He let go and let out a squall. But the turtle
started to crawl off, got going strong, and dragged the jaguar into the
sea and drowned him. With naive earnestness Copple assured his mute
listeners that he could show them the exact spot in Sonora where this
happened.
Retribution inevitably overtakes transgressors. Copple in his immense
loquaciousness was not transgressing much, for he really was no greater
dreamer than I, but the way he put things made us want to see the mighty
hunter have a fall.
We rested the hounds next day, and I was glad to rest myself. About
sunset Copple rode up to the rim to look for his mules. We all heard him
shoot eight times with his rifle and two with his revolver. Everybody
said: "Turkeys! Ten turkeys--maybe a dozen, if Copple got two in line!"
And we were all glad to think so. We watched eagerly for him, but he did
not return till dark. He seemed vastly sore at himself. What a
remarkable hard luck story he told! He had come upon a flock of turkeys,
and they were rather difficult to see. All of them were close, and
running fast. He shot eight times at eight turkeys and missed them all.
Too dark--brush--trees--running like deer. Copple had a dozen excuses.
Then he saw a turkey on a log ten feet away. He shot twice. The turkey
was a knot, and he had missed even that.
Thereupon I seized my opportunity and reminded all present how Copple
had called out: "Turkey number one! Turkey number two!" the day I had
missed so many.
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