I was about to give up the chase in despair. The distance separating me from the turkey was at least two hundred yards; and I fancied that the mustang, winded as he was, might be hurt in trying to overtake it. I did not desire to damage my reputation by “riding a free horse to death.”
While thus hesitating, I was astonished by observing an unexpected circumstance. The turkey had reached the summit of the ridge, and was so conspicuously outlined against the blue background of the sky, that I could see it from head to heel. While admiring the outlines of the magnificent bird, I saw its wings all at once cease from their flapping, and drop down by its sides, while, at the same instant, the action of its limbs became suspended, and, as if having spent its last effort of strength, it tumbled over on the turf.
“Good!” thought I, “I’ve run it down, after all! What a fool I was to think of discontinuing the chase! There’s nothing more to do but to ride up and take possession of it.”
Lest the bird might recover breath, and make a new start, I once more drove my spurs into the sides of the mustang, and galloped up to the crest of the ridge.
I need not have been in such hot haste: for on getting near enough to the gobbler to be able to judge of his condition, I saw that he was dead!
“’Twas the pace that killed him!” I muttered to myself, gleefully adapting the old saw to the circumstance which was giving me so much gratification.
I lost no time in dismounting from my horse, with the design of taking possession of my prize.
As I approached the fallen gobbler, I stopped short to contemplate him.
A splendid creature he appeared, even in death. His plumage still gleamed with the iridescent hues of life—just as at sunrise of that morning, when he had strutted his short hour over the prairie turf before the eyes of his coquettish female companions.
I was still occupied in this post-mortem examination, when I perceived that there was blood upon the beak of the bird—a tiny stream oozing out between its mandibles.