A Turkey Hunt in Mexico. 
One hears so much about the disappearance 
of game, nowadays, and so many sportsmen 
have come back empty-handed from fruitless 
expeditions, that this narrative may serve to 
give that practical information so often sought 
in vain. Were not its purpose solely that of 
giving those interested accurate pointers on a 
locality where abounds the greatest of Ameri¬ 
can game birds, the wild turkey, I should be 
tempted to enlarge on the very relative value of 
things sportive, as demonstrated by the way we 
prize what is scarce and hard to get, holding 
cheaply what is plentiful and easily obtained. 
Although three in our party of four had 
at some time or other taken long journeys from 
the East in search of the wily gobbler, and 
considered ourselves well repaid for our ex¬ 
pense and trouble by the capture of a bird or 
two, here we had planned a month’s trip to 
Mexico, where we knew turkeys abounded, with¬ 
out including them in our plans at all. We 
were after the elusive Ovis mexicana, a rare 
variety of the mountain sheep that inhabits the 
high altitudes of the Sierra Madre, and because 
our time was limited, we had decided to dash 
through territory full of every kind of game 
without molesting it, simply to gain as soon 
as possible the locality where we hoped to find 
our valued quarry. 
Previous experiences had taught us that 
Chihuahua was the best starting point, but we 
stopped off in El Paso to pick up our guide, a 
Mormon answering to the name of Black, and 
he advised securing our pack train there, so we 
decided to cross the desert on horseback. 
From Chihuahua to the part of the Sierra 
Madre that we intended to visit, on the eastern 
branch of the Yaqui, the distance is not great 
as the crow flies, but when you come to ride 
it you find it is a good deal longer than you 
anticipated. The longest way is often the 
quickest, in mountainous country. We snaked 
around through numberless valleys and canons 
to avoid the almost trackless slopes, and eventu¬ 
ally pitched camp on the banks of the stony 
Gavellan, beyond which the trail led to the 
promised land. 
While on the march, we had had no difficulty 
in securing birds and venison for food, so our 
progress had been rapid. We were congratu¬ 
lating ourselves upon it, when fate sent us an 
unexpected check. Harry slipped and fell while 
watering the horses, his ankle suffering a severe 
wrench. The injury was not a serious one, but 
it became evident that we could not risk climb¬ 
ing peaks fit only for sheep and goats with a 
lame man. Jack was for resting where we were 
until our friend had recovered, but Black said 
we were less than a day’s ride from Villa 77, a 
sort of ranch in the wilderness where lives 
Tierzo, an old Mexican, and he thought we had 
better push on to it, as our cripple could have 
proper care there. The suggestion was excel¬ 
lent, and we took it. After bandaging the dam¬ 
aged ankle as best we could, camp was broken. 
and before evening we reached a substantial 
and picturesque log cabin where a warm wel¬ 
come was extended us. All were glad of a 
chance to rest, and after relieving the horses of 
their packs, we stretched out luxuriously on the 
stumpy grass to loaf the day through. 
Tierzo was good company when he could be 
made to talk, for he had in stock some thrilling 
yarns of the Indians who infested the region, 
but his English was very bad, even for a Mexi 
can, and he was so sensitive about it that, as 
a rule, Americans found him very uncommuni¬ 
cative. On this occasion he was properly 
started, though, and we were enjoying both his 
tales and the afterglow of a gorgeous sunset, 
THE PACK TRAIN READY FOR THE MOUNTAINS. 
when there floated indistinctly to us over the 
still mountain air the unmistakable gobble of a 
wild turkey. 
“To-morrow’s dinner,” I laughed, interrupt¬ 
ing the narrative. But Arthur motioned im¬ 
patiently to me to keep quiet. “Shut up and 
listen,” he whispered excitedly, “I hear an¬ 
other.” 
He was right. Even as he spoke there came 
from another direction a different call. Then 
Black spoke. 
“The woods must be full of them. Where do 
you make them, Tierzo?” 
“Above Barranca Vieja,” said our host, point¬ 
ing over his shoulder with his thumb. “Plenty 
there, but smart. Must be smart to shoot 
them.” 
“I guess we are smart enough,” announced 
Black. “How about it?” he inquired, looking 
at me. 
“I’m going to try, anyhow,” I said. 
Jack was not partial to a hunt that might 
prove fruitless, he said. I imagine he really 
wanted to go, but did not like to leave our in¬ 
valid alone. Arthur was of course keen, though, 
for he had never killed one of the splendid birds. 
Black then informed us that he had a wing- 
bone whistle with him and v/ould show us how 
to call turkeys. I thanked him, but told him 
I preferred doing my own calling if he would 
lend me his instrument, as I rather objected to 
having any one else do the scientific part of the 
job, while he allowed me to play butcher. Pie 
was not a little surprised to find an Eastern 
tenderfoot who had the audacity to even pre¬ 
tend knowledge of woods lore, and probably to 
shame me before the others handed over the 
pierced bit of bone, with: “Let’s hear you do 
something with it.” I tried a call or two and a 
few chuckles, and found I remembered well the 
lessons taught me by an .Alabama negro guide. 
Black made no comments, but rose to pick 
up a bit of wood, and after whittling it to razor¬ 
like point, he drew it in sharp jerks along the 
barrel of his gun and produced a sound not at 
all unlike the gobble of a turkey. When he had 
satisfied himself that he had the right pitch, he 
called Arthur. “Just you practice that,” he said, 
“and it may help you to-morrow morning. 
These birds may be foolish and believe even 
that scream is the soul of some beloved de¬ 
parted.” 
If our eccentric guide was ever annoyed at 
us, he certainly did not let it interfere with the 
fulfillment of his duties. Pie planned our hunt 
well. We were to start a good hour before 
dawn and ride to the Cocheco ford, which was 
four or five miles away by trail, and there await 
the calls of the turkeys. If one was discovered, 
.Arthur and I were to stalk it together. If two, 
each was to take his own. Black remaining 
with the horses. After the first shot we were to 
stop and try our luck with the caller, and ther 
go to another place and try to walk up a flock 
Tierzo knew of. 
Sleeping indoors after our many nights a la 
belle etoile, was not conducive to good resting, 
and I woke from troubled dreams to find some 
one shaking me violently by the arm. “Time 
to go,” Black was whispering. “I’ve called 
.Arthur already, and we are to start in ten 
minutes. Get out quietly so as not to wake the 
others. I’ll be outside.” 
I tiptoed to the door in stocking feet and 
found Arthur sitting on a stone pulling on his 
boots. It was deep night still, but myriads of 
stars gave light enough to see what we were 
doing. Plorses were saddled and we were off. 
The path was very bad, so we gave our sure¬ 
footed ponies their heads. It is a revelation to 
see one of the intelligent little beasts travel 
over rough country in the dark. Craftily dodg¬ 
ing rock and bush that to the rider are in¬ 
visible, they seem to know by instinct where 
danger lies and carry one safely over all sorts 
of ugly passes. 
A long ride uphill brought us to a wide valley 
through which glided peacefully a meagre little 
stream. Here Black halted. “This is where 
we wait,” he said, slipping out of the saddle, 
and we imitated him. 
