While I was entirely out of sympathy with the turkey shoots, I was glad for several reasons to become a member.
After most of the crowd had dispersed I was solemnly conducted into the church and informed that, in order to become a full-fledged member, certain things must be imparted to me to complete my initiation. I was then told that all “Turkeys” knew each other by certain grips and cabalistic words. The “grip” consisted of shaking hands with three fingers only, representing the three front toes of a turkey. The “countersign” was “Pop-Pop!” signifying rifle firing at the annual shoot. The countersign, loudly uttered, with three fingers held aloft, constituted “the grand high sign,” and I was told that I must always relieve any brother Turkey who hungered or thirsted, and made such a sign. With my promise to remember all this, the ceremony, which my instructors, Bill and Rat, considered very humorous, was ended.
The Reverend Butters had been a sorrowful spectator of the proceedings of the afternoon, but his furrowed face brightened when Josh Varney gracefully presented him with one of the big dripping birds that he was carrying to his buggy. In prayer before his congregation on the following Sunday he expressed humble gratitude with the words, “Out of the iniquities of the world, O Lord, has sustenance come to the body of thy servant, and beneath a cloak of sin have Thy blessings been transmitted unto Thine anointed one.”
The relations between the old preacher and Rat Hyatt had been slightly embarrassing since Rat’s conversion and sudden backsliding of the year before, and they had little to say to each other when they met. Rat was now regarded as a hopeless loss and a minute part of hell’s future fuel supply. He considered his former spiritual comforter “a busted wind bag,” so there seemed little left to say on either side.
On the way back to the boats I reflected on the degrading entertainment of the afternoon. Outside of what Pop Wilkins called “the horning in of that turkey pirate,” the day was considered a success. The well aimed bullets had thrilled the spectators with savage joy, for somewhere in the heart of nearly every average human abides the primitive lust for blood. The marksmanship might just as well have been exhibited on inanimate and unsuffering targets. The helpless turkeys in the boxes gratified the baser instincts to the extent of their limitations, and when they were all dead the crowd went home as happy as if it had been to a bull fight, a prize ring, or to any other brutal spectacle disguised by pretended admiration of scientific ability. On the way back down the river, our boats kept close together and there was much discussion over the day’s events.
Pop Wilkins delivered a long tirade against Varney, and wound up by modestly admitting that probably he would have beheaded all of the birds with his squirrel rifle if he had had the opportunity, so after all it was merely a question as to who shot first.
“That feller c’d prob’ly thread needles with that damn rifle,” observed Bill. “I’ve read o’ fellers that had telescope eyes an’ a sixth sense that somehow couldn’t miss nuth’n they ever shot at. They c’d plunk holes wherever they wanted to, like they was use’n a gimlet. I wonder what ’e wasted them four extry catritches fer? Prob’ly so’s to make a nice sociable feel’n all ’round an’ make ’em think it wasn’t quite so raw. He prob’ly goes to shoots all over the country an’ sells the plunder in the market.”
The chill winds of a desolate winter had swept through the naked woods along the river, and a balmy May had come, with its tender unfolding leaves of hope and perfumed blossoms, when Josh Varney again appeared on the scene.
“Well! Well! How’s everybody?” he shouted genially as he drove up in front of Posey’s store one forenoon with a roan horse and a smart new buggy.
“We’re slowly git’n well. Say, Perfessor, you ain’t got no gun with you, have you?” queried Bill, as the pair shook hands. “’Cause if you have they’s a lot of us that’s goin’ to hide some poultry.”