THE TROUT DEAL
As soon as Bess heard the breakfast fire cracking she crept out of her
bed and hurriedly dressed herself. “Peter Pan” begged her softly, so
that the other sleepers might not be disturbed, to “Wait a min’t for
me.” They looked like two hungry birds as they perched on a log near
where Joe was preparing breakfast. Snug in their red sweaters and tams
they sat with arms entwined about each other, already fast and true
friends.
“Did you ever see Mr. George ‘flop’ pan-cakes?” questioned “Peter Pan,”
as she saw with utter satisfaction a creamy mixture being stirred by
the cook. “No? Well, I’ll have him give a free exhibition this morning
immediately before the big performance,” added the child, with artful
mimicry of the man she had heard at the circus during the summer.
“You see, he just takes the frying pan like this—gives it two or three
little wiggles—then throws the pan-cake up in the air and makes it turn
a ‘somerset’ like the circus performer did, and then lets it splash
back into the pan. Ask Joe to let us try one before the others come to
breakfast. Shall we?”
All thoughts of any attempts in the culinary art were displaced by
the soft sound of a moccasined foot behind them. “Peter Pan” clung
tightly to Bess’ hand as they watched the slow approach of the old
Indian. What a wrinkled, old visage, hardened by the vicissitudes of
years, attenuated by many fasts. A mat of coarse, grey hair partially
covered eyes that were still keen and undimmed by the ravages of time.
The tattered blanket illy concealed his quivering form, while worn and
ragged moccasins scarcely protected his feet from the stones and thorns.
Bess’ heart melted by the picture of abject want, and with a few, quick
signs she asked the old Indian “would he eat.” A grin of acquiescence
was her reply, and soon she had placed before him such a feast as he
had never seen before. He fell to devouring the food, almost like a
hungry dog, but was checked by a decisive touch on the shoulder. A
look of surprise filled his eyes as he paused with open mouth ready to
receive the next morsel.
“Shame;” firmly said the girl; “Why forget to thank God?” and she
raised her hand toward heaven. Slowly the food was replaced upon the
plate; a look of incredulity rested for a moment upon the seamed, old
face; then with eyes turned toward the crests of the hills all radiant
with the glow of the morning, a withered, dirty hand reverently made
the sign of the cross. When his hunger was appeased he bestowed upon
his benefactor a look of thanks.
“You go catch fish. Bring nice trout here. More muck-a-muck tonight,”
instructed Bess with numerous gestures.
The old Indian nodded that he understood and then explained his futile
attempt to catch fish the day before. No word did he speak. He waved
his hand slowly toward the direction of the North shore of the Big Arm,
showed how he had cast the line again and again, but had caught no
fish; how he had fished unceasingly all the while the sun arose from
its eastern horizon to the zenith and until it had descended to rest
behind the hills; how he had returned to his teepee with his willow
switch empty and had gone hungry to sleep. Now it was again day! He
motioned that he would walk far along the lake’s opposite shore where
the rocks jutted into the water—there—could she see? Pointing to some
beef which was hung up in the tree he made Bess understand that with
the aid of that for bait he could catch the wily trout as fast as he
could cast the hook, and that soon his basket of willows and leaves
would be full. Soon he was sent on his way rejoicing,—happy because his
stomach’s craving had ceased, glad because of the hope of another meal.
The tardy members of the party had at last come to breakfast. Mr.
George was prevailed upon to “flop” the pan-cakes, and “Peter Pan’s”
number increased alarmingly.
“I eat so many because it is such fun to watch them perform, not
because I like them,” she assured her mother, as she watched the
marvelous feat repeated.
“My name will now have to be ‘Peter Pan-cake,’ ’cause I’m so full,” she
said, as she gathered up the remaining few and fed them to the waiting
dogs.
“Oh! Bess—come see Gladstone!” she cried gleefully, as she watched the
dog dig a nice little hole in the leaves and then bury his breakfast.
How artfully he scraped the twigs and dirt together in long sweeps with
his nose, and then pressed it down firmly.
