SALMON SPEARING
When the boys came in for breakfast next morning Jake was standing in
the kitchen, and Miss Oliver sat opposite him looking unusually
thoughtful.
"What's the matter?" Harry asked.
Jake turned toward him slowly.
"I don't know that there's anything very wrong," he said. "Leader's come
back."
Leader was the name of one of the missing horses, and Frank started as
he remembered what the storekeeper had said, but feeling Miss Oliver's
eyes upon him, turned his head and looked out into the clearing.
"Where's Tillicum?" inquired Harry.
"That," replied Jake, "is more than I can tell. Leader was standing
outside the stable when I went along and I can't make out why the other
horse wasn't with him. He'd have come with Leader if anybody had turned
them into the trail together."
Harry called to Frank and went out of the door. Jake followed them to
the stable, where they found the horse looking rather jaded, but except
for that very little the worse. Jake nodded reassuringly when Harry had
felt him over.
"No sign of anything wrong," he said. "There was a good deal of dried
mud on him before I fixed him up, and he seemed mighty keen on his corn.
They hadn't given him very much."
"What do you make of it?" Harry asked.
"About as much as you do," answered Jake. "They turned him loose on the
trail when they'd done with him, and that's all there is to it. I guess
the question is what they've done with Tillicum. One thing's certain. If
he doesn't turn up, your father's going to be mighty mad."
Harry agreed that this would be very probable, though he did not think
his father would show it. As there was nothing more to be said they went
back to the house, where, somewhat to their relief, Miss Oliver made no
allusion to the affair, and they proceeded quietly to eat breakfast.
"Are there any spring salmon in the river?" she asked presently, looking
across at Harry.
"Yes," he responded, "there are a few coming up."
"Then you might take Frank with you this morning and try to get me one.
I dare say Jake will smoke it." Miss Oliver smiled at Frank. "You don't
get salmon prepared that way back East."
"We have it canned," said Frank. "I've an idea I've seen some smoked,
but I can't remember. Is it very nice? I thought you didn't care for
salmon here."
"Fresh salmon," Jake said curtly, "is only good for hogs, and if you
keep it long enough, for growing potatoes with. Still," he added
thoughtfully, "I don't know that you call it fresh then."
Miss Oliver laughed. "Wait until you try it smoked--as Jake does it. He
can prepare it as some of the Siwash do. I believe they taught him in
British Columbia."
Jake shook his head solemnly. "No," he said, "I can't cure salmon as
some of the Indians do. You'd get nothing like it in a New York hotel,
but I guess I can dress it 'most as well as any white man. You go along
and get me a fish, Harry. I'd try the pool by the big fall."
They set out a few minutes later, taking with them a pole which had a
big iron hook lashed to it and a long Indian salmon spear. There was a
small fork at one end of the latter on which were placed two nicely
made bone barbs attached to the haft by strips of sinew. Harry removed
them to show Frank that they would slip off their sockets easily.
Leaving the clearing, they struck into a narrow trail through the bush,
and after half an hour's scramble over fallen logs and through thick
fern they reached the river.
It poured frothing out of shadowy forest and leaped over a rock ledge in
a thundering fall, beneath which it swirled around a deep basin, and
then after sweeping down a white rapid, spread out over a wide belt of
stones. There were rocks on either side of it, and, as the trees could
find no hold on them, warm sunlight streamed down upon the foaming
water. Harry sat down on a ledge above the pool with the spear beside
him and pointed to a great bird wheeling on slanted wings above the
shallow.
"A fish eagle," he said. "Here are salmon making up."
Frank watched the circling of the majestic bird, which did not seem much
afraid of them. It had a white head and a cruel beak, and once when it
swept over him he noticed the fixed gaze of its cold, impassive eye.
Splendid as it was, he somehow shrank from the thing. It looked so
powerful and utterly merciless. When it stopped in the air, dropped, and
struck, he saw a splash as a writhing, silvery creature was snatched up
in its talons.
"Got him wrong!" cried Harry. "You watch. He'll have to let go again."
