The Squirrel Hunters of Ohio; or, Glimpses of Pioneer Life

by N. E. Jones

To make the pen a success, required great care and attention. The timber necessary for the construction was gathered from windfalls showing woodland decay; any marks of the axe, or civilization were considered objectionable. The earth taken out to make the trench, leading to and into the pen, was carefully removed to other parts; old leaves were thrown into the trench and about the pen, making every thing in the vicinity look ancient and accidental.

In many settlements the success of trapping pens was of short duration. As the country soon furnished easy access of the birds to large fields of their favorite food, they no longer could be induced to enter the baited pens. Notwithstanding the number captured by means of pens—“slaughtered by moonlight”—“by baiting”—“by treeing with dogs,” turkeys remained quite plentiful for more than sixty years after the settlement of Ohio. They were to be found in the woodlands all over the state, and for half a century remained the king-bird of the sportsman. When frightened, he seeks cover and lies well to a point. Early in the morning is the most propitious time to find him. When a flock is flushed and frightened by the rapid motions of a dog, some will fly and others run in the direction of security and cover; it may be a mile or more distant, and if so the sportsman will most surely pick up a straggler or two on his way, if he and his dog understand their business.

If any have taken to the trees, it will be lost time to look after them—they have made another fly in the direction taken by the leaders, who prefer the use of feet to wings. The dog must now keep close to his master, who moves so cautiously and quietly, that he talks to his companion by signs and motions altogether. The birds are so wonderfully fearful of a dog, and are now so frightened that some, while on the way to the place of refuge, will drop down in a secure looking spot to regain composure or to await till all is quiet. It is these the sportsman is after. Old logs, fallen tree-tops, piles of old brush, blackened limbs, tufts of weeds and spots of dead prairie grass grown in small openings among timber, afford attractive points for concealment, and are all remembered with reverence and respect as monuments of departed birds, at the death and obsequies of which the writer had been present.

The hunter must be prepared to find a bird anywhere on the line of march. The dog carries the scent and his every movement determines the distance the birds are off. Now he moves with cat-like stealth—he stops with tetanic muscular tension, quivering in every fiber, stands elongated—a fixed immovable figure—his marvelous nose has caught the image and measured the distance, which in silence says, stop!—move not, as eyes and nose direct to the place some twenty or thirty yards distant. The bird is there, and the canine head knows the result of another step in that direction—the hunter summoning all his skill and coolness, takes a step or two forward, and the bird is flushed, and starts off with the velocity of a grouse, testing sporting ability and rapidity of motion that rewards in hearing the monster fall; and a second later the quiet salute by the faithful and well-trained dog, showing he is elated equally with his master.

Quite often a turkey will carry a mortal charge a long distance and drop dead. Remains of dead birds are so frequently found during the hunting season, that there can be but little doubt many shot at and get away, die from their wounds. And the hunter should not despair of success if his shot on the wing does not come to the ground immediately. Instances in great numbers are before the writer, some of which are marked by more than ordinary singularity, where the recovery of the bird has taken place, quite unexpectedly, after a pronounced miss. One bitter cold afternoon, while out with a friend, who shot at a bird as it was flying through the timber; it continued on its course and was observed for a long distance to fly naturally but to go down too abruptly. The locality where observation ended was hunted closely and easily, as there was a crusted snow on the ground, but without finding as much as a feather. As we were returning, and within a few rods of the spot where the bird we had been searching for was shot at, another turkey came sailing over with tremendous velocity, going in the direction taken by the first one. It was given a barrel loaded with Ely’s Green Cartridge, No. 5 shot. The bird went on and down, but this time we marked the locality more accurately and were soon at the place and found two turkeys, dead and warm, within a few feet of each other. Some years before this, while standing in a little opening, early in the morning, listening for turkey sounds, the report of a gun was heard near half a mile distant, and in a moment a large gobbler fell dead at the writer’s feet.

