And then I heard it: pfft, duuuuuuuuuuuum. A strutter on the high bench. Game on. I went quiet; slipped closer; eased up s-l-o-w-l-y. Iffy shot, bird in full strut. I let him drift off. I made up even more ground then, found a tree and nearly stood behind it. Softly I yelped. The tom gobbled, minced steps back, strutting. It looked toward me, under a deadfall, then craned its neck. That was the last thing it did.