot in the neck in the same place. He said: "If you hit them in the
body you spoil them for cooking. I used to hit all mine in the head. Let
me give you a hunch. Always pick out a turkey running straight away from
you or straight toward you. Never crossways. You can't hit them running
to the side.
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