424 
FOREST AND 
STREAM 
August, 1920 
GUNNING DAYS ON TURKEY CREEK 
REMINISCENCES OF SHOOTING QUAIL AND PRAIRIE-CHICKEN ON THE PRAIRIES 
OF EASTERN KANSAS IN THE GOOD OLD DAYS WHEN BIRDS WERE PLENTIFUL 
A BOUT forty years ago a portion of 
the prairie lying southeast of the 
town of McPherson, Kansas, some 
ten miles out, was of somewhat rougher 
mould than the ordinary. Through this, 
in a southwesterly direction, ran a deep 
cut or gash in the soil that was filled or 
overflowing with water in the spring 
rains, and dry in summer, excepting at 
rare intervals where there was a deeper 
hole or reservoir. This was known as 
Turkey Creek. On its banks were here 
and there a solitary wind-distorted cot- 
tonwood and at very rare intervals small 
groves of the same. The creek proper, 
in the dry season, was merely a narrow 
ravine, but in the rainy season, when it 
overflowed its banks, it was in many 
places a quarter of a mile wide. This 
expanse was dotted with wild plum thick- 
ets, and the intervals covered by coarse 
grass that was usually cut and stacked 
by the ranchers for winter stock fodder. 
Some of our rancher friends had told us 
that ducks were plentiful in the holes 
along this creek, and we decided to give 
it a try out. 
It was a beautiful crisp November 
morning and we were off to an early 
start. As we breathed in the pure ozone 
laden air, it was as exhilarating as wine. 
How restful and refreshing it was to 
realize that we were so many hundreds 
of miles away from business cares and 
ail their corroding anxieties, as free for 
the time being as the air we breathed, 
and we gave ourselves up to the full en- 
joyment of the day. 
Some five miles out from town we came 
to a cluster of four or five small build- 
ings; this was the remains of King City. 
Some years before this, a great rivalry 
had existed between King City and Mc- 
Pherson as to which should be the Coun- 
ty Seat, both places being of about the 
same size. An election was held to settle 
the question and McPherson won out. 
Then the King Cityites loaded their 
houses on wagons and moved en masse 
to McPherson, and the rude foundations 
of the moved buildings were still plainly 
to be seen. 
Along the roadway were many large 
corn fields and as we drove along a large 
“pack” of chickens took flight from the 
roadside, and sailing over the prairie 
alighted in one of these corn fields. The 
wagon was stopped and we were soon 
after them, but they were wild and would 
not lie, and we only bagged a pair. In 
due time we arrived at the creek, where 
a rude wooden bridge spanned the dry 
water course. Here Aleck, our driver, 
left us and drove back to King City, to 
return for us at sun down. At the bridge 
we held a council of war. The country 
was, of course, strange to us and we 
knew not in which direction to hunt to 
get the best results. To the north the 
BY WIDGEON 
land looked higher and rougher, while 
south of us the creek wound its crooked 
way through comparatively level land 
to a grove of cottonwoods in the far dis- 
tance, so we took the southern route; 
Andy on one side of the creek, Uncle 
Billy and I on the other. There were a 
few scattering cottonwoods just south of 
the bridge and Andy started a little in 
advance of us. Suddenly we saw him 
crouch low and crawl up to the last cot- 
tonwood tree. Here he brought his gun 
slowly to his shoulder, and aiming down 
in the bed of the creek, fired one barrel; 
At the end of a perfect day 
then he clambered down out of sight. 
When he re-appeared he had three green- 
winged teal in his hand. This little flock 
had been in a little puddle of water in 
the creek, and he had bagged them all at 
the one shot. These were all the ducks 
killed that day, and all we saw except 
passing flocks at a distance. 
A FTER leaving the cottonwoods, as 
Andy neared one of the wild plum 
thickets that dotted the swale on 
either side of the creek, a large covey of 
quail took wing, taking him completely 
by surprise, and he only dropped one. 
As he followed 'them up he saw them run 
into another clump of plums. The grass 
fairly boiled with them, and in his ex- 
citement he forgot himself and blazed 
away at them on the ground, expecting to 
kill at least a dozen, and getting one lone 
bird. He then called to me, and I crossed 
the creek and we followed them up and 
then began the greatest quail shooting I 
have ever known. The whole creek bot- 
tom seemed to be alive with them; they 
burst from every plum thicket until we 
were driving them before us in swarms 
like English sparrows. Sometimes over a 
hundred would rise at once. Now we had 
come prepared for ducks, and the small- 
est shot Andy had was fours. Uncle 
Billy and I had a few shells loaded with 
sevens for chickens, but the balance was 
fours also. Uncle Billy was a poor quail 
shot, and he could not stand the walking 
because a cut foot was troubling him, so 
he gave me his fine shot shells and Andy 
and I started in to make as good a show- 
ing as we could under very adverse con- 
ditions. We waited a few moments to 
allow Andy to steady down a little, then 
started in. As we came up to the next 
clump of plum bushes, away went a covey 
with a roar of wings, and we each 
dropped a pair. This gave us more con- 
fidence and we followed them up. Stead- 
ily driving them before us towards the 
grove of cottonwoods we had seen in the 
distance from the bridge. About this 
time Uncle Billy came to a large hay 
stack on his side of the creek, and called 
across that he would stop there and wait 
for us to come back. 
Leisurely we followed up the quail. The 
shooting was almost continuous. The 
sun shone brightly and as we were be- 
low the prairie level, the breeze could 
not reach us and we were soon perspir- 
ing freely. Almost every plum thicket 
gave us a shot and soon my number 
sevens were gone. I presume it was 
about two miles from the bridge to the 
cottonwood grove, and the number of 
quail we flushed in that distance was as- 
tonishing. Shooting quail with number 
four shot is a different proposition from 
shooting them with number eights and 
we missed a great many, but the bag 
steadily grew and we were having won- 
derful sport. As we neared the grove 
we saw a large ranch house to the west 
of it, with a windmill and fine out-build- 
ings, and with osage orange hedges on 
the section lines. As we drew nearer, 
steadily shooting, a man on a fine grey 
horse came cantering our way. He drew 
up beside us and said: “Howdy, stran- 
gers, shootin’ quail?” We told him “yes.” 
“WaT now,” he said, “I’d ruther you 
wouldn’t; you see we think a whole lot 
of these quail. They’re sure death to 
the chinch bugs, and we try to keep ’em 
around. See these osage hedges? Wa’l 
the tumble weeds lodge on both sides of 
’em, and when the snow comes it leaves 
a tunnel all along the hedge, and the 
quail stay thar, and so we keep ’em 
through the winter, so jist don’t shoot 
any more. Chickens, now, or rabbits, or 
ducks, why shoot all you kin.” So that 
accounted for the great abundance of 
quail we had seen. 
He looked like a typical Kansan, as he 
sat on his horse beside us, long and lean, 
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