When my wristwatch sounded, I was yelping on my Lynch Fool Proof and sitting against a tree 15 feet behind Seymore, who was looking over the barrel of his 12-gauge. The gobbler was less than 100 yards away—just out of sight beyond a rolling hardwood knob—and roaring at every note. Seymore heard the watch, which I quickly shut off, and he twisted his head, slowly and slightly, in my direction. I assumed he needed to take a calculus test or something and that we’d be leaving, but instead I could tell that he was smiling underneath his face mask. He’d been overtaken by wickedness, and that seven-year perfect-attendance streak was about to be broken. And it looked like the payoff would be carrying a wild turkey out of the woods.