So far as Frank could see, the eagle had seized the salmon by the middle
of its back, the fish twisting itself crossways as it was carried up
into the air. The next moment there was a splash in the water and the
bird swooped down again. When it rose it held its prey differently, and
Frank fancied he could see one wicked claw gripping the fish close by
the back of its neck, while the other was spread out toward its tail.
In any case, the salmon did not seem able to wriggle now, and the eagle
flew off with it and vanished among the tops of the black firs.
"Not a big fish, but I've a notion the eagle could lift a thing as heavy
as itself," said Harry. "They're mighty powerful. It might be the one he
dropped, though I think it's another."
Frank had no idea how much an eagle weighed, but he realized something
of the capabilities of a bird that could carry off this fish apparently
without an effort, and, what was more astonishing, drag the tremendously
muscular creature out of the water which was its home. Then his
companion touched his shoulder.
"Watch those two fellows in the eddy," said he. "They're going to rush
the fall."
Frank saw two slim shadows shoot out beneath a wreath of circling foam
and flash--which seemed the best word for it--through the crystal depths
of the slacker part of the pool. They were lost in the snowy turmoil
near the foot of the fall, and a few minutes passed before he saw them
again. Then one shot out of the water like a bow that had suddenly
straightened itself, gleamed resplendent with silver, and plunged into
the foam again. Harry pointed him out the other, and though it was a
moment or two before he could see it he marveled when he did. It had its
dusky back toward him, for now and then the dorsal fin rose clear, and
it was swimming up a thin cascade which poured down a steep slope of
stone. That any creature should have strength enough to stem that rush
of water seemed incredible, but there was no doubt that the fish was
ascending inch by inch. Then it found a momentary harbor in a little
pool just outside the main leap of the fall, and shot out of it again
with its curious uncurving spring. Frank watched it eagerly when it
dropped into the fall, and it was with a sense of sympathy that he saw
its gallant efforts wasted as it was suddenly swept down. Before
reaching the bottom, however, it had evidently rallied all its powers,
for it flashed clear into the sunlight, and had recovered a fathom when
he lost sight of it once more.
After that he glanced back toward the shallows and saw that other birds
had appeared. He did not know what they were, and Harry could only tell
him that they were fishhawks of some kind. As he watched them wheeling
or stooping, dropping upon the sparkling stream, and screaming now and
then, the boy began to form some idea of the desperate battle for
existence that is fought daily and hourly by the lower creation.
"There don't seem to be a great many salmon," he remarked.
"It's a thin run," said Harry. "There'll probably be more of them in the
next one. Once upon a time, as I expect you've heard, these rivers were
so thick with fish that you could walk across their backs, though I'll
allow I've never seen anything of that kind."
Frank was not astonished at the last admission. This brown-skinned,
clear-eyed boy, who could sail a boat and hold the rifle straight, was
not one to talk of the wonderful things he had seen and done. He left
that to the whisky-faced sports of the saloons who were probably capable
of butchering a crippled deer at fifty yards with the repeater.
"I suppose the salmon have plenty enemies," he suggested.
"Oh, yes," said Harry. "In the sea the seals and porpoises get their
share of them. Then, as they head for the rivers, there are the fish
traps, and in Canada the seine-net boats along the shore. After that
when they're in fresh water they have to run the gauntlet of the
Indians, birds, and bears."
"Bears?" Frank interrupted.
"Sure," said Harry. "They're quite smart fishers. Even the little minks
get some of the salmon stranded in the shallow pools. The Indians set
long baskets, narrow end downward, for them near the top of the falls.
These, of course, are fresh from salt-water--you can see they're
silvery--but they lose that brightness as they go up the larger rivers,
and on the Columbia and Fraser they push on hundreds of miles, up
tremendous canons, up falls and rapids, toward the Rockies. Those that
fetch headwaters are scarred and battered, with the bright scales and
most of their fins and tails worn right off them. Once they're through
with the spawning they die."
"Then they go straight to the place where they spawn?"
