454 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[March 20, 1909. 
It was uncomfortably cliilly, standing idly by 
the tethered horses, for if the Mexican days are 
hot in February, the nights are decidedly cold. 
Luckily the looked-for call came sooner and 
nearer that any of us expected. Clear and crisp 
it rang, waking suddenly to life the echoes of the 
silent valley and sending through us a delight¬ 
ful thrill of anticipation. The bird seemed to 
be less than two hundred yards away, but this 
was due to the great stillness. Black knew the 
range of sounds so well that he pointed im¬ 
mediately to a patch of pines taller than the 
surrounding forest, standing about half a mile 
off. 
“It’s there,” he said confidently; “but wait 
and see if we don’t hear another.” 
Later on not one. but three more were heard 
from, and we spotted them accurately. “I’ll take 
the further one,” I then said to Arthur, “so 
please don’t shoot until I do. You ought to get 
within range before me.” 
He promised and we separated. I had slipped 
on a heavy pair of socks over my boots, to 
deaden the scraping of the hobnails on the 
rocks, and walked rapidly until I reached the 
edge of the woods, then advanced stealthily, 
dodging from tree to tree and concealing my¬ 
self as much as possible. 
The bell-like gobble now rang intermittently 
in my ears. I paused every time it died out 
and moved swiftly from one shelter to another 
while it filled the air. It was an exciting stalk, 
and my heart was beating loudly. I could not 
see clearly enough to make out my quarry, for 
it was still dark, but I knew it must be on one 
of the lower branches of a huge pine, and felt 
confident it would be silhouetted against the 
sky in a very short while. I was making my 
Hst dash when I tripped on a rock and fell 
heavily with a great clatter. Before I could 
rise the gobbling was cut short and a loud 
flapping of wings told me the game was up. 
Then woodcock habits asserted themselves 
above common sense, and I flred almost in¬ 
voluntarily at the vanishing shadow, from a 
kneeling position. Immediately another shot 
rang out from where Arthur was supposed to 
be, and then all became silent again. 
There was no use hunting for a dead bird. 
Instinct told me I could not possibly have 
killed. I therefore began to build an impromptu 
blind from which to lure my bird back. A 
nearby clearing with a trail leading through it 
made an ideal run from the woods the gobbler 
must be in, and there were plenty of pine 
branches lying around, some with the needles 
still on, to cover my shelter with. It was the 
work of a very few seconds to pile up enough 
to conceal myself thoroughly. 
The east was beginnin.g to whiten when I 
first raised the caller to my lips, and closing my 
hands about it, funnel-like, sent the notes of 
invitation pealing forth to the feathered tribe. 
No sound answered them for a while, and then 
from my right came a peculiar noise that 
brought a smile to my lips when I recognized 
in it Arthur’s initial repetition of Black’s teach¬ 
ings. I need not have smiled, though, as sub¬ 
sequent events proved. 
At alternate intervals our appeals to the 
forest monarch went quivering through the tall 
trees, but an eternal quarter of an hour trailed 
by without a sign from his highness. I was 
beginning to despair, when, most unexpectedly. 
there came from a patch of high grass some 
seventy-five yards away a low but distinct 
chuckle. A moment later a head appeared and 
then a huge, magnificent turkey stepped into 
the path and stood a moment irresolute, listen¬ 
ing. Just then Arthur’s screaching smote the 
air again, and to my supreme astonishment, the 
gobbler chuckled merrily, and strutting quickly 
across the clearing, disappeared in the grass on 
the other side, heading straight for my friend. 
I was so dumbfounded that I knelt and watched 
him open-mouthed. To begin with, I never 
thought any bird could possibly be caught by 
such an imitation as Arthur’s, and then it 
was the first time in all my experience that I 
had seen a turkey approach a caller without 
answering. 
A sudden wish to win the bird from my friend 
Arthur seized me, and bending low to better 
muffle the sound, I gave utterance to the most 
seductive message in my repertoire. Arthur’s 
screech was my only reply, but I went on dis¬ 
coursing insinuatingly, making my calls more 
frequent, my silences shorter. And presently 
another chuckle sounded, and looking sharply 
toward it, I noticed the grass waving toward 
me, and my heart gave a great bound. The bird 
had swerved from its course and was coming 
my way. With shaking hand I felt for my gun 
and called softly again. People may talk all 
they like about the excitement of big-game 
hunting, but I must confess that the fascination 
of luring a noble turkey to the gun step by 
step, ever uncertain of whether you are going 
to get him within range or whether he is going 
to flush before it, has, with me, equalled the 
wildest of other emotions. 
