FISHERMAN’S LUCK
The summer days that followed the Indian mêlée were always counted by
Fred as among the richest of his life. His task was to herd the blooded
stock.
“Keep ’em on good feed, and keep ’em away from the common cattle,” Cap
Hanks had ordered him. Fred did not neglect his duty, but he found many
hours when the cattle herded themselves. While they rested during midday
or browsed on the open flat, he had time to fish, to hunt chickens, to
explore the wilds, or when tired, to throw himself on the grassy banks
near the stream and enjoy “Scottish Chiefs” or the “Leather Stocking
Tales,” which Dan, who was a lover of good books, had generously lent to
him.
Hanks rather admired the boy for his book habits, but in practical
fashion he had warned him not to lose his head “fightin’ imaginary
Injuns” and lose his cows.
“It’s all right, boy,” he said, “to hev your head in the clouds
sometimes, but allus keep your feet on the ground.”
His fishing and hunting the foreman not only condoned but encouraged,
especially after Fred had brought in his first big string of salmon
trout. Straightway the boy, on motion of Pat, was “illected chief
fisherman fer the ranch,” and excused from haying, herding, or any other
regular job so long as he kept the cook supplied “wid the spickled
beauties.” So fishing came to be regarded as part of Fred’s business.
Dick insinuated occasionally that the kid had “a soft snap”; but nobody
else complained, and no one even guessed half the fun that Fred was
having.
The splendid mountain stream was a never-ending delight. He followed it
in all its crystal windings, over gravelly beds, where the trout loved
to play, through shadowy, quiet depths, where the fish slept on silken
fins; he learned all its windings through the cottonwood and aspen
groves, around the willowy bends, and the meadowy stretches. The stream
was always clear, sparkling, teeming with wild life, full of pleasant
and sometimes unpleasant surprises.
Often as he slipped quietly toward a trout hole, half holding his breath
for fear of scaring the fish, he himself would get a scare as a great
sand hill crane or a blue heron would give a startled cry and go
thrashing its wings to rise and sail away. Once as he swung hurriedly
around a curve of willows to come suddenly upon a kind of bayou, a
thousand ducks shocked the air with startled quacking and splashing and
whir of wings. Many a time he came upon a fantailed deer, which, rudely
roused from its rest, would leap to its feet and, giving one wild look,
bound away to a willowy cover.
But trout fishing was the best sport of all. The fish were plentiful,
but they were just game enough to keep a fisherman’s wits alive. Oh, the
fun of it!--to cast the singing line, to watch the tempting fly skim the
ripples, to see the trout leap and grab it, and then with breath-taking
suspense, to land him--sometimes! And oh the disappointment that often
came when some beauty--always the biggest--would suddenly flip free of
the biting hook and dive back into the quiet depths to safety.
Then the search for new trout holes, where no fisherman had ever been,
always an impelling desire in Fred, brought many rich experiences. Some
of these, however, were far from joyful. Once, indeed, the boy came
within a breath of paying with his life for this desire to find the
unknown. He trembled always to think how he might have gone to a watery
grave in a place where there was small chance that he would ever have
been found.
It happened while he was hunting through Mystery Grove, as he called it,
for a new hole to fish. The creek was high, and in this place, it
plunged through the tall timber, so dense with fallen logs and
undergrowth that he had to fight for an opening into the thicket. With
rod held like a guiding spear in one hand, and with a string of fish in
the other, the lone fisherman made his way yard by yard along the
foaming creek. Finally he spied a promising place some rods ahead; but
he could not get at it from that side of the stream.
How to cross was a problem. Nature came suddenly to his help to solve
it. A few steps farther on, three trees, washed loose by the water, had
fallen. Two of the trees were saplings. They reached clear over the
stream. The other was a larger log, but it came only partly across. Fred
figured that if he could get to the biggest tree, he would have a safe
bridge the rest of the way.
With gingerly steps, he balanced along the swaying saplings till within
stepping distance of the largest tree, then he stepped confidently,
throwing his full weight upon it. Down it sank with him into the angry
stream.
How he did it, he never could tell, but as he went down, he flung fish
and rod to the bank and just saved himself from being washed under by
catching his arms across the log. And there he hung, legs and body
under, head and arms above, hooking on to the log, while the stream
swirled and swished about him. He struggled to get back out of the
strong, sucking current. It seemed impossible. Once he almost decided to
let go and trust to luck to bring him out of the waves on the other
side; but just below the logs, the stream dived with angry hiss and roar
under great clawing roots. To have become entangled in those horrid,
watery claws was death itself.
