"OLD INJUN," CHIEF OF THE COHARIE 



By JOHN JORDAN DOUGLASS 



Illustrated by Roy Mart ell Mason 



T was a bright, breeze- 

 less winter day : frost 

 glittered on the 

 ground ; the air was 

 crisp, cool and invig- 

 orating. Everything 

 was ideal for a trip to 

 the big woods. 



I was in high spirits, 

 for I had arranged to accompany old 

 "Turk" Trotman on one of his famous 

 turkey-hunts. His fame as a hunter 

 had traveled far beyond the territory 

 tramped by his tireless feet. To ac- 

 company him on one of his trips was 

 considered the chance of a lifetime. 

 When fully equipped and accoutered, I 

 presented myself at his cabin door, my 

 hurried rap received a ready response, 

 and I entered the presence of my chas- 

 seur chaperon. 



He was a lank, grizzled old fellow 

 of sixty, with prominent cheeks, aqui- 

 line nose and piercing black eyes un- 

 dimmed by age. He was giving the 

 finishing touches to a reed turkey-call, 

 and lifting it to his lips, sent forth such 

 a natural yelp that for a moment I 

 stood in silent wonder. 



"How's thet fer 'em?" he queried, 

 gazing up at me, a satisfied expression 

 in his bright black eyes. 



"Fine," I replied. "It strikes me 

 that it ought to call up the shyest gob- 

 bler in the Coharie swamp." 



"No hit won't," he said ; "hit won't 

 call up Ole Injun, the big bronze gob- 

 bler on the Coharie ; ner nuthin else 

 will. Thet's er turkey with ways like 

 er Injun — shy, swif 2>n foot, sharp- 

 eyed; here terday, yonder ter-morrer, 

 an' the devil knows whar part uv the 

 time." 



The old backwoodsman shook his 

 head and chuckled, doubtless at some 



wary exploit of the big bronze gob- 

 bler. 



"The quare thing about hit is he's er 

 tame turkey gone wild," he ran on. 

 "He wuz hatched out here. I raised 

 him with my own hands. But he wuz 

 alius shy an' strange like. 'Peared ter 

 be alius dodgin' an' lookin' fer danger. 

 Wen the other turkeys wuz peacefully 

 eatin' ther corn, he kep' liftin' his head, 

 an' stritchin' his neck an' lookin' eroun. 

 One day he heerd the yelp uv er wild 

 turkey hen an' rez rite up in the air 

 an' made er bee-line fer the swamp. 

 He's never bin back sence. That wuz 

 over two year ago. He's a big turkey 

 jun ter-day ; but hit'll be er glimpse an' 

 the wildest." 



I was so absorbed in the story of the 

 big gobbler that I had forgotten our 

 mission until the old man reached up 

 and removed his long rifle from the 

 "rest" of deer-horns over the doorway. 



"Hit's time ter be goin'," he said. 

 "Mebbe we'll git er glimpse uv Ole In- 

 jun ter-day; but hit'll be er glimpse an' 

 thet's all. He knows all my tricks — 

 he's sharper'n ole Satan." 



We were quickly in the woods. I 

 noted now that my companion became 

 the very soul of silence. His sharp 

 eyes and ears were ever on the alert. 

 Not the slightest moving object es- 

 caped his notice. Once he sent a swift 

 glance upward and indicated with his 

 rifle a tiny object — apparently a mere 

 wisp of gray moss clinging to the top- 

 most limit of a mighty pine. 



"Squirrel," he observed; "we're nigh 

 the turkeys an' can't afford ter shoot." 



"Let me try him with smokeless 

 powder," I urged. "The report will 

 not be sufficient to scare the turkeys." 



"Be thet ez hit may," he answered, 

 "they'll smell the powder jist the same. 



13 



