A Tale Of Two Brothers: Part 1

“Why did we have to get up so early, Uncle Eli,” the boy said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“We have to get ahead of the turkeys,” Uncle Eli said. “Turkeys have to get up very early in the morning and go to work, and we have to get ahead of them before they leave the roost.”

The smell of strong black coffee and bacon and eggs permeated the small kitchen as the man put a steaming plate down in front of the boy and poured himself a cup.

“What kind of job do they have?” the boy asked.

“They work in the woods,” Uncle Eli said.

“Like you?”

“Yes, just like me.”

“Turkey gobblers cruise timber?”

“No, not exactly.”

“What do they do?”

“Oh they have a job much more important than cruising timber,” Uncle Eli said. “I expect they could cruise timber if they wanted to, but they have to get their flock together so they can stay with it during the day and protect it. Once everybody gets off the roost, the boss gobbler has to gather all the hens and jakes and lesser gobblers together and get them in one big flock. You ever heard the expression, ‘safety in numbers?’”

“No sir.”

“Well that means that if they’re all together in one big flock of say 20 birds, out in a field, they can be on the lookout for danger with 20 sets of eyes instead of one or two. A lone hen or jake walking around by itself is much more likely to run into trouble by way of a crafty ol’ coyote or fox or maybe a bobcat than if it is with the whole flock. That ol’ boss gobbler puts out sentries all around the flock. While the others are feeding, those sentries are always looking.

“Do they take turns?” the boy asked.

“They sure do,” Uncle Eli said. “I’m glad you asked that. The first batch of sentries switch off after a while and several other hens take over while they get their turn at feeding.”

“Can a jake be a sentry?”

“That’s another good question… Boy, I’m proud of you for being so insightful. They can be, but they’re not very good at it. Not yet anyway. Jakes are too busy nosing around and gettin’ themselves in trouble like most young boys. Sometimes jakes are dumber than dirt… just like boys. They get so busy gallivantin’ around they don’t always use good judgment.  You know… curiosity killed a cat, and sometimes they get a little distracted. So the hens always do that job a lot better.”

“Is that the only job gobblers have? Protecting the flock?”

“Oh no,” Uncle Eli said. “They lead the flock to water when everybody gets thirsty, and they take the flock to good feedin’ spots during the day. For instance, they might take the flock into the woods and start scratchin’ around for bugs. Or they may go grazin’ out in a field of grass. But mainly they show off. They like to get out in the open and fan their tail feathers and strut around and put on a show for the girls. That’s what they’re best at doing. And when you see ’em out there struttin’ around it takes your breath away. That ol’ gobbler’s head turns blue and white and it makes your heart plumb skip a beat. Ain’t nothin’ like it in the world.”   

“How do you ever shoot one if they’re always lookin’ for danger?”

“Mostly dumb luck but sometimes a little skill comes into play. Sometimes a boss gobbler ain’t satisfied with all the hens he has in the flock, and like some men, he goes off lookin’ for a new adventure. He’s so busy lookin’ for a new girlfriend that he plum gets a little reckless. That’s when we get out the ol’ wing bone and give him a few purrs and sweet-soundin’ cackles he can’t resist.”

“Uncle Eli, I want to be a turkey hunter just like you and kill lots of turkeys. Now that I’m seven can we keep doing this every season, just you and me?”

“I certainly hope so, Cooper,” Eli Mason told his nephew. “But we have to include your brother soon as he gets old enough to hunt. Then it’ll be the three of us—you, me and Dansby…”

•  •  •

They were two brothers born of the same clutch late in the spring of 2017, and the Mason boys had come to know them well. The first time the boys saw them they were part of a group of 12 tiny poults, energetically following their all-knowing mother hen in a long winding line up the steep side of Rawls Island like big black ants zig-zagging up a tree. It was late May. The season was over, and the boys were scouting, hoping to see the big, two-bearded gobbler they named Sweeper that had been evading them for weeks and making fools of them. They hadn’t seen him in a while and they weren’t 100 percent sure he had made it through the season. The land across the river was heavily hunted and anything could happen. The boys strongly suspected Sweeper had sired this clutch of lively poults.   

“Glad to see it’s been a good nesting year,” Dansby said. “That means plenty of future gobblers.”

“Yeah, for me to kill,” Cooper said with an evil grin.

“Is that all you think about?”

“Pretty much” Cooper said. “What else is there about turkey hunting if you don’t have results?”   

“You reckon Sweeper is the daddy of this bunch?” Dansby asked, trying to ignore his brother’s comment.

