During the Wild West of Turkey Hunting, My Buddy and I Stalked Birds with Rifles

This story, “Gadabout Gobblers,” appeared in the May 1950 issue of Outdoor Life.

An Indian summer mellowed the high country of southwestern New Mexico. The air was still, bracing; pungent with the smell of pine. Far above, and many miles away, a thin strip of white cloaked the topmost pinnacles of Mogollon Baldy — all that remained of the season’s first snow.

It was scarcely midday, yet Ralph and I took out down a great, knife like ridge and headed back for camp. Although we’d enjoyed every second of our first morning in this remote, unspoiled wilderness, we’d decided to go in, rest a bit, then try our luck later in the day. However, we’d gone only 200 yards down the slope when my companion, who was in the lead, suddenly rooted to a stop. His gaze was fixed on the ground.

“What is it?” I asked anxiously. “A rattler?”

Ralph grinned. “Nope. Turkey tracks!” He pointed with his rifle. “Come take a look!”

When I spotted the large, three-toed imprints, I exclaimed eagerly, “Say, they look fresh!”

“Just a second,” Ralph said. “We’ll see for sure!”

Like a pointer trying to pin down a covey of fiddle-footed quail, he began working back and forth across the crest of the ridge. Finally he stopped and motioned me over. “They were here about an hour ago,” he announced, “judging from these fresh droppings!”

Undoubtedly he was right, so I warned in a low voice, “We better keep quiet — maybe we’ll catch ’em napping.”

“Not much chance of that,” grunted my partner. “Every last one of ’em is a gobbler, the smartest critter in the woods!”

It seemed to me he was calling his shots mighty fine, and I cracked, “Don’t rub your crystal ball too hard, bub, you might break it.”

“Nothing mysterious about it,” Ralph replied tolerantly. “Everybody knows toms often gang up like buck deer do.”

“Yeah,” I admitted, “but you seem to forget we haven’t seen hide nor hair of a turkey yet.”

“Don’t need to — every one of those tracks is big. And gobblers make big tracks.”

As we eased on down the slope, our rifles at ready, following in the footsteps of the feeding flock, I secretly hoped there would be at least one female in the party. However, it proved to be an out-and-out stag affair. And Ralph had called the cards right at every turn — even when he said we wouldn’t catch the flock napping.

Well down the mountainside a small ledge protruded from the sharp ridge like a bulbous growth. We promptly started up the slanting outcropping on hands and knees, hoping to locate the birds from the towering rock. Then, just as we began inching our way up the granite slab, holding our rifles with one hand, clinging to the slick rock with the other, seven large toms suddenly took to the air directly below our perch. They sailed down the steep canyon as if jets were in their tails.

Caught Off Guard

Ralph and I clung to our precarious perch and watched the magnificent gobblers buzz the very tops of the pines. Caught off guard, we had no chance to shoot, but maybe we could keep sight of the birds until they hit the ground. The cards were stacked against us, though; the turkeys quickly disappeared around a bend in the canyon, half a mile below, still going strong.

Ralph shrugged. “Well, at least we learned I was right. They’re all gobblers — and we sure didn’t get the drop on ’em!”

“The heck of it is,” I groused, “they stayed pretty well together. If we’d been on the ground we could have busted a few caps and scattered them. Then we might have called up a straggler or two.”

“The way things stand,” Ralph said, “we may as well go on to camp. They’ve left out for sure.”

We scampered down from the sloping rock, started around at its base ….

“Swush!”

A jet bomber took off from beneath our feet, swerved sharply to a void crashing into a big, rough-barked tree, then swooped low behind a small clump of pines and streaked down the canyon.

“Phewie!” exclaimed Ralph. “That’s the biggest gobbler I ever did see — and the smartest. He sure played us for suckers!”

He certainly did. Although we would have stood little chance of hitting him with rifles, he made doubly certain we didn’t. Before we could lift our guns, he was behind the small pines and headed for distant parts.

Then he did something that surprised us even more. A quarter mile down the canyon, he swung sharply around the hillside to the left.

The instant the bird disappeared from sight, Ralph yelped, “Say, he’s taking out on his own. The flock’s split up after all!” He patted his small turkey call. “Let’s follow that big rascal. He won’t go far up that way. If we don’t find him we might call him up after he’s rested a bit.”

I was reminded of the old saw about looking for a needle in a haystack, but I said nothing and followed at my partner’s heels. He hadn’t missed a bet so far; maybe his luck would hold.

