Part 12

“I know it is, but I can’t help it. I’ve got to come down there again.”

“Well, come on,” and I sat down again to watch the issue. The struggle was not so brave, though the fish, when brought to scale, weighed half a pound more than the first. While we were commenting on this streak of luck, we noticed a change in the water, its partially clear hue began to grow milky, and in less time than it takes to tell it, a boulder six inches under the surface was out of sight.

“We might as well go to dinner, no trout will rise in that mud,” and I reeled up with the reflection that the next best thing to catching a trout is to see one captured by one who knows how to manipulate a two-pounder on a seven-ounce rod.

That evening the river gave promise, as usual, of “clearing up to-morrow,” whereupon six of us made arrangements for a trip up stream half a dozen miles, with a lunch in the wagon. The morrow came and brought with it comparatively clear water. We were off immediately after breakfast; arrived at our lunching place under the shelter of some pines by the river bank, it was at once discovered that the river had gone back on us, so to speak; muddy again. No one swore, we just arranged ourselves along the margin and prayed; all good anglers know how to pray. I am indifferently skilful—at angling I mean—but always endeavor to do the best I can. In the course of an hour the river gave us some encouragement. It grew better as noon approached, and after lunch each man was assigned his quarters and struck out for them.

I went down stream with a six-footer in long waders, who was to cross to the other side at the first riffle, which he did. Our flies overlapped each other in agreeable proximity for two hours or more, with indifferent success to either. The trout were gorged with the food brought down by the repeated rises, and seemed in no hurry to seek the broad road that leads unto death.

Finally we reached a magnificent pool, nearly a mile from our starting point, and my companion had worked his way back to my side of the stream. We started into the edge of the pool together, he above me a couple of rods. The flies went over toward the opposite bank, twenty-five and thirty feet away, time and again, without success. Finally an exclamation from the gentleman above me directed my attention from my own tackle to his.

“Have you got him?” The inquiry was made on the score of good fellowship; the bend of his split bamboo, the tension of his line, and the whirr of his reel indicated that my tall friend had reached the first stage.

“I’ve hooked him, and he’s no sardine, I tell you—whoa boy; gently now,” as a sudden rush strung off full twenty feet of line. “Whoa boy, be easy, now; gently, now; come here; whoa! confound your picture! whoa boy; gently; so, boy.”

Just then a call from behind us announced the arrival of the balance of the party. They had got out of the wagon and were standing along the bank.

“May be you think you are driving a mule,” came from one of them.

“Oh no! I’m trying to lead one—whoa boy, whoa boy—gently now; none of your capers—whoa! I tell you!” as a renewed and vigorous dash for liberty threatened destruction to the slender tackle. “No you don’t, old fellow—so, boy; that’s a good fellow,” and showing his back near the surface the captive exhibited twenty inches, at a guess, of trout.

“By George, he’s a beauty,” came from behind us. I had allowed my flies to float down stream and had backed out to give room for fair play. It was a long fight, but his troutship finally showed side up, and was gently drawn ashore, the water turned out of him, and he drew down the scale three pounds, to a notch. As we gathered around to admire his majesty, I said: “The next best thing to catching a trout is to see a three-pounder brought to creel by one who can handle a seven-ounce rod.” They all agreed with me, and our tall friend modestly doffed his dead grass canvas.

UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

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.