While out with two young dogs, a bird was flushed on the bank of the Scioto river, and received a shot when near the opposite side, which so injured and confused him that he came back and fell upon the side of the stream from which he started. The heavy body came down with a thud, close to the shore, among some weeds and bushes near a large pile of drift-wood. The dogs were at the place in quick time, but could find no turkey. Thinking it had crawled into the drift, we tried to have the dogs hunt the drift. But they knew better and took no heart in spending time at that point, and required constant restraint to prevent them from taking the forest. After an ineffectual examination of the cover afforded by the drift, the superior judgment of the dogs was taken, and with management, their noses kept the course of this wounded bird and followed his meanderings one and a half miles in an air line from the drift to the point where they came to the bird on a stand. Walking up, expecting a flush, I was surprised to find a dead turkey, warm, muddy, and wet with the dew of the morning.

While it is quite common for a turkey, when mortally wounded, to continue his flight considerable distances before falling, and equally, if not more so, to fall dead at once from the shot, it is not often one will, while on the wing making his escape, change his course of conduct and come down and give himself up without being touched by shell or shot. Still, it is not impossible, for he has been known to do so, but not, perhaps, for the reason said to be entertained by Captain Scott’s coon.

One still, warm afternoon in December, 1860, with dog, the writer visited the “Fenced-in Wilderness.” On arrival in the woods a concealed position was selected and the dog sent out to look up the birds. Soon a large male bird came so near, on foot and unseen, that he scented the hunter, and rose within less than twenty yards of the writer, who fired after him one of Ely’s green wire cartridges, one and a half ounces No. 5 shot, driven by three drachms of Hazard’s electric powder. The bird was up in the air about thirty feet, going off directly in line with the shot. When the gun reported the turkey did not limber nor tumble like a bird shot, but came down precisely like a paper kite—full spread of wings and tail, with outstretched neck and legs. When the writer came up he was lying upon the ground, spread out like a bat, and the captor placed one foot and weight of the body on his neck, and commenced reloading the empty barrel. Before this was half accomplished it became necessary to suspend reloading and attend to the customer by changing his neck from the foot to the hand, in order to keep him long enough to cut his throat. During the time required to open the knife and perform this little surgical operation he used his legs and toenails most vigorously and effectively, and the operator came out of the fray bleeding and lacerated, with loss of the greater portion of coat, vest, shirt and pants. The wounds, however severe, were as nothing compared with the knowledge demonstration revealed—that this turkey was knocked down by the generation of some force, without making a scar, mark, or sign of traumatism, external or internal. A critical examination revealed no injury whatever, except the cut made by the knife. The explanation is for the scientist.

It requires a good gun, a good load and a good shot to bring down a full-grown, well-feathered turkey. Seldom they rise short of thirty yards distant; then, by the powerful motor assistance of the legs at the start, the next thirty yards are made with such velocity that by the time the gunner has “spoken his piece,” the bird is off so far that loose No. 5 shot and a fair charge of powder will not be effective unless by mere accident. This became manifest at the beginning of the Fifties. Having flushed a very large flock of turkeys near town by means of a little cocker, that made a terrible ado after them in the standing cornstalks, near the Scioto river—after hunting them unsuccessfully in the timber, a strip of prairie grass was entered, full of “nigger-heads,” extending parallel with the river for a full half-mile. The grass was tall, and the freezing weather had stiffened the ground and frozen over the pools, so it could be walked over with safety. As the grass was entered the little dog became invisible; but it was soon discovered where he was by the flight of a turkey out of range, and before the cocker could be brought under control he flushed several more. It was not long, however, before a good wing shot was obtained, and the writer started home with a load. This success and the close proximity to town induced a number of amateur gunners to try their luck, and they were directed to the locality; for it was certain, if the turkeys were concealed in the grass, they would remain there if undisturbed until their time for moving—the dusk of evening.

From what was subsequently known, it would appear that the whole flock, consisting of forty or fifty birds, still frightened, had found their way back to this place of security and concealment, and, without the aid of dogs, were walked up and shot at by the party, but without capturing a single bird.