Quarter of a mile beyond where we’d last seen the old gobbler, we topped a low rise and discovered a small, secluded basin. The little mountain park lay almost at our feet, a gem of unspoiled primeval beauty. Pine-dotted, grass-covered, with a small stream meandering its entire length, it nestled peacefully below a great cliff-studded mountain.

“Boy, oh, boy!” Ralph exclaimed. “We’ve stumbled upon the secret hideout of the old tom and all his gang!”

We spilled off the ridge and quickly learned Ralph was indeed right. There were plenty of turkey tracks, droppings, and scratchings. Much of the sign was quite old, so we knew the turkeys had been in the area for some time. We walked the length of the little park, perhaps a mile, but failed to locate the old gobbler. Later, when the day was wearing well on, we returned to the ridge where we’d last seen him.

We took up our stands with backs to neutral-colored boulders. Ralph faced the basin, while I watched in the direction the main flock had gone. I cupped my little hardwood call firmly in my left hand and, gripping the little sharpening stone with finger and thumb of my right, made a few limbering-up strokes. The very first call I sent out could well mean the difference between success and failure-those keen-eared gobblers would surely detect a sour note a mile away. Finally I placed the stone on the lip of the small box and set the woods to ringing with clear, cajoling cries. “Keow-keow-keow!”

I waited a few moments and again worked the call. No dice. After several fruitless attempts, I nodded to Ralph. He took over. But his luck was no better than mine. At first, that is.

After sweating out a long wait, Ralph again went to work with the call — and got a prompt reply. From far up the ridge a quavering, distance-muted cry floated down to us. Ralph nodded knowingly. “The old boy’s lonesome,” he whispered. “He’ll come a-running!”

That’s one time Ralph missed the boat. Although he did his share of vocalizing, the old gobbler remained glued to the hillside. And finally he clammed up.

Ralph glanced at the sun hovering above the western horizon, and got to his feet. “Better hit for camp,” he said. “That old turkey’s a hermit at heart. He’s going to roost all by his lonesome tonight.”

“Let’s come back early in the morning, though,” I said. “Maybe by then he’ll have changed his mind.”

But I figured the old boy wrong. We were back near the little park bright and early, but our serenading fell on deaf ears. So after the sun chased the chill from the little park we started down the canyon. Perhaps we could surprise the flock when they came down for their morning’s drink.

After a while we went over to the clear, cold stream, lay on our bellies, and drank our fill. Just as I came to my knees, wiping the water from my face, a sharp cry rang out: “Keow-keow-keow!”

I sat there too stunned to move. Ralph, who had been drinking, remained poised above the water, like a pointer scenting game. Then, abruptly, we went into action. Like a couple of spooked deer, we dived for a clump of near-by boulders — the best cover available. Ralph hit the ground with his yelper in his hand. “Keow-keow!” sang the call.

The turkey replied promptly. When I heard his full, throaty cry I stopped breathing. It was the old gobbler!

We’d get him now, I figured. After spending the night alone, he was probably so lonesome he would throw caution to the winds and come galloping. Instead, he made four more calls from where he stood, then swallowed his tongue.

“Confound his snooty hide!” Ralph exploded. “He’s done it again. Let’s go on down and try to find the main flock. Maybe they’ll not be so choosy.”

As we seemed out of luck as far as the old gobbler was concerned, I got up and led the way down the canyon. Before long, however, my steps began to lag and Ralph took the lead, searching the water’s edge for fresh turkey sign. Although I would have gladly settled for any gobbler in the flock, I couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm as we tried to locate them. I kept thinking of the wily old boy that had just given us the slip. I had a vague notion I could outwit him, given a little more time to mull over the problem.

Suddenly Ralph stopped and waved frantically. “They’ve been here no more’n a few minutes ago,” he jabbered excitedly. “Let’s take after ’em!”

Away we went like a couple of fast-trailing bloodhounds. And it soon appeared Lady Luck had at last taken us in tow. We’d followed the flock only 200 yards when we discovered they’d gone up a wide, sandy draw. We could track them with our eyes closed!

As we pushed up the canyon, expecting to see a tall, stately gobbler any second, I became as eager as my wide-eyed partner. But an hour later, and three miles farther up the mountainside, our high hopes were doing a nose dive. It looked as if we would never overtake the rascals.

We’d started the chase fully aware that Western turkeys often travel eight miles or more a day. These birds, however, must have set their goal at no less than fifteen. Just when we were about ready to throw in the sponge, we followed the track into a dense stand of scrub oak…

“Swap-flap-swish!”

