They trooped purposefully to the gazebo, and—relaxing in his favorite lounge chair—Qwilleran promptly dozed off. After all, the events of the night had deprived him of sleep.
It was not long before he was aroused by a cacophony of weird sounds from Koko, who was staring through the screen toward the bird garden. There was movement in the shrubbery. Then the branches parted, and out stepped one of those elongated birds with snakelike neck, red wattle, scrawny body, and long, scaly legs.
Then, to compound the mystery, the bird was followed by fifteen or more small replicas, a few inches high. Their composure was definitely greater than that of the watchers in the gazebo. As the cats stared in disbelief, the large bird returned to the shrubbery, followed by the swarm of obedient clones.
On a wild hunch Qwilleran phoned the Hotel Booze and asked Gary, “What’s that Turkey Trot announced on the bulletin board in your lobby?”
“That’s the monthly meeting of the Outdoor Club. They’re having a popular speaker from somewhere in Minnesota. He’ll talk about wild turkeys. Everybody welcome. Tomorrow night at seven o’clock. Are you interested in wild turkeys?”
“Just curious.”
ELEVEN
Qwilleran arrived at the Hotel Booze early for the turkey lecture, hoping to have a burger in a dark corner of the café and then sneak into the meeting hall at the last minute. Unfortunately, his presence at any event led the general public to believe he was covering it for the newspaper or planning to write a “Qwill Pen” column.
An excited crowd could be heard gathering in the lobby, waiting for the doors of the banquet hall to open. More than a hundred seats had been set up. There was plenty of standing room, and Qwilleran slipped in at the last moment, positioning himself near the door—not for fear of fire (although it crossed his mind) but in order to make a swift getaway after the program.
There was an excited hubbub in the hall. Club members had heard tonight’s speaker before. There were cries of “Here he comes! Here’s Harry!”
An athletic-looking man of middle age jogged down the side aisle of the hall and leaped to the low platform. “Greetings, friends! Any friend of wildlife is a friend of mine.”
(Loud response)
The room darkened, and a large screen at the back of the platform filled with a portrait of a long-necked bird with beard, wattles, dewlaps, and saucer eyes.
“This odd-looking creature is the wild turkey. There were flocks of them in the woods when the Pilgrim Fathers landed here, and there are probably millions of them today. Benjamin Franklin suggested making it the national bird, but the old boy had a sense of humor, and I think he was kidding. It would hardly seem appropriate for half the population to be shooting the national bird to put food on the table.
“In many states it is still the chief game bird, with an estimated hundred thousand in some states. Ordinances regulate open seasons, hunting weapons, and even methods of luring the prey. It makes one curious to know more about this remarkable species.
“Most of you (like myself) are nature lovers and not game hunters, so let me tell you some interesting facts about this unusual species. First of all, did you ever see such a funny-looking geezer? His neck’s too long, his head’s too small, his eyes are too big, his body is out of proportion! He looks as if he was designed by a committee.”
(Laughter)
“But they must have plenty of sex appeal, because they’re among the most prolific wildlife. The female lays fifteen eggs. The baby turkeys are called poults.”
Qwilleran thought, That’s what I saw—a mother turkey with her fifteen poults.
There followed the kind of statistics the audience liked. The wild turkey can run twenty miles an hour and fly fifty miles an hour. The birds roost in the branches of oak and pine trees. They feed on grasses, nuts, berries, and insects. They communicate with clucks, gobbles, yelps, cackles, and purrs.
Qwilleran thought, Ye gods! These are the noises Koko has been making! . . . Where did he learn the language? . . . Has he been luring turkeys back to Moose County after a thirty-year absence? . . . Impossible!
Qwilleran slipped out of the meeting hall. At least it was a comfort to know that the odd-looking creatures in the bird garden were real and not a hallucination.
In the lobby, a pleasant-looking woman was sitting at a long table with stacks of what resembled chocolate brownies in individual plastic sacks.
“Good evening,” he said in the musical voice he reserved for such occasions.
“Is the program over?” she asked.
“Not quite. He’s showing slides. But I have another appointment.”
She saw him staring hungrily at the stack of small bundles on the table. “These are turkey calls,” she said. “Harry makes them as a hobby. I’m his wife, Jackie.”
He took her extended hand and pressed it warmly. “Your husband is an excellent speaker, and he really knows his subject. You say, Harry makes these?”
