The clouds would assemble daily about the summits of the Sierra Mimbres,
whence come the waters of the Rio Grande. Prayers were unavailing; the
morning brought the usual complement of fleecy harbingers, and by noon
the hosts were marshaled in mighty platoons of black and gray; the
artillery was unlimbered, the sun retreated in dismay, and the spree
commenced. For two or three hours there would be a terribly sublime row
up in the vicinage of the granite and dwarfed timber, that would reach
down to the lower hills, and with its results set roaring the little
rivulets and usually dusty arroyos, to swell the already turbid waters
of the beautiful river. The daily dull monotony was wearing; I thought,
more than once, that “hope deferred maketh the heart sick,” and
concluded I had struck the inspiration of the proverb.
The Old Man sat on Jordan’s rugged banks, waiting for that creek to
clear up so that he could indulge himself in his favorite amusement.
He’d been there a week, camped out, restricted to potato and flitch
diet, and had not wet a line. His fly books were an aggravation, and his
split bamboo a source of misery. The evening would give promise of
crystal water on the morrow, and each morning brought with it a stream
of thick, yellow fluid. A trout would no more rise in it than upon the
heaven-kissing hills that gathered the cause of his tribulation about
their cloud-compelling peaks. The fir-crowned hills and majestic cliffs
had lost their charm, the grasshopper had become a burden, and there was
no more music in the roily water than in the mosquito’s song. I presume
he has forgotten all about it by this time, yet my soul cried out in
sympathy.
But I was better off than he. He had no John to console him with stories
of leviathans caught by other rodsters “last summer.” John would scorn
anything less than a three-pound trout to embellish his romances; five,
six, and even nine pounds were evolved in his imagination. I took him
for a Vermont Yankee, but it transpired that the Ozark Mountains claimed
him for their own, without the prospect of any other place setting up a
demand for him when he dies—if he ever does. He is tall and thin, has a
stoop in his shoulders and slouches in his gait; his garments, such as
he has, fit him—not so well as they would the clothes line; he has a
Roman nose and gray eyes, he chews the fragrant “nigger head,” and his
saffron-hued incisors habitually caress his nether lip. His mouth is
always open, and his scraggy beard would vie in symmetry with a patch of
hazel brush demoralized by a Kansas cyclone. A few days ago I wagered
him a quarter that he could not close his lips and keep them so three
minutes. I won the bet, but have not yet realized upon it. John is a
booley, fortunately for the rest of humanity.
Becoming a little impatient at John and the periodically feculent
condition of the river, I suggested to the Captain a run up to Antelope
Park, twenty-five miles away, and a few casts for the denizens of
certain minor tributaries to the Rio Grande. The suggestion proved
agreeable to him.
The next morning after an early breakfast we mounted the buckboard, and
in company with the United States mail for somewhere, a nervous driver
and a pair of wild mules, we arrived at our destination before noon.
Telegraphic facilities being somewhat limited, our coming had not been
heralded. Our driver left us with our traps in front of a
comfortable-looking house, but it required half an hour to find the
landlord. We had lived long enough in the country to recognize in every
house a hotel. We would have taken ourselves and belongings into the
first convenient room, but that a large black dog kindly took us under
his immediate supervision. It began to rain, but the dog gave no
intimation whatever of inconvenience on that score; indeed, I think he
rather enjoyed it. The Captain, after we had admired the dog for a
quarter of an hour, slipped his hand into his hip pocket. I don’t know
whether to attribute the dog’s sudden disappearance to his superior
intelligence and knowledge of the ways of the country, or to the coming
of the landlord. Her greeting was cordial when she hove in sight:
“Glad to see you gentlemen suppose you’ve come afishin’ didn’t know as
you was comin’ or I’d a had dinner instead of bein’ out to see to them
colts the last two died and I don’t propose to have no more of that kind
of business not if I know myself you bet these has been tended to right
and I know it they was risin’ three year and of course gettin’ too big
to run loose that husband of mine run away with another woman two year
ago and he come back in less’n three months for me to take him back
again but I told him to pack and he did since then I’ve ran this ranche
alone and propose so to do she was older than him”——
“Can you give us a glass of milk,” I broke in, irreverently, on this bit
of family history, delivered without a pause, with the end, if it had
any, promising to outlive us and run into the next century, “you can get
us something to eat later in the day.”
