GUNS Magazine May 1960

Time-honored cedar box scraped by slate is type
of call preferred by author for Texas hunting.
THE TREE-CANOPIED creek bottom was dark as the
inside of a cave as I inched along its sandy floor 30
minutes before daylight. I had to move slowly for stealth,
guided only by instinct and memory. Back in the years of
my youth, this creek had been a favorite hangout and I
had traveled this route many times, until each bend and
obstacle was familiar. But I had never dreamed, then, that
some day I'd be crawling here in the darkness after wild
turkey! Until last Saturday, I'd have sworn there were no
turkeys in this vicinity.
Last Saturday was a part of a week-end with my parents
Dining off wild
game is fitting
climax to hunt,
says Tinsley who
returned to old
home town in
Texas to find
good hunting for
his favorite game.
in the small town of Mason, in central Texas. For old
times'sake, I decided to walk down to a park of pecan trees
where I had hunted countless times, as a boy, for rabbits
and squirrels. It was a misty November morning and the
footing was damp, so my footsteps made little sound. I
skirted a tight knot of pecan saplings, and-all hell broke
loose. There was a wild flapping, and a pair of turkey
gobblers took off. Up ahead, six more turks ran frantically
into the heavy cover ... I was more surprised than the
turkeys. If anybody had told me turkey were using here,
I'd have called him a liar.
So now you know why I was here before dawn on the
opening day of the deer and turkey season, wearing
camouflage clothing and carrying my 12 gauge Winchester
pump loaded with No.4 shells. This time, if I crossed trails
with turkeys, it would be no accident.
From the sign I had studied last Saturday, it appeared
that the turkeys drifted up this creek regularly to feed on
acorns. So, when I came to a fallen pecan tree that blocked
part of the creek bed, maneuvering strictly by feel, I
crawled in under the supporting branches and settled myself
as comfortably as possible for the long wait I figured
was coming.
I was right about the wait. It was well after daybreak
before enough light filtered through the overhead treetops
to make anything visible in the creek bed. There were
sounds enough. A squirrel hopped from a pecan tree and
kicked up an enormous racket in the leaves. A woodpecker
dropped on the trunk of the very tree where I was hiding,
and his busy bill rapped out a resounding chorus.
By eight o'clock, my cramped (Continued on page 44)
-tUNS MAY 1960 25