cattering of
bronze feathers he went down. I ran up the slope and secured him, a
fine gobbler of about fifteen pounds weight.

Upon my return to Copple I found he had collected his two turkeys, both
shot in the neck in the same place. He said: "If you hit them in the
body you spoil them for cooking. I used to hit all mine in the head. Let
me give you a hunch. Always pick out a turkey running straight away from
you or straight toward you. Never crossways. You can't hit them running
to the side."

Then he bluntly complimented me upon my eyesight. That at least was
consolation for my poor shooting. We rested there, and after a while
heard a turkey cluck. Copple had no turkey-caller, but he clucked
anyhow. We heard answers. The flock evidently was trying to get together
again, and some of them were approaching us. Copple continued to call.
Then I appreciated how fascinating R.C. had found this calling game.
Copple got answers from all around, growing closer. But presently the
answers ceased. "They're on to me," he whispered and did not call again.
At that moment a young gobbler ran swiftly down the slope and stopped to
peer around, his long neck stretching. It was not a very long shot, and
I, scorning to do less than Copple, tried to emulate him, and aimed at
the neck of the gobbler. All I got, however, was a few feathers. Like a
grouse he flew across the opening and was gone. We lingered there a
while, hoping to see or hear more of the flock, but did neither. Copple
tried to teach me how to tell the age of turkeys from their feet, a
lesson I did not think I would assimilate in one hunting season. He tied
their legs together and hung them over his shoulder, a net weight of
about fifty pounds.

All the way up that valley we saw elk tracks, and once from over the
ridge I heard a bugle. On our return toward camp we followed a rather
meandering course, over ridge and down dale, and through grassy parks
and stately forests, and along the slowly coloring maple-aspen thickets.
Copple claimed to hear deer running, but I did not. Many tired footsteps
I dragged along before we finally reached Beaver Dam Canyon. How welcome
the sight of camp! R.C. had ridden miles with Edd, and had seen one deer
that they said was still enjoying his freedom in the woods. Takahashi
hailed sight of the turkeys with: "That fine! That fine! Nice fat ones!"

But tired as I was that night I still had enthusiasm enough to visit
Haught's camp, and renew a