Soon, along the run far to the north, there was a stir. He could not make it out. To the south was other movement.
"Doby, 'tend to business," he cautioned himself.
From the north came a turkey—a gobbler—the gobbler. This was luck. Doby fitted an arrow.
From the south came a boy—a big boy—an Indian. This was not so lucky. Doby slackened his bowstring.
The savage had already seen the turkey. Silent and shadowy, he crept from tree to tree toward the stately bird. His stalk was a model of woodcraft.
What chance had Doby against such skill—against any grown boy? Very little. Against a wild Indian he had none at all.
The dismayed Holman sat so still that he could hear his own ribs creak. This was no longer his game. The hunter Doby was in danger of becoming the hunted Doby. He lost all appetite for turkey.
The wise gobbler—he was neither young nor tender—kept a sharp outlook on the shadows, an alert regard for his own giblets. He was watching the Indian quite as closely as the Indian was watching him, and with as much anxiety as Doby was watching them both. Then with a strategic side-step he scuttled into the weeds near the foot of Doby's tree and was off at a tangent.
Instantly the Indian let fly one arrow, then a second one. Both whizzed in the same direction and at the same mark. There followed a great squawk and flutter. A turkey with an arrow through its neck flopped into sight and went scurrying north over the run. The Indian was in hot pursuit.
When the quarry and the chase were out of sight Doby noticed—oh, dull-eyed white man!—what he should have observed at first, that a turkey hen must have been waiting all this time in the weeds for that gobbler to come along.