We had been instructed each to select our bird, and fire at the word to be given by the guide. How loud and sharp the clicking of the locks sounded, in the stillness of that jungle on the plains, as six barrels pointed upward, but their aim made all unsteady by the thumping of as many palpitating hearts. Then, in a low tone, came the words—and they seemed hoarsely loud in the painful silence around us—"Ready! Take careful aim!" "Hold!" cried the Professor, in a sudden outburst of enthusiasm; "Gentlemen, you see above us thirty fine specimens of that noblest of all American birds, the turkey. Wisely has it been said that, instead of the eagle, the turkey should have been our National"—"Fire!" cried the guide, in an agony, as the Professor, having dropped his gun, was rising to his feet, and the turkeys, alarmed by his eloquence, were preparing for flight.
And fire we did. A half dozen tongues of flame shot upward, and the roar of our unmasked battery reverberated over the solitude. The rustling and fluttering among the tree tops was terrific, and showers of twigs and bark rained down upon us. Every one of us knew that his shot had told, yet for some reason, perhaps owing to the superior cunning of the birds, none fell at our feet. Before regaining the wagon, however, we found fluttering on our path a fine fat one with a shattered second joint. It was claimed by Sachem, on the ground that in his aiming he had made legs a speciality, not wishing to injure the breasts.
Later in the season, when the birds had become much wilder, I often shot them, both running and flying. They are very hard to kill, and a sorely wounded one will often astonish the hunter by running long distances, or hiding where it seems impossible. The fall through the air, or sudden stop from full speed when running, are alike exciting spectacles. And the big body, with red throat and dark plume, luscious even to look at, is fit game to excite the pride of any sportsman.
The modes of hunting the wild turkey are numerous.[2] Mounted on a swift pony it is not difficult to run one down, as may be done in half an hour, the birds, when pushed, seeking the open prairie and its ravines at once. On foot, with a dog, they can easily be started from cover, and generally rise with a tremendous commotion among the bushes, when they may be brought down with coarse shot. Another method of turkey shooting, and one that became quite a favorite of mine, was to steal out from camp in the gray of early morning—so early that only the tops of the trees were visible against the sky—provided with a rifle and shot gun both. When the birds have once been hunted, extreme caution is necessary to get within seventy yards of them. Upon a high bough, in the gloom, the old gobbler appears twice his real size, looking as long as a rail. Try the rifle first, and, two chances out of three, there is a miss. Then, as the great wings spread suddenly, like dark sails against the sky, and the big body, launched from the bough, shakes the tree top as if a wind was passing through it, catch your shot gun, and fire. In the dim light, and at long distance, it takes a quick and true eye to call from the ground that welcome resound which tells of game fallen.
Under the big oaks, meanwhile, our camp fire burned brightly, and Shamus was developing the mysteries of his art. Roast turkey and broiled antelope tempt the pampered appetites of dyspeptic city men, but here in the wilderness, their fresh juices, hissing from beds of glowing coals, filled the air with a fragrance that to us was sweeter than roses. Tired enough, after an all day's ride, and hungry as bears from twelve hours fasting, we sucked in the odors of the cooking meat, as a sort of aërial soup, while the Dobeen stood an aproned king of grease and turkey, with basting spoon for scepter, and with it kept motioning back the hungry hordes that skirmished along his borders.
Two mess chests had been placed a few feet apart, with the tail-boards of our wagons connecting them, and over this was spread a linen table cloth, white plates, clean napkins, and bright knives, with salt, pepper, and butter. All were in their accustomed places. This our first meal on the plains looked more like an aristocratic pic-nic than a supper in the territory of the buffaloes. But the picture was too bright to last, and ere many days neither napkins nor cloth could have been made available as flags of truce.
It is one of those threadbare truisms, adorning all hunting stories of every age and clime, that hunger is the best seasoning. We had an excess of it on hand just then, and would willingly have shared it with the dyspeptic, baldheaded young men of Fifth Avenue. The turkey we found fat and very rich in flavor, and the antelope steaks more delicate than venison. Condensed milk supplied well the place of the usual lacteal, and was an improvement on the city article, inasmuch as we knew exactly what quantity and quality of water went into it. We were obliged to economize, however, respecting this part of our supplies. The following entry in our log-book, by Sachem, under date of the day preceding this, will explain the reason: "Two cans of milk stolen, probably by the Cheyennes. Consider the article more reliable for families than city stump-tail, requiring neither milking or feeding, and never kicking the bucket, or causing infants to do so. Had no idea that a taste of it would develop such a talent for hooking."