And when he reached the turkey coop, 'way down in the field, Hiram was very glad indeed that he had come instead of the girl.
For the coop was empty. There wasn't a turkey inside, or thereabout. It had been dark an hour and more, then, and the poults should long since have been hovered in the coop.
Had some marauding fox, or other “varmint”, run the young turkeys off their reservation? That seemed improbable at this time of year—and so early in the evening. Foxes do not usually go hunting before midnight, nor do other predatory animals.
Hiram had brought the barn lantern with him, and he took a look around the neighborhood of the empty coop.
“My goodness!” he mused, “Sister will cry her eyes out if anything's happened to those little turks. Now, what's this?”
The ground was cut up at a little distance from the coop. He examined the tracks closely.
They were fresh—very fresh indeed. The wheel tracks of a light wagon showed, and the prints of a horse's shod hoofs.
The wagon had been driven down from the main road, and had turned sharply here by the coop. Hiram knew, too, that it had stood there for some time, for the horse had moved uneasily.
Of course, that proved the driver had gotten out of the wagon and left the horse alone. Doubtless there was but one thief—for it was positive that the turkeys had been removed by a two-footed—not a four-footed—marauder.
“And who would be mean enough to steal Sister's turkeys? Almost everybody in the neighborhood has a few to fatten for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Who—did—this?”