“Milk certainly you can have all the milk you want and whatever else
there is in the house to eat ’taint much but I’ll do the best I can
what’s your business?”
“Just at present we are in search of clear water and trout.”
“Plenty of trout in the creek though the river’s rily and trout won’t
rise in rily water I suppose you know there’s some big ones in the creek
one took off a leader and fly for me yesterday but I’m goin’ to snatch
him out of that hole yet but what I want to know is what do you do for a
livin’ people have to rustle in this country or tramp.”
Having deposited our traps in the front room, I told her I was a
preacher and the Captain a Sunday-school superintendent.
“Well stranger I haven’t got but mighty little use for gospel sharps
they don’t give anybody’s house a good reputation leastways I’ve so
hearn tell but perhaps if you doesn’t go psalm singin’ and prayin’ round
here nobody ’ill know any better you doesn’t look much like preachers
anyway.”
The conclusion was fired at us over her shoulder as she disappeared
after the milk. I looked at the Captain seriously and asked him if he
thought he could stand it for a day or so; he said he thought he could
by going out early and coming in late and going to sleep the balance of
the time.
The milk was rich and sweet, but a word of commendation inadvertently
uttered by the Captain resulted in a history from birth to maternity,
and the details of travail of each of thirteen cows, with the condition
of their offspring, their present and prospective value and probable
increase.
Leaving him to be further enlightened by this disquisition on bovine
tocology, I escaped, and with rod and creel started up the creek. Five
minutes after, and before I had lost sight of the house, a hail from the
Captain brought me to a halt.
“What puzzles me,” said the Captain wearily, “is to learn how that
landlord’s husband had strength enough left to run away; he had three
years of it; his vitality must have been something remarkable.”
“His coming back is harder to comprehend.”
“I think not; that gives me the only solution to the mystery. You see,
he must have been a lunatic; that will account for his strength
physically; and for his returning. But do you see that pool? That’s the
home of the trout that took the landlord’s leader. I’m going for him.”
“All right; I’ll wait and see you do it.”
The Captain slipped down the bank, seeking the shelter of a clump of
willows, and made a cast into the center of a pool, the bare appearance
of which suggested the certain lurking place of trout. He did not have
out over twenty feet of line, and the coachman lit cleverly, but without
effect. Another cast, a little further toward the lower end, and yet no
rise. A third—there is luck in odd numbers—where the water began to
break at the head of the ripple, and the landlord’s trout got himself
into trouble. There was no stiff cane pole with a tyro at the end of it
this time, but a lithe Bethabara of seven ounces, in the hands of one
who knew the use of it. It was a very pretty ten minutes’ fight, when
the despoiler of the landlord’s tackle turned up his side and was towed
ashore; the fish had a remnant of the broken leader still in its jaw. He
weighed a little less than a pound, though we had been informed, as
usual, that his weight was four pounds, at least.
We trudged on up the creek, crossing four or five times to shorten the
walk, until we reached a point two miles from the ranche. Each taking
his side, we began moving down stream, snaking out the little fellows,
from seven to ten inches in length, until we had more than enough for a
late dinner. Concluding that the trout in these grounds might grow a
little if let alone, we walked back. The manner in which the catch was
served up with warm biscuit, fresh butter, and coffee with cream in it,
made the conversation of the landlord interesting.
We were advised, that, had we gone a mile further, larger trout would
have rewarded us. It being affirmed beyond contradiction that the larger
fish were holding a sort of salmon tea higher up stream, and the Rio
Grande still being muddy, the next morning found us nearly a couple of
miles further toward the head waters. But if there were any trout
exceeding a half pound in any of the pools industriously tickled by us,
they must have known who we were, and, therefore, declined an interview.
This kind of sport had not been bargained for; a strict adherence to the
trail, with diligence, would enable us to reach the ranche in time for a
lunch and the buckboard “going down.” We made it, besides having time to
bid our landlord adieu, the sound of her melodious voice gradually dying
out as the wild mules increased the distance between us.
That evening the river gave promise, as usual, of being clear in the
morning, always provided, of course, that it had not rained “up above.”
