"Lookin' fer turkey, war ye Mister?" asked Jake, with a wink at the
bystanders.
"Yes, have you seen any?" replied Jim.
"Sure, the bresh's full of 'em ef ye know whar' ter hunt."
The company grinned and he continued: "I seed signs this mo'nin' in
th' holler on yon side ol' Ball, when I war' huntin' my mule. An'
thar's a big roost down by th' spring back of my place in th' bottoms."
Whitley was interested. "Will you show me where they are?" he asked.
"Might ef I could spar' th' time," replied Jake slowly; "but
I've got my craps ter tend."
Another grin went the rounds. "Jake's sure pushed with his craps,"
remarked one; "Raises mo' corn, 'n 'ary three men in Arkansaw," remarked
another, and with this they all fired a volley of tobacco juice at a
tumble bug rolling his ball in the dust near by.
Needless to say, the conversation resulted in Whitley's engaging the
moonshiner for seventy-five cents a day, to hunt with him; and for the
next two weeks they were always together.
All day long the native led the way over the hills and through the
deep ravines and valleys, taking a different course each day, but
always the chase led them away from the little ravine that opened on
the big road. When Whitley suggested that they try the country where
he had lost his way, his guide only laughed contemptuously, "Ain't ye
killin' turkey every trip. Ye jist foller me an' I'll sure find 'em
fer ye. Ain't nothin' over in that holler. I done tromped all over
thar' huntin' that dad burned ol' mule o'mine, an' didn't see nary
sign.
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