Breathing a silent prayer for help, he tried once more. One lunge
brought him back a little, another and another put him partly above the
fallen trees, and then he slowly lifted himself with greater ease to
safety. He crawled along the poles to the bank where he lay for a few
moments, and then, without even a glance at the new trout hole, he
gathered up his few fish and his tackle and made his way painfully out
of the woods. He had fished enough for that day.
But the surprises that the old stream gave him were not all so fearful.
A few days after his mishap he had another experience that remained with
him a golden memory always.
He was fishing the ripples just above Shadow Pool, eager to catch a big
trout he had seen there many times, marked by a black spot just behind
its gills, when he was startled by a splashing in the stream just above
him. Whirling suddenly, he found himself facing Alta Morgan on her
dapple-gray pony. Her bright eyes were laughing as she called out
cheerily, “Good morning! What luck?”
“Haven’t counted yet; about a dozen, I guess.”
“Surely not; where?”
“Oh, you think I’m telling fish stories, do you? Well, I’ll show up.” He
stepped to a shady side pool, and lifted from it a long willow, strung
with speckled beauties.
“Fine!” she cried; “you are surely a fisherman.”
“Oh, I sometimes get a few. What’s your luck?” Fred glanced at the rod
she held.
“I don’t like to confess.”
“Why not?”
“You’d know why if you took a peep into my basket.” She opened it as she
spoke laughingly and showed--not a fish.
“You certainly haven’t loaded your pony,” said Fred; “but say, I can
soon make things look better--if you’ll let me.” He reached up his
string.
“Oh, no,” protested the girl, “you shame me. It’s very good of you,
but--”
“Now look here,” Fred interrupted her, “you mustn’t say no. It’s my
chance to pay up. Please play fair and take them.”
“Pay up, play fair,” echoed Alta. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember that you caught my mare the other day and saved me a
long chase?”
“Oh, yes, sure enough,” she laughed.
“Now take these fish as part pay, won’t you?”
“I didn’t do it for pay, but I’ll take the gift because you really want
me to--and because I need them to win a bet.”
“Bet! How’s that?”
“Oh, Uncle and I made a wager to-day that I shouldn’t get a trout. It’s
my first attempt at fishing, you see. Now I’ll have some fun and win his
dollar. May I pretend I caught these? It wouldn’t be such an awful fib,
would it?”
“Why you did catch them,” Fred put in helpfully--“with a lasso, didn’t
you?” They laughed merrily at the suggestion.
“But say,” added he, “I have a better plan to square things with your
conscience. You can land a trout for sure. I’ll show you how--if you’ll
let me.”
“Let you! Won’t I though?” She slipped off Eagle’s back in eagerness to
try.
“Well, take my rod and let’s steal around this bend to another pool.
They won’t bite here, because we’ve scared them. Anyway, Old Solomon
wouldn’t bite whether he’s scared or not.”
“Old Solomon? I don’t understand you.”
“It’s only a wise old trout I’ve tried to tempt in half a hundred ways.
Perhaps I can show him to you, when we return. He’s marked and he’s a
beauty; but he won’t bite. Come on.”
“All right.” Her voice was joyous with anticipation.
“Now, be quiet.” Fred led the way along the willowy trails. “There’s a
good chance--see where the ripples smooth into that quiet pool. Just
cast your fly on the dancing waters and skim it over them.”
Alta tried to follow directions, but unskilled in handling a line, she
landed her hook, not on the ripples, but into a willow snag.
“Oh, pshaw! now I’ve spoiled it all,” she exclaimed.
“Sh’,” cautioned the boy, “that’s only fisherman’s luck.” He loosened
the line quickly. “Now try again.”
The second fling brought better results. With a tiny splash, the fly
struck the water, and danced down the ripples. It had hardly reached
the quieter waters when a lusty trout grabbed it.
“Oh, oh!” she cried, “I’ve caught one!”
“Not yet,” Fred warned her; “be careful.”
The words were scarcely off his lips when flip! the empty hook shot into
the air, and a scared trout shot back into the pool.
“Oh, dear! that’s just wicked”; her tone was full of disappointment.