"Yes, the salmon's really a seafish. It's born in fresh water, but it
goes down to the ocean as soon as it's big enough, and it's generally
believed that it stays there three or four years, though it's a fact
that we know mighty little about the salmon yet. Then it comes back to
the same place and spawns and dies. You see, there's a constant
succession coming up." He broke off with a laugh. "Now we'll try to get
one. There are three or four big fellows yonder. All you have to do is
to slash at them with the hook."
Frank perched himself upon a jutting shelf of rock, and presently two or
three swift shadows flitted by. He swung up the pole and made a sudden
sweep at them, only to see the hook splash two or three feet behind the
last one's tail. Incidentally, he came very near to going headforemost
into the pool. Then another fish swept toward him, and this time he
landed the hook some inches in front of its nose, after which he made
several more attempts, succeeding only in splashing himself all over. He
was beginning to discover that his hands and eyes needed a good deal of
training. One, it seemed, must judge speed and distance and strike
simultaneously, but the trouble was that he needed a second or two to
think, and, naturally, while he thought the fish got away.
By and by he turned and watched Harry, who had not struck once yet. He
stood upon a ledge, alert, strung-up, and steady-eyed, but absolutely
motionless, with the long spear running up above his shoulder. At last,
however, he drove his right arm down and the beautiful, straight shaft
sank into the pool. It stopped suddenly for a second, quivering, and
then bent and twisted upward in the boy's clenched hands.
Frank ran toward him, wondering that the slender shaft did not
immediately break, when he observed that one barb had slipped off its
socket and that the fish, struck by it, was now held by the short length
of sinew. A moment or two later Harry jerked it out upon the bank by a
quick vertical movement and knocked it on the head. It lay still after
this, a beautiful creature of some seven or eight pounds, with the
sunlight gleaming on its silver scales. Frank glanced once more at the
long spear. It occurred to him that this was also perfect in its way and
could not have been better adapted to its purpose.
"It's curious that an Indian should be able to make a thing like that,"
he remarked. "I don't think a white man could turn out anything as
handy, unless, of course, he had one to copy."
"The point is that it took the Siwash a mighty long while to make the
salmon spear," said Harry. "It's quite likely they spent two hundred
years over it. Their spears are all on the same pattern, so are their
traps and canoes." Seeing a puzzled look cross Frank's face, he smiled.
"An Indian is no smarter than a white man--in fact, when you stop to
think of it, he's not half as smart, though most everything he makes is
excellent. It's this way. If we want a saw for a new purpose or a
different kind of wood, we write to the Disston people or somebody of
the kind and they set their boss designer to work. He considers, and
then because he knows all about the physical sciences he draws the thing
on paper and sends it to the forges or grinding shops. In a general way,
that saw does its work, though I guess if the designer had to use it for
a year or two he'd make the next one better."
"Of course," agreed Frank.
"It's different with the Indians," Harry continued. "One fellow made a
fish spear ever so long ago and found that it wouldn't do. He made the
next one different and was satisfied with it, but his son made it a
little longer and thinner. Then his grandson altered the barb, and his
son added another one. After that each fellow made it a little handier,
until nothing more could be done to it, and they stuck to the pattern."
He turned and glanced at the spear. "This thing is the product of the
skill of ever so many generations."
It was simple but convincing, for it explained the efficiency of the
Indian's tools, and also why he had not progressed. He worked along the
same line, sticking to one simple implement until he had perfected it,
and, though this was his greatest disadvantage, the man who killed the
fish generally made the spear. He got so far and stopped, content, and
incapable of going any farther. The white man, on the other hand,
changed his methods continually with his changing needs and, what
counted more than all, he very seldom made the tools he used, because he
had discovered that somebody who did nothing else could make them
better. When the Americans of the Pacific Slope wanted salmon they did
not whittle spears, but sent east to the cordage factories, whose owners
brought in fibers from all over the world and spun the netting with
which to build gigantic fish traps.
"We could do with another fish," ventured Harry. "Let's see if you can
get one."
Frank took up his pole again. It was a heavy and clumsy affair, but
Harry had told him that he would probably break the Indian spear. They
waited awhile until another swift shadow swept around with the eddy
beneath their feet.
