Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/742011
34 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S of a dance to stir sluggish blood. Just as I thought of again going to cover, a black object moved in the woods perhaps 200 yards away. No need for a second glance; it could only be a turkey; and as speedily as possible I crawled back into the culvert, and with my head close to the rail, waited for further developments. Moments dragged slowly past, and at last one bird appeared on the track a good 500 yards off, and was presently followed by another, and another, and yet others until nine stately fowl were in plain view. They soon turned in my direction and moved slowly forward. It was now a "regular cinch," and I hugged my head closer into the rail and glared down the track at those turkeys with a burning intentness that melted what little snow there was near my face. They were coming—they were bound to feed right up to my stand if I chose to let 'em. I would plunk the big gobbler, which I could distinguish from where I lay, and then take chances for another, run or fly. No, I wouldn't, either. I would be silent and wary as a lynx and let them feed good and close, and wait for the big fellow and another to get in line and straighten out a brace of them at the one shot. They came steadily on. They were now only about 400 yards away, and advancing in a long line, Indian file. Nearer and nearer they came, and I changed my purpose. Two in line were not enough for such an opportunity. I would draw a dead bead on the big fellow and hold on him till three birds were in range. Yes, that would be better. Still they advanced, and only 300 yards separated them from their doom. Now they quickened their movements and advanced rapidly for some distance. They had reached the trail of corn and were crowded close over the first scattered grains. Once again my resolution wavered. Hang it all! It was just as easy to get four in line—a ball at short range would stiffen four of them easy enough. I must have four. Step by step, yard by yard, they came on, ever drawing nearer and nearer to the certain death that waited to claim its four. Every once in a while they would all bunch together, and as they did this at a range of about 200 yards my modesty wavered again. Could it not be possible to drive a ball through five of them in line? Such a record—such a shot to describe to the boys! Five grand wild turkeys at one lick! I was just fairly entertaining the five notion when an ominous click sounded along the rails. That mysterious click which announces the coming of a train. Click– tuck–click! There was no mistake. It must be a freight, for no express was due at that hour. Click—tuck-lick—click! The mysterious message had reached the turkeys' ears, too, and they lifted their heads on high and stood motionless. I breathed a few stanzas of vulgarized adjectives at the infernal change of luck and considered what I should do. I might try a long shot, but it would be doubtful. If I showed myself, goodbye to those turkeys. were broad ditches containing water perhaps five feet deep, coated with treacherous ice, and I thus had a promenade more than 100 miles long but only about 15 feet wide. A tempting shooting ground, truly! A fellow might get "rail birds" on it or shoot off a few ties to fill in time, but it was not very exhilarating, I confess. There was nothing to do until the evening train came along to take me home again. Nothing but a heavy frost, followed by snow, would make still- hunting possible, and there were no indications of snow. For want of something better to do, I strolled a couple of miles along the track, and by so doing made a discovery that changed the aspect of affairs considerably. A car laden with shelled corn must have passed some days before and had a hole in it, for a long stream of yellow grain extended for some 300 yards besides the rails. Near one end of the corn was a culvert crossing the track, through which, under ordinary conditions, cattle could readily pass. But it was now filled to within a couple of feet of the top with water. Everywhere within a short distance of this culvert I found the sign of wild turkeys, and it was an easy task to read the possibilities. The birds had discovered the trail of grain and had been feeding on it for two or three days at least. The rains had drowned out their feeding grounds in the woods, and they would be sure to return to the corn day after day until the last grain was eaten. It was simply a question of close hiding, more or less of the long agony of hope deferred, and then a turkey would be mine! I fairly grinned over that layout. But where to hide? Not an available point offered; the track was as bare as a rifle barrel, and the roadbed was elevated so much above the level of the woods that it could not be properly commanded unless I climbed a tree, which would be altogether unsuitable. The culvert! Yes, the culvert; but the ice will barely hold, thought I. However, a look at it would do no harm. I carefully tested it and found that owing to its narrowness and the grip on the timber walls afforded the ice, it would just bear me. Happy thought: a board off yon gate, broken in two and cushioned with a layer of dry grass, would make a comfortable resting place, and allow me to spread my weight across the ice sufficiently to make all safe. The board was soon secured, placed in two halves on the ice, and padded with handfuls of withered herbage. I was ready for business. Sitting upon my boards, I could just comfortably raise my eyes above the track, and if I got upon my knees, the edge of the culvert afforded a dead rest for my elbow, and I felt I couldn't miss a turkey at 150 yards if I tried. It was superb, and I grinned some more. This was just the luckiest, laziest, dead-certain turkey shoot on record. F or some time I sat there, closely watching the track and the woods upon either side. It was tedious, cold work, and in due time I grew weary and cramped from the confined position and varied things by creeping out of my shelter and having a bit The turkeys had reached the trail of corn and were crowded close over the first scattered grains. Once again my resolution wavered. Hang it all! It was just as easy to get four in line—a ball at short range would stiffen four of them easy enough. I must have four.