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Part I
The log had a pleasing feel. Bumpy, but more smooth than rough. Its rock-like rigidity gave the boy confidence and its bulk gave him cover. This morning he was glad for both.
He had been waiting since the dark hours of morning after having taken great care to approach his place of ambush carefully from the side of the hill cut by the brook, using the sounds of the flowing water to cover his approach. He had crested the ridge quietly and settled into the chosen spot well before dawn. The boy curled himself into a ball around his rifle and huddled against the log to ward off the pre-dawn cold. There he dozed a bit waiting for first light.
The turkey was scratching his way along the base of the ridge, making a newspaper shuffle sound in the dry autumn leaves. The bird seemed intent on its feed while the boy lay motionless 30 yards beyond and 15 feet above its run. Both were oblivious to all but their common task; both intent on securing a meal. The turkey pecked and scratched, making his way towards the boy who lay wondering if the bird could hear his pounding heart. The bird gave no sign of hearing anything and kept to his business. The boy watched and waited, just as he’d done many times during the previous month, planning this moment.
The young hunter was ready when the bird stepped into full view at 20 yards. The bead of the .22 sought the ‘sweet spot’; that place where the neck met the body. A shot placed there would break the neck without ruining meat. He had heard of folks taking head shots with .22’s but he couldn’t imagine how. The head was constantly in motion but the body would momentarily stop every so often and besides, the bead of his old .22 would cover the head at any reasonable range. He had made this shot many times in his mind over the last few days and he knew he would make it now. As the hammer came silently back to full cock, the front bead and that sweet spot became fixed in space.
His mouth formed the word as his finger tightened on the trigger: “Squeeze”
There was a thunderous flapping of wings at the shot. The turkey, thrown back by his instinctive effort to fly, came to rest against a small sapling. Its wings folding and unfolding weakly until they came to rest outstretched, still but for the odd shudder or twitch.
The boy hadn’t moved from his rest. The bead of his rifle was solidly planted on the breast of the turkey. The bird was down for good but he was taking no chances. He glanced quickly at the hammer of his rifle. It was again in the full cock position though truth be told, he hadn’t remembered cycling the lever; ejecting the spent shell casing and replacing it with a fresh Super-X. When all movement ceased he lowered the hammer to half-cock and stood up. He slid over the log and negotiated the short slope off of the ridge while keeping an eye on his kill. The boy approached cautiously but there was no need. He sighed and unloaded his rifle. It was a beautiful turkey. Now was his moment to admire the bird and revel in the shot. Soon he would be back at the house plucking feathers. The smiles of appreciation would be over run by the labor of reducing the regal bird at his feet into a carcass for cooking. He looked at the bird for several minutes before reaching for his pocket knife.
The walk home took him by the Newton place. Old man Newton was a 50-ish widower dairy farmer as well as the local gunsmith. For the boy he had always been a good source of gun talk when other adults had neither the time nor the inclination. In these parts there were few genuine shooters to talk to. The local folks were farmers who talked shooting and hunting when there were no crops to harvest or hay to bail or cows to milk. Deer season would bring on a spurt of gun lore but after the season’s end it was back to conversations about feed and livestock prices.
It wasn’t always so. According to Willy, there used to be quite an active target shooting fraternity in the region before the War but after everyone got home it had kind of faded away. Folks were too busy having kids and raising families he’d said.
Unlike most folks, Willy Newton was up for gun talk at just about any time his mouth wasn’t full of lunch or occupied doing the reading at Sunday church services. When he was in his shop he would let the Boy sit and watch if he was willing to run a broom around the place as evidence of his good will. The kid learned a lot from Willy; even in the mad rush to get guns ready for pheasant and deer season when he was too busy to have a real conversation. It didn’t matter. He would watch and listen for now; knowing that Willie would be a little more talkative as the fall wore on. Late fall was the end of busy season for Willy. At that time he seemed to even welcome the kids company.
It was in the door of the shop that the Boy spotted the Old Man wearing his familiar grey apron, holding a cup of coffee in his black-creased hands. He held up his old Marlin and the bird. Willy waved him into the lane, beckoning him towards the shop: A long shed- like addition which hung off the end of his tall red barn. It was a crisp morning and early yet. The boy figured he had a little time.
“Nice Bird, Bertram! Was that you shooting a bit ago?” He smiled at the boy’s grimace. The kid hated being called Bertram. Willy usually called him Bert except on occasions when he got under foot in the shop or when, like now, he just wanted to toss some good natured ice water on the kid’s ego.
“Yeah” he said, looking down at the bird in his left hand. “I’ve been waiting on him all week.” He waited for a response. “Took only one shot.” He said hopefully but the Old Man just took a sip from his coffee and nodded. “So I heard.”
His pride deflated. He knew that his parents would only look upon his success as “dinner”, but he was hoping for something else from Willy. He got it when the old Man broke into a grin.
“Of course”, he said. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you, Bert.”
Having gotten the compliment he was digging for the Boy found himself surprisingly flustered. “Yeah” was all he could manage. He recovered by peering past the old man trying to see what was leaning against his work bench. “Whatcha working on?” he asked.
“Nothing special” Newton said, “Just a crow rifle for the Holloway kid. It’s an old 32-40 Ballard that his grandpa had. He wanted a 218 Bee built on it but I can’t do it. It’s one of the old cast iron receivers. I don’t know what to do with it, really. ‘Bout all it’s good for is a twenty-two!”
“Well” the boy said, “That wouldn’t be so great would it? For crows?”
“No it wouldn’t. Not for the cagey old birds we have around her, at least.” the gunsmith replied.
The boy suddenly saw that look the old man got when he remembered something he had to do. “Never did like Ballards!” He sounded a bit distracted now and his fingers drummed on the side of his coffee mug. He suddenly came back from whatever thought had been turning in his head.
“When are you planning on eating that bird, Bertram?” he said, pointing at the turkey that was already beginning to weigh on the 13 year olds grip.
“Dinner”
“Well. You’d better get it home then. Come see me later today if you want.” And with that the old man turned and walked into his shop, closing the door behind himb.
Bert turned towards the road wondering what old Willie was up to.
Continued Next Month
Editor's Note: Andrew Moe is a life-long reloader and dedicated shooter. Unlike some of his past articles, this latest story is a bit different. Or, in Andy's words, "a trip into fictional writing combined with old memories".
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