That ain’t no way to kill a turkey

That ain’t no way to kill a turkey

Outdoors Columnist It had been a tough turkey season. My thirteen year old son, Keith, and I had hunted hard all spring.

Every week-end and several school days found us in the woods at daylight.

We hunted bright calm mornings and windy rainy mornings. It didn’t matter. Keith and I wanted a gobbler for him. The year before, on the last Saturday of the season, he had killed a big 11 incher with inch-and-an eight spurs. It happened four days after Keith’s twelfth birthday. So we knew we had to get at least a jake this year.

We live out from town and Keith had grown up hunting and fishing with me since the first time I could sneak him away from his Mama. At five he gigged his first bullfrog and shotgunned his first squirrel at seven, so he had grown up under lots of outdoor training. I have tried to instill ethics and sportsmanship in the boy from the beginning.

The boy is an accomplished fisherman and a fine shot. He ought to be, as many shells as I have reloaded.

We were hunting behind the Mississippi River levee, and the river was up and starting to flood our turkey woods. As we eased our way under a bright moon, we flushed a turkey off the roost. That was strange. Turkeys never roost along the old road between the bar pits so I quickly forgot about it. A little farther down the road another turkey blasted out of the tall cottonwoods over the road.

Stopping, I looked and spotted several big birds over us. Suddenly a gobble one tree over let us know he was “Boss Man.” I couldn’t stand it anymore and motioned to Keith where the bird was.

We could even see his beard against the full moon and he gobbled again. I gave the “shoot him” sign and watched as he raised his gun. I waited and waited, watching the gobbler so I could mark him down in the edge of the water.

I finally looked back at the kid. He lowered his gun and said as he started on into the black woods, “That ain’t no way to kill a turkey.”

I would like to be able to end this story with a big bearded tom, but we never heart another gobble that morning. We were to go the entire Arkansas season without Keith firing a shot. I have often wondered if he regretted passing up that turkey, or if the ethic of the hunt removed most of the pain.

He never told me.

In looking back, I must have done something right. Few hunters I know would have passed up that shot, yet a little kid had enough integrity to say, “That ain’t no way to kill a turkey.” That’s MY BOY!

By John Criner