But the next day we learned that the customary entertainment had taken
place among the lofty peaks of the San Juan. When any man again tells
you that “it never rains in Colorado,” remind him of Ananias’ fate.
A day did come, finally, and go, through all the hours of which the sun
had an easy time of it in making things warm; in the evening we could
fairly see the boulders in the river, and the next day it was clear. But
back in the west the clouds had already gathered, and if any trout were
to be captured we could not stand upon the order of our going. After
breakfast half a dozen of us piled into the wagon, rode five miles down
the river and began operations, which we were satisfied must cease by
noon. For half an hour or so the trout raised fairly, and then the casts
increased from one to a dozen, and this was finally resolved into a
devoted whipping of every likely place without avail.
Toward lunch time I waded ashore, clambered up the bank ten feet above
the river, and stood waiting for my comrade of the morning. He was
standing in the stiff current, thigh deep, and faithfully sending his
flies into a long eddy thirty feet away. I called him, but the response
I received was that the place had never failed him, and he wanted to go
the length of it. So I stood watching the play of his split bamboo and
the curl of the light silk line; now and then the heel of his leader
would strike, but generally the coachman on the end was first to touch
the water. He had told me only the day before, though he acknowledged it
was beyond his skill, that in casting, one should never use more than
the forearm; that to confine the movement to the wrist was still better.
The awkwardness of the full-stretched arm swinging back and forth was
apparent, but to one unaccustomed to light tackle the habit is hard to
overcome. I told him to keep his arm down, and he did for two or three
casts; then up it went again, he forgetting the admonition in his desire
to reach a few feet further. When I reminded him of it he looked round,
laughingly, and said he couldn’t. Just then my attention was called to a
pilgrim with weak eyes peering out from under the broken-down brim of an
old felt hat, sallow as the mug it covered; his butternut jeans tucked
in his boots, and his woolen shirt suggestive of other occupants than
himself.
“What does a pole like that cost, Mister?” motioning with his head to
the bamboo I held in my hand. Being disposed to treat everybody with
civility, I told him.
“I don’t think anybody kin ketch fish with that ’ar thing, ’cept little
ones. I like one o’ them long stiff fellers to jerk ’em with; I
shouldn’t think this here thing was no account,” and he gesticulated
with his head again. “Now, the best way to git fish is with a net; now,
I wish I had a net; look at that ’ar man thar, he’ll not git a fish in a
week.”
“Mark you, my friend!” The libel stepped back a couple of paces; I don’t
know why. “If you catch fish in that way, they will cost you ten dollars
each,” I continued mildly. “Try it, I wish you would; there is a
standing reward of five hundred dollars for such fishermen as you claim
to be; perhaps I might get the money and you a rope.”
“See here, Mister, I ain’t got no net; I ain’t goin’ to ketch no fish;
I’m goin’ to Silverton; I don’t keer ’bout fishin’ no way; hits mighty
po’ business.”
“The sooner you get to Silverton the better—every man, woman and child
in this park wants to earn that five hundred dollars.”
What further I might have said I don’t know, but just then my friend
with the split bamboo hailed me; he had made a strike, to his own
surprise as well as mine, for the water had become quite cloudy. With
his face down stream and rod well up, he was talking to his victim much
as one would address a fractious colt. It was pleasant to listen to his
expressions of assurance that no harm should come to his troutship if he
would only behave himself, followed by a threatening admonition at every
rush for liberty. If my tall friend was not skilful enough to carry away
the first prize at a casting tournament, he knew at least how to handle
and save the victim he had struck. Having quite exhausted him, he was
reeled in till the line could be grasped, and the trout was drawn
cautiously within reach; the line was then changed to the rod hand, and
with a quick movement, evidently not acquired without practice, that
trout was scooped up against the angler’s stomach; the next movement was
to run his dexter finger into the trout’s mouth, press his thumb upon
its neck and break it, the fish being held in the left hand, and the
three fingers of the right holding the rod. Having thus killed him, the
hook was removed, and he was held up triumphantly to be admired. The
rest of the party had arrived in time to see the close of the struggle
with a handsome two pounds and three ounces of salmon-colored luxury.
The misery under the felt hat had departed.
[Illustration]