The last call, tender and plaintive, brought a 
response from the bird, now thirty yards away. 
I seized my gun and stepped through the blind, 
ready to shoot. With a roar of flapping wings 
the old gobbler darted up toward freedom, but a 
sharp crack rent the air, and it fell, while a 
cloud of feathers floated away. I found the 
beautiful fellow spread out in the last quivers of 
death, feathers unruffled, and looking for all the 
world like a fine piece of sculptured bronze. 
In consideration of Arthur I resumed my 
blind, but I no longer cared; one such kill 
makes a day. Soon Arthur, tired of the wait, 
hailed me, so I picked up my heavy burden and 
tracked toward him. He met me half way. 
He, too, was carrying a turkey — his first. He 
had reached the roost tree in good time, and 
upon hearing my signal, killed without 
trouble. 
Black took our good luck with his usual 
equanimity, and in order to smother any self- 
congratulations, volunteered that he had never 
heard such bad calling in all his life. 
“That bird of yours is a suicide,” he said to 
me in his quaint way. “No contented, happy 
living ‘turk’ would ever come to such circus 
band music as you two tenderfoots were pump¬ 
ing into it. But.” he added, sententiously, “I’m 
paid to throw game under your noses, and I’ll 
do it. Jump on to your horses and I’ll take you 
to where you can kill some more ‘thanksgivings’ 
to tell the New York Johnnies about.” 
A couple of miles further, a wooded canon 
cut through a cliff surrounding a wild little 
valley led in steep slope to the plateau above. 
“That’s the place,” he said; “follow the canon 
until you find a path on the left and take it. 
If you don't find anything in half an hour, come 
back.” 
We tramped up the hill and found on top a 
forest of scraggly pines with plenty of brush 
and here and there a clearing. The path was 
evidently a much-used game trail, and on it 
were fresh scratchings of a number of turkeys. 
We had decided to separate and were about to 
climb over a dead tree that obstructed the path, 
when there arose from the other side such a 
flapping of wings as I had never before heard 
in my life. It was like a peal of sudden 
thunder and the air vibrated sensibly in our 
faces. At least twenty turkeys had been feeding 
beyond the tree, and frightened at our approach, 
had sprung rocket-like in the air, the huge 
monsters whizzing over the pines. Let no one 
believe that turkeys are slow risers or heavy 
flyers. They start like demons, and it is as¬ 
tounding to see how soon they attain speed. 
I shouted to Arthur, “Shoot left,” and then 
we fired together, twice. As the shots rang out, 
two of the great beauties came down in a heap 
and a third hesitated, and then descended, wings 
outstretched and swerving from side to side like 
a parachute. The others disappeared. 
“Pick up the dead,” I cried to Arthur, run¬ 
ning to where the wounded bird had alighted. I 
knew by experience that if sound of leg a turkey 
will outrun a dog, and wanted to finish my 
victim while it was stunned. I saw it crouching, 
so passing a couple of bullet cartridges into my 
shotgun, I aimed carefully and let it have both 
barrels. Then I set to running. It went off 
madly, but soon began to stagger and I gained 
ground. Of a sudden it stumbled and fell, tried 
to rise, then stumbled again and lay still. 
It was glory enough for one day, and shoul¬ 
dering our game, we retraced our steps. The 
walk back, heavily laden, was a heart-breaker, 
and glad we were to be able to throw off our 
clothes and jump into the cool valley stream 
when we reached it. A hearty breakfast had 
been prepared by Black during our absence, and 
after eating plentifully of it, we started for 
home. 
Things went well until about two miles from 
Tierzo’s, then, on passing an ugly spot, Arthur 
suddenly pulled up his pony sharply, and the 
unexpected check th.rew the tired beast to his 
knees. He was up in a second, but the harm 
had been done, he was painfully lame, and so it 
happened that we had to send Black ahead with 
the cripple while we shared the 140 pounds of 
turkey flesh between the two others and walked 
the rest of the distance, making a triumphal 
entrance at Villa 77, the five beautiful birds 
hanging gorgeously from the pommels of the 
saddles. 
Several days later, after a most satisfactory 
visit to the haunts of the Mexican sheep, we 
found many more turkeys, and during our en¬ 
tire sojourn in the fastnesses of the sierra, we 
were able to kill them almost at will; in fact, 
in certain localities they were as tame as barn¬ 
yard fowl, and not very exciting sport, but that 
morning in February, in which Arthur and I 
accounted for five gobblers, remains among the 
most cherished of my experiences afield. 
Herbert Reeder. 
All the game laws of the United States and 
Canada, revised to date and nozv in force, are 
given in the Game Laws in Brief. See adv. 