“You see,” she explained, “he does it that way so that the other
dogs can’t find it. Then when he gets hungry he goes and digs up
his—his—why, his money, and eats it.”
“Money,” laughed Bess, heartily. “I know—you mean _cache_, don’t you,
dear?”
“Oh, yes! Mr. George, an’ he knows everything about dogs, told me
what it was, and I couldn’t quite remember, you see. Once he told me
all about Jack’s grandmothers and grandfathers and uncles and all the
family, and he called it a legacy or something like that. Don’t you
think it would be grand to know so much about dogs?” chatted the tiny
girl to her interested listener.
Soon everything was ready to start for the day’s hunt; lunch basket
filled, guns and ammunition ready, dogs eager to be off, and a wagon
filled with hearty, happy people. They would try the stubble of the
wheat fields on the Baptiste ranch today, and all felt confident
already of much sport and many birds.
“Honk—honk—honk” greeted their ears before many miles had passed behind
them. Such scrambling for guns! Such hurrying to get a good position!
Such banging of shells! “Honk—honk”—and the geese went sailing on.
“Guess the weather isn’t right for a goose,” ventured “Peter Pan,” the
only one who felt disposed to make any explanation.
But the weather proved just right for chickens! And the hunters
desisted because they were ashamed to slaughter more.
Bess found the Indian squatted at a comfortable distance from the
“kitchen fire” waiting her, upon her return. While the others were
busy with the birds, or the horses, or supper preparations, she closed
her deal for the fish. Spread out upon the large, green thimble-berry
leaves were several beautiful speckled and salmon-tinted trout, all
large and firm. The old Indian motioned that she was to have them
all and that he would keep those left in the basket. Bess peeped
inquisitively into the nest of leaves and there beheld—oh! such
beauties! Shiny brook trout! They should be the feast. She showed with
convincing gestures her unfeigned contempt for large fish when the
lovely small ones were to be had. Yes, he might return these to the
basket and leave the small ones for her.
At first the grizzled old man looked at her as if he were deeply
puzzled. Did she really mean that she preferred the small fish! A
queer, hesitating smile slowly began to spread over his face as he
reluctantly drew out the fish, one by one, and placed them on the
leaves. Several times he paused, and by numerous frantic gestures and
gutteral sounds asked again if she really wished him to replace the
larger fish.
At last, so completely was he assured, he quickly flung the remaining
beauties into the basket, snatched the parcel of food which the cook
had prepared for him and arose to hasten away. Again he was checked by
a touch on the arm and with his hand half raised again to make the sign
of thanks, his astonishment was even greater increased by a proffered
half-dollar.
“Trout for breakfast!” Bess called cheerfully to the “colored
gentleman” whose white teeth gleamed through a whimsical smile. “Trout
for breakfast!” she again announced to the men of the party who had
been watching the fish deal with unobserved interest, and by this time
were convulsed with laughter.
“Come here girls—come ‘Mr. Peter Pan’ and see the shining beauties!”
she added, as they came from the tent with hastily arranged toilets.
“Well, I’m glad you are all so tickled to death over our prospective
breakfast,” she continued, while the laughter increased, “but I must
say the joke—if there be one—seems rather jejune.” Little “Peter Pan”
squeezed five little sympathetic fingers into the tightly closed palm
of the perplexed girl, led her with gentle determination behind a clump
of scrub-pines, drew her fluffy head down to her lips and whispered
softly: “I heard Mr. George whisper to Uncle Jim that they were
‘squaw-fish,’ but if I can I’ll try to help you eat them.”
Bess gathered the child into a loving embrace and together they went to
supper to face the jolly ridicule.
“I’m the sorriest of all,” chimed in “Peter Pan,” “’cause there’s only
one thing that’s better than trout.”
“And what is that other?” questioned Bess.
“Why, it’s doughnuts with the holes fried shut.”
Some fairy must have brought some for breakfast next morning, for there
they were, round, fat and golden, with only little puckers where the
holes used to be. A tell-tale patch of flour on Bess’ cheek gave away
the secret of the early riser.