“Yeah he’s gotta be judgin’ by the way he herded up just about every hen this side of the river back in March and April,” Cooper allowed.

•  •  •

A year later that group of 12 tiny poults had been reduced to seven jakes. Five could have met their fate early on by a run-in with a hungry bobcat or coyote. Dansby knew how brutal and unpredictable Mother Nature could be, but he liked to think perhaps the five missing poults had been hens that went their separate way from the all-male group. Later that season the two boys had an encounter with Sweeper and the seven jakes during a rare moment when the brothers were together in the woods and not feuding because of their joint quest to locate the big tom.

As usual, Sweeper wasn’t having any of their trickery, even though they had tried every soft cluck in the book to try to dupe him into making a mistake. But they did succeed in calling all seven jakes across the large pasture away from their Rawls Island stronghold and into the woods where the boys were hiding together behind some limbs from a blown-down tree. Sweeper was still standing across the pasture near the edge of the woods watching the jakes meet their fate. Only five of them flew away after two quick blasts from Cooper’s shotgun. Two were sprawled on the ground flapping wildly.

“Aren’t you gonna help me, brother?” Cooper yelled as he ran to subdue the closest bird that was still flopping in the leaves.

“What do you think?” Dansby yelled. He was furious. “Why’d you have to shoot two jakes?” He started walking back toward the truck.

“I’d a shot ’em all if I could have,” Cooper yelled. “They’re just dumb jakes, and I knew Sweeper wasn’t about to come in.”

“Don’t you know those dumb jakes would’ve been next year’s longbeards?”

Just then Cooper’s second bird struggled to its feet and started staggering through the woods.

“Shoot him, Brother… Before he gets away…”

Dansby shouldered his shotgun in an instant and dropped the bird in its tracks. It was more instinctive than intentional.

“Good shooting, Brother,” Cooper yelled. “Now we both got us a jake!”

•  •  •

By the 2019 season, only two gobblers were left from the original clutch. They were often seen in the same pasture with the large flock of hens and some younger jakes down by the river just below Rawls Island.

Rawls Island was a heavily wooded island of forest that was surrounded by pasture, not water, on three sides. The fourth side bordered the river. The “island” was a high, wooded foothill overlooking the river that encompassed some 20 acres of prime roosting, nesting and feeding grounds. It was the highest point around and always served as a great refuge for the local turkeys. In fact, Rawls Island was a magnet for turkeys because it offered everything they needed—food, cover and nearby water. There were always turkeys feeding or roosting somewhere on the tract. It was part of 120 acres owned by Eli Mason. It had long been his honey hole, and he guarded it like Fort Knox.

One side of the wooded tract rose gradually to the top, while the other side dropped off very steeply toward the river. Thus it had long ago been named Rawls Island after its former owner. The steep side contained huge loblolly pines 80 or 90 feet tall, and it was here that many local turkeys, including Sweeper, often roosted. They always roosted 20 or so yards below the very top of the hill so that they had a natural windbreak on cold, wintry days. On more than one occasion Eli had slipped up to the top of the hill in the predawn darkness and silently watched several gobblers at eye level pitch down off their roost shortly after daybreak. But hunting the island was tricky, and since it was a natural refuge for the turkeys, Eli hunted it sparingly.

The gently sloping side of the island that rose to a high ridge contained eight or nine acres of mature oaks and hickories, and the rich soil underneath the leaves provided plenty of choice insects for the turkeys and acorns for the deer.

Sweeper was the boss gobbler of the group, and the boys had named the two now mature birds from the original clutch Lefty and Righty because they always seemed to be on one side of Sweeper or the other, like two well-disciplined lieutenants. Lefty had the beginnings of two distinct beards, adding credence to the boys’ belief Sweeper was his daddy. The big gobbler had a normal 9-inch beard typical of a 2-year old bird, but he also had a distinct short cluster of bristles that was trying hard to develop into a second beard. Righty had a typical beard for a turkey his age, but it was noticeably thick like Sweeper’s. Sometimes all three of the gobblers could be seen strutting together. It was a magnificent sight. The boys often watched them across the pasture with binoculars from the wooded cove 100 yards away from where Cooper had shot the two jakes.

Uncle Eli was very superstitious about hunting Rawls Island proper. He never forbade the boys to hunt there, but he warned them to use extreme caution if they did.