From the lieart of the thicket, turkeys exploded into the crystalline air, seemingly heading in all directions. Yet crane our necks though we did, not a bird could we locate when the hubbub died down.

Personally, I would have felt better had I been able to get a bead on one of the big birds. I had considerable misgivings about our ability to call them up. After giving them a long rest, we called, trying every trick we knew, but nary a bird came our way. When finally the sun dropped below the horizon, we hit for camp, tired, hungry, discouraged.

After a hot meal, our spirits quickly came up out of our boots. Then, as we lay sprawled on the ground near the cheerful campfire, going over the events of the day, my mind kept drifting back to the king-size gobbler. Just before turning in for the night I came up with a plan that might fool the old boy. Born of desperation, it was as full of holes as an errant husband’s alibi, so I didn’t tell Ralph about it. All I did was suggest that, come morning, we go back to the little park.

This we did. However, when Ralph sat down in the center of a clump of boulders and motioned for me to follow suit, I shook my head. “You go ahead and call,” I said. “I want to scout around a bit.”

He looked at me as if he thought I was completely loony. Then, with a shake of his head, he got out his call.

“If you get an answer,” I warned, “keep calling. Don’t give up, no matter how slow they come in!” With that, I took out around the hillside and headed above the little park.

No Mistaking That Voice!

Ralph’s fourth try got results. A turkey answered from the far end of the basin. It was the old gobbler — there was no mistaking his voice!

I raced forward. The big tom, just as I figured, elected to remain right where he was. As I rimmed the mountainside, he continued to call quite regularly, but he didn’t budge. I grinned smugly; everything was rocking along just as I’d planned it.

Finally I came to a small bench and worked down toward the unsuspecting bird. The next few seconds would tell the tale. I’d either get a crack at the patriarch or have him slip from beneath my very fingers. Presently I came to the end of the bench — and spotted the turkey in a small, pine-dotted opening, 400 yards away. Even at that distance, he looked large as an ostrich. He was standing tall and straight, his neck and shoulder feathers sending off a copperish sheen, as if they were made of metal.

Slowly, deliberately, I began easing forward …

“Whuuaam!” Like a clap of thunder, a rifle shot echoed among the near-by spirelike peaks. Although the noise undoubtedly came from Ralph’s gun, a full mile away, it might as well have been a firecracker exploding beneath the turkey’s feet. He jumped three feet into the air, whirled, and hit the ground running. Before I could bat an eye he dived into a near-by dry wash and disappeared.

Cheated — But Not for Long

Disappointment welled up in me. I sat down heavily on the sloping hillside, leaned back against a wide-trunked tree, and cussed Ralph! That single blast had cheated me out of the finest turkey I’d ever seen.

Just as I was getting around to plotting some sort of dire revenge, I saw a slight movement in the little canyon almost directly below. Instinctively, I jerked up my rifle.

I got the shock of a lifetime. A great, heavy-bodied bird stepped into a small opening, lifted his blue-black head no less than four feet above the ground, and probed the wilderness with his all-seeing eyes. It was the old gobbler. And scarcely seventy-five yards away!

With my rifle already leveled, I quickly took aim and squeezed off the trigger. Like in a dream, I saw a puff of feathers explode into the air; saw the grand bird’s body grow rigid. With a little leap, he pitched over on his bald head and drummed the ground with his mighty wings.

I rushed down and bent over my prize. The bullet had plowed a small hole through the gobblers’ body, high in the back. It put him down for keeps, but spoiled none of the delicious meat. And never have I seen a fatter turkey. When I cleaned him, I salvaged a double handful of golden fat.

Just as I arose from dressing the bird, I heard a loud whoop, and looked up to see Ralph spilling off the mountainside like a runaway horse. Draped across his back was a fine young gobbler!

“I called this baby up and smacked him in his tracks!” he sang out happily. Then he spotted my bird. “Say, that’s ol’ grandpap himself!” he exclaimed, as if he found it hard to believe his eyes.

“Sure. And you helped me get him!”

Ralph’s eyes widened another notch. “Me? Why, I thought you shot in reply, just to let me know where you were.”

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Then I explained how the gobbler had been spooked by the rifle shot, how he spilled off into the little draw and raced toward the near-by ridge, unaware that his cagy maneuver was delivering him into my hands.

Ralph shook his head. “Now doesn’t that just take the cake. I’ve known lots of men to get too smart for their own good, but I never thought it would happen to a turkey!”

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