Part 13

“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.

HIS SERMON.

John Doe—and by Doe I do not mean the Doe ex dem. Gorges vs. Webb, nor Doe, lessee of Gibbon vs. Pott. My John Doe was not a Doe of fiction, but a gentleman of flesh and blood. He was not a great man, it is true, except in the matter of temperance and cleanliness. As he has not gone into history because of either of those virtues, and has no doubt been, in the course of nature, long since gathered to his fathers, leaving no issue, I may write of him without fear of giving offense.

The unblemished linen and highly polished shoes of Mr. Doe always challenged my boyish admiration. The enviable condition of his shoes I could account for. He cleaned them with his own hands, I knew, because I had, on more than one occasion, discovered him in the act. Whatever Mr. Doe did, he endeavored, at least, to do well. There were no dull spots on his shoes, but an exquisite evenness of polish pervaded their whole surface from heel to toe and from top to shank. In connection with the linen they indicated to me the possession by their owner of an always desirable credit. I had been taught to believe that no gentleman ever permitted himself to be seen in foxy shoes or soiled linen. It did not follow, of course, that all men in clean shoes and linen were gentlemen, nor did I so understand it, but that the fortunate possessor of these well conditioned articles of apparel presented, as it were, a prima facie case for my consideration. They were component parts, so to speak, in the absence of which, the accomplishment of the structure suggested would be an impossibility. The garments of Mr. Doe were rarely new, as a whole; a new coat, for instance, was not always seen in his company with a new pair of trousers. Whether he labored under the impression that the display of an entire new suit upon his person would mark him as a man of too much magnificence, or whether the condition of his finances deterred him, I am not prepared to say. But whether new, or napless and white at the seams, they were always innocent of dust. His linen, however, was a mystery to me; certainly he did not himself do it up, he kept no servant and it was not sent out. It may be surmised that I had rather an intimate acquaintance with the domestic establishment of Mr. Doe. I did, and it was not savory—I mean when considered from the broom and soap and water stand-point.

The house of Mr. Doe was the home of odors, wherein the fragrance of boiled cabbage and onions seemed to wage perpetual warfare for supremacy. The pattern of the carpet in the best room has escaped my memory, but a spot in it will always linger with me as fixed as in the carpet. This spot was about the size of an ordinary chair seat, and was always associated in my mind with a ham, a twenty pound ham; as if the hind-quarter of a magnificent porker had suddenly melted its shape into the brown and orange tints of the best carpet and refused, with porcine obstinacy, to come out. The furniture, as long as I saw it, was in a chronic state of immature cleanliness, and impressed me with the idea that some one had been round with a wet cloth, and, having been suddenly called to the front door, had neglected to come back.

Mrs. Doe I remember as a tall, thin lady, in a black calico gown with little round gray and brown spots; and I have a recollection of debating in my mind as to the original color of those spots, and of concluding that they had at one time been uniformly white, and that that time must have been long before I had enjoyed the acquaintance of Mrs. Doe. The complexion of Mrs. Doe was dark, her eyes brown, and her hair, which was abundant and black, always looked dusty and as if about to tumble down. I remember seeing the lady once seated in a Windsor chair with her heels resting on the front edge—at least I supposed her heels were there—her chin resting on her knees and her hands clasped round her ankles. She said to me upon that occasion that she was not well, and when I sympathized with her I wondered whether it was cabbage or onions, or both. But as I have to do principally with Mr. Doe, I trust I may not be charged with lack of gallantry, if, without apology, I take leave of his estimable lady.

Mr. Doe worked in blue cotton overalls six days in the week, as a maker of watches, and walked on the seventh, the weather permitting; or he walked on the first and worked on the other six days, as you please. He always walked with a cane; why, was also for some time a mystery, he being an active man with no apparent use for support of that character. As a boy, I had an interest in both his occupation and amusement; an ambition to possess a result of the one and to join him in the other. Too young, and withal beset by the poverty usually attendant upon youth, to have the first, and deterred by maternal influences from indulging in the latter, were among my tribulations of that period. I contemplated the bliss of walking with Mr. Doe with an eagerness hard to overcome; and I have sometimes felt that the fear of mere reproof, unaided by the respect in which I held the tender branches of the beautiful shellbark in our back yard, would not have prevented my running away. One other obstacle conspired with those already suggested, more potent perhaps than either: permission was a condition precedent to the acquiescence of Mr. Doe.

But there came a day when my best friend was away from home, and I felt emboldened to interrupt my other best friend in the act of putting the fork into the breast of a beautifully browned canvas-back, with the suggestion, that on the morrow, with his permission, I would be pleased to take a walk with Mr. Doe.

“Take a walk with Mr. Doe!” The wings and legs of the duck were severed upon reaching the exclamation point, and the blade of the carver was finding its way delicately through the plump breast and becoming dim with the roseate tint, that denoted the skill of the cook, when he continued:

“To-morrow is Sunday, and you should go to Sunday school and to church.”

My bosom became as bare of hope as the carcass before me was of meat.