“It’s their sanctuary and as long as we don’t disturb ’em too much, they’ll continue to roost up near the top and they’ll continue to use our pasture on this side of the river. But if we go in there and run ’em all out, they’ll cross the river and we might not see ’em again for two weeks. Then, too, all those folks huntin’ the Smithson property over there might just get lucky.

“If ya know which trees they’re roosting in, you can set up in the woods a good hour before daylight about halfway up the ridge and try to catch ’em coming by after they fly down, but I swear ever’ time I’ve tried to do that they always go the other way. Ol’ Sweeper jus’ has some sorta built-in sixth sense and he knows when we’re gunnin’ for him. He’s a smart one, and ya’ jus’ can’t pull much over on him. That’s why yer better off to stay in the woods across the pasture and try to get ’em to come to you after they’ve spent an hour or two congregatin’ out in the pasture. I’ve seen ’em ‘noonin’’ over in those woods a plenty in the past, and sooner or later ol’ Sweeper’s gonna follow some hens over there and when he does you might jus’ get yer chance!”

  •  •  •

They were two brothers born of the same clutch three years apart late in the spring of 2003 and 2006. Cooper, the oldest, being quick tempered and profane, often acted on impulse and barreled ahead to get what he wanted no matter what. Dansby, the youngest and most reserved, always played second fiddle to his older brother. He liked to take his time and think things through before making a decision to move ahead. Unlike his brother, Dansby played by the rules and tried to do things the right way.

They were as different as night and day, but there was one constant in their lives that caused a great deal of anxiety with their uncle and their mother. As they grew older, they fought constantly and bitterly, but the one thing that kept them from ripping each other’s hearts out was their love for turkey hunting and Uncle Eli. Uncle Eli was the one stabilizing force in their lives because they both respected him and listened to what he said.

The spirit of the hunt had been instilled in them almost before they could walk. Maybe it had existed in their genes even before they were born, and Uncle Eli only assisted in nurturing it along and bringing it out. Eli Mason was a legendary turkey hunter whose sole purpose in life revolved around hunting wild turkey gobblers. He had never married because he always said turkey hunting was his true mistress. He’d had lots of lady friends but thus far he was destined to live the life of a bachelor, and his life at 46 years of age was everything he wanted because he dedicated it to turkey hunting and the great outdoors.   

“Some of us are born to be hunters,” he liked to say. “Them that are have to be the luckiest souls on earth!”

The boys’ father had died in a car accident when they were toddlers and they never knew him. But Uncle Eli had stepped in and done his best to make hunters, woodsmen and decent young men out of his two beloved nephews. He had done an excellent job in every respect save one—the short tempers and stubborn competitiveness in each of them bordered on being dangerous. If Eli Mason was disappointed in Cooper’s selfish and negative attitude he never condemned it; instead he always believed the boy would change for the better as he grew older. Cooper set the example early on by always trying to make his younger brother look bad in everything they did together. As long as Cooper bested Dansby, he was content. But if Dansby even came close to threatening his brother’s dominance and No. 1 status, they would usually end up rolling on the ground and fighting until shirts were torn and noses were bloodied. Uncle Eli took things in stride with a steady voice and positive words; he never gave up hope that the demons holding ransom over Cooper would eventually go away.

The same year Dansby turned seven and went on his first hunt with Uncle Eli in late March, the boys’ mother bought them each a brand-new blue blazer and gray slacks to attend the Easter service at church. They had no sooner stepped out of the car when they got into an argument about a hawk that was circling overhead. Cooper insisted it was an immature red-tailed hawk, while Dansby knew without a doubt it was a red-shouldered hawk. The argument soon escalated into a fist-slinging confrontation where both boys were locked together rolling on the ground like two hissing bears cubs before their screaming mother could get several church men to pull them apart. Cooper’s new blazer had both sleeves torn out, and Dansby’s gray slacks had holes in the knees. Both of their white dress shirts were dirty and blood stained. Uncle Eli drove up just as the fight ended. He stepped out of his truck and stared at the two ragged boys standing in front of him. The boys’ mother buried her head in Eli’s shoulder and began to sob uncontrollably.

“Are we still going huntin’ this afternoon after church?” Cooper asked, wiping his bloody nose.

“What would yer daddy say if he saw you two actin’ like this on Easter Sunday of all days? Would he take you huntin’?”

“He’d probably give us a good whoopin,” Cooper said.

Dansby looked up at his Uncle with his soft brown eyes from behind a mop of brown hair that was full of grass and leaf particles.

“But it was a red-shouldered hawk, Uncle Eli,” he said. “I know it was…”

Read Part 2 of “A Tale Of Two Brothers”