"Hold on!" cried Harry. "Wait till the stream heads him and then strike
as quick as you can."
The fish's speed was checked for a moment as it entered the furious rush
beneath the fall, and Frank, who could just see its dusky back amidst
the foam, swung his pole. There was a splash and then a curious shock
which sent a thrill through him, and the haft jerked sharply in his
hands.
"Heave him out!" cried Harry. "That thing won't break."
Frank tugged with all his might and the salmon flew up over his
shoulder. The next moment he had seized it and was almost reluctant to
let it go when his companion clubbed it on the head.
"Two's as many as we have any use for and we'll go along," said the
latter. "We haven't made much of a show at that draining lately."
Frank would have preferred to stay where he was, but he followed Harry
toward the bush, and soon after they struck a cleared trail to the
ranch, which was, however, not the way they had come. A little later
they were somewhat astonished to see a group of figures among the trees,
and hurrying forward they found Mr. Oliver and Mr. Barclay talking to
Jake, who apparently had been driving home two or three steers.
Mr. Oliver, looking unusually grave, nodded to the boys. "We have just
met Jake," he said. "He tells me Tillicum's back a little way up the
trail with a broken leg."
"I guess he's done," murmured Jake, adding significantly, "I wouldn't
have left him like that if I'd had a gun."
"Go on with the steers," said Mr. Oliver. "We'll turn back."
The boys accompanied him and Mr. Barclay, and leaving the trail by and
by where the bush was thinner they stopped before a pitiable sight. It
was Tillicum who stood awkwardly before them, his head lowered and one
leg that seemed distorted out of its usual shape hanging limp. Caked
mire was spattered about the poor animal, its coat was foul, and every
line of its body seemed expressive of pain and exhaustion. As it raised
its drooping head and looked at them pitifully, Frank felt a thrill of
hot anger against the outlaws who were responsible for its condition.
Mr. Oliver stepped up to the horse and gently felt of its injured limb,
after which he turned abruptly toward Mr. Barclay and Frank noticed that
his face was set.
"There's only one thing to be done," he said. "Have you a pistol?"
"Haven't _you_?" his companion asked with a slight trace of astonishment
in his tone.
"If I'd had one would I have wanted to borrow yours?" retorted Mr.
Oliver.
"Well," said Mr. Barclay, "it's seldom I carry one, but in this case it
seemed advisable." He put his hand into his pocket. "Here you are. It's
a big caliber."
Mr. Oliver took the weapon and held it behind him, and turning back
toward the horse, gently stroked its head. Then there was a flash and
detonation, and the beast dropped like a stone. After a moment the
rancher turned around with a very curious look in his eyes, with the
smoking weapon clenched hard in his hand.
"I've had that faithful animal six years," he said in a harsh voice.
"We'll get away."
They walked on in silence for a while, and then Mr. Barclay spoke.
"The breaking of its leg was probably an accident," he suggested.
"Yes," said Mr. Oliver. "It's possible he broke it after they turned him
loose, but that doesn't seem to affect the case." He paused and looked
around at his companion. "You understand that I'm with you right through
this thing."
Nothing more was said until they approached the ranch, when Mr. Oliver
turned to the boys.
"I'll take the fish," he said. "You can go on with whatever you were
doing."
They moved away toward the drain, and when they reached it Harry stood
still a moment or two.
"It's a long while since I've seen dad look half so mad," he said. "When
he sets his face that way it's sure to mean trouble. Anyway, when I saw
Tillicum I felt kind of boiling over--as well as sorry."
"Did you notice what Mr. Barclay said about the pistol?" Frank asked.
"Why, of course," said Harry thoughtfully. "Now I don't know what
they've been after, but it's plain enough that there was some danger in
the thing. Mr. Barclay doesn't seem extra smart, but there's something
in his look that suggests he wouldn't be easy scared, and he took a
pistol along." Then he laughed in a significant manner and jumped down
into the trench. "It's my idea those dope fellows are going to be sorry
before dad gets through with them, and now we'll go on with the
draining."
He fell to with the grubhoe and for the next half hour worked furiously,
after which Jake appeared and called them in to dinner.