“Never mind,” her companion consoled her; “half the fish we do catch get
away, you know. Try again, now, but don’t get so excited and jerk so
hard next time.”
She cast her line again but without results; again and again she cast,
but no fish rose. Discouragement began to show in her face.
“Maybe we have scared them out,” suggested Fred, as she flung once more
across the ripples.
Like a flash to answer his doubt, there came a second splash of the
waters. Another trout had grabbed the fly.
“Keep cool now,” the boy cautioned her; “he’s hooked solidly; you’ll
land him if you keep steady.”
He stepped toward the bank to give help if needed, while Alta, a picture
of mingled joy, suspense, and eagerness, slowly drew the struggling,
splashing trout toward the shore. Then with a deft flip of the curving
rod, she tossed it ten feet or more up the bank. Dropping her rod, she
danced and clapped her hands in childlike delight, while Fred, whose
heart was dancing too, unloosed the hook.
“There, now, your bet is fairly won,” he said.
“Oh, this is jolly!” she responded; “Uncle will be glad to give me that
dollar, he’ll be so proud of me.” Then she added graciously, “How can I
ever thank you for this?”
“Don’t try. It’s the best fun I’ve had to-day. Do you want to catch
another?”
“Yes, indeed; but not now. It’s getting nearly dinner time. Uncle would
worry if I’m away too long. Perhaps I’ll come again some time. May I?
It’s splendid sport. Do you fish here much?”
“Yes, indeed, come any time. I try my luck nearly every day, whenever
the cattle are quiet.”
“Well, don’t be surprised to see me again soon. Come, Eagle,” she called
to her pony, and when he came, she reached to open her basket.
“Here, let me pack in the fish for you,” said Fred; “I’ll put yours on
top so you can tell it.”
“Yes, but you mustn’t give me all of those fish,” she protested.
“Now, please don’t object,” he replied, as he kept on filling the
basket; “you said you’d take them; now let me have my way this time,
won’t you?”
“All right, if you insist,” she laughed, “and I’ll pretend I stopped
fishing because I couldn’t get any more in the basket. It’s full to the
cover now.”
He tied it securely to the horn of the saddle, and was holding the
stirrup for her to mount, when she reached out her hand, saying, “Thank
you ever so much for this rich treat. I’ll not forget it. Now may I ask
for one thing more?”
“Certainly; what is it?”
“Your name.”
“Oh, Fred--Fred Benton.”
“Well, Mr. Fred, I don’t like you one bit”; her tone was mischievous.
“Why not?”
“You broke your promise with me. Why didn’t you come to our dance?”
“Oh--well--I! really, Miss Morgan--I--”
“There now, no excuses, you didn’t want to come.”
“Please let me explain.”
“Go on then.”
“Well, I was out hunting, you remember, and in my scouting up through
the foothills, I ran on to an old mountaineer. I got so interested
listening to his stories, that, before I realized it, it was sundown and
when I reached home it was so late I was ashamed to go to the dance; but
really I wanted to go.”
“Not very much, I’m afraid.”
“Now, please don’t. We are to be good friends, aren’t we?”
“I hope so, but you’d better not treat my invitations so lightly after
this. There’s another dance to be given soon. Will you come?”
“Yes, I promise--”
“Don’t promise, just come,” she said lightly, then--“Say, tell me more
about the old mountaineer. What does he look like?”
“He is tall and straight, with long hair and beard and the kindest of
eyes and voice--you would like him I know. He lives in the cosiest
little cabin in a pretty dell; you ought to see it.”
“I’m interested; take me there--oh!--pardon me--I--”
“No pardon needed. I’ll be delighted to do it.”
“When can we go?”
“Any time you say. Do you like to shoot?”
“I’ve never tried it. Will you teach me how?”
“It’s fun to teach you. Say, I’ll tell you.”
“What?”
“Let’s go on a chicken hunt and visit the old mountaineer together?”
“Fine! I’ll do it; but I must be going now or Uncle will worry about me.
Good-by.”
“Good-by,” he responded, as she turned Eagle’s head toward the trail.
The little horse leaped up the bank at her touch. With a wave of her
hand she disappeared among the willows.
The boys at the ranch missed their usual trout supper that night and
they joked Fred about failing to do his duty. He took their flings
good-naturedly; but he never let out a word to tell what became of the
best string of fish he ever caught.