George was an impetuous hunter. Ken could not keep near him, nor coax or command him to stay near. He would wander off by himself. That was one mark in his favor: at least he had no fear. Pepe hung close to Ken and Hal, with his dark eyes roving everywhere. Ken climbed out on one side of the swale, George on the other. Catching his whistle, Ken turned to look after him. He waved, and, pointing ahead, began to stoop and slip along from bush to bush. Presently a flock of Muscovy ducks rose before him, sailed a few rods, and alighted. Then from right under his feet labored up great gray birds. Wild geese! Ken recognized them as George’s gun went _bang_! One tumbled over, the others wheeled toward the river. Ken started down into the swale to cross to where George was, when Pepe touched his arm. “Turkeys!” he whispered. That changed Ken’s mind. Pepe pointed into the low bushes ahead and slowly led Ken forward. He heard a peculiar low thumping. Trails led everywhere, and here and there were open patches covered with a scant growth of grass. Across one of these flashed a bronze streak, then another and another. “Shoot! Shoot!” said Pepe, tensely. Those bronze streaks were running turkeys! The thumpings were made by their rapidly moving feet! “Don’t they flush--fly?” Ken queried of Pepe. “No--no--shoot!” exclaimed he, as another streak of brown crossed an open spot. Ken hurriedly unbreached his gun and changed the light shells for others loaded with heavy shot. He reached the edge of a bare spot across which a turkey ran with incredible swiftness. He did not get the gun in line with it at all. Then two more broke out of the bushes. Run! They were as swift as flying quail. Ken took two snap-shots, and missed both times. If any one had told him that he would miss a running turkey at fifty feet, he would have been insulted. But he did not loosen a feather. Loading again, he yelled for George. “Hey, George--turkeys!” He whooped, and started across on the run. “Gee!” said Hal. “Ken, I couldn’t do any worse shooting than you. Let me take a few pegs.” Ken handed over the heavy gun and fell back a little, giving Hal the lead. They walked on, peering closely into the bushes. Suddenly a beautiful big gobbler ran out of a thicket, and then stopped to stretch out his long neck and look. “Shoot--hurry!” whispered Ken. “What a chance!” “That’s a tame turkey,” said Hal. “Tame! Why, you tenderfoot! He’s as wild as wild. Can’t you see that?” Ken’s excitement and Pepe’s intense eagerness all at once seemed communicated to Hal. He hauled up the gun, fingered the triggers awkwardly, then shot both barrels. He tore a tremendous hole in the brush some few feet to one side of the turkey. Then the great bird ran swiftly out of sight. “Didn’t want to kill him sitting, anyhow,” said Hal, handing the gun back to Ken. “We want to eat some wild turkey, don’t we? Well, we’d better take any chance. These birds are game, Hal, and don’t you forget that!”