When we reached the top of the ridge we advanced very cautiously again.  Another open place led to a steep, rocky hillside with cedars and pines growing somewhat separated.  I was disappointed in not seeing the turkeys.  Then in our anxiety and eagerness we hurried on, not noiselessly by any means.  All of a sudden there was a rustle, and then a great whirr of wings.  Three turkeys flew like grouse away into the woods.  Next I saw the white gobbler running up the rocky hillside.  At first he was in the open.  Aiming as best I could I waited for him to stop or hesitate.  But he did neither.  “Peg him, Dad!” yelled Romer.  The lad was right.  My best chance I had again forfeited.  To hit a running wild turkey with a rifle bullet was a feat I had not done so often as to inspire conceit.  The gobbler was wise, too.  For that matter all grown gobblers are as wise as old bucks, except in the spring mating season, when it is a crime to hunt them.  This one, just as I got a bead on him, always ran behind a rock or tree or shrub.  Finally in desperation I took a snap shot at him, hitting under him, making him jump.  Then in rapid succession I fired four more times.  I had the satisfaction of seeing where my bullets struck up the dust, even though they did go wide of the mark.  After my last shot the gobbler disappeared.

“Well, Dad, you sure throwed the dirt over him!” declared Romer.

“Son, I don’t believe I could hit a flock of barns with this gun,” I replied, gazing doubtfully at the old, shiny, wire-wrapped, worn-out Winchester Copple had lent me.  I had been told that he was a fine marksman and could drive a nail with it.  Upon my return to camp I tried out the rifle, carefully, with a rest, to find that it was not accurate.  Moreover it did not throw the bullets consistently.  It shot high, wide, low; and right there I abandoned any further use for it.  R.C. tried to make me take his rifle to use on the hunting trip; Nielsen and Lee wanted me to take theirs, but I was disgusted with myself and refused.  “Thanks, boys,” I said.  “Maybe this will be a lesson to me.”

We had been up since three o’clock that morning, and the day’s travel had been exhausting.  I had just enough energy left to scrape up a huge, soft pile of pine needles upon which to make our bed.  After that all was oblivion until I was awakened by the ringing strokes of Nielsen’s axe.

The morning, after the sun got up, was exceedingly delightful.  And this camp was such a contrast to the others, so pleasant and attractive, that even if we had not arranged to meet Lee Haught and his sons here I would have stayed a while anyway.  Haught was a famed bear hunter who lived in a log-cabin somewhere up under the rim of the mesa.  While Lee and Nielsen rode off up the trail to find Haught I gave Romer his first try at rainbow trout.  The water of the creek was low and clear, so that we could see plenty of good-sized trout.  But they were shy.  They would not rise readily to