Читать книгу The Untamed American Spirit: Historical Novels & Western Adventures - Emerson Hough - Страница 26

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“Natu salmon,” said Skookie one morning, poking his head in at the door of the barabbara, where the others still sat, washing up the breakfast dishes.

“What’s that he says, John?” asked Rob, who seemed less ready than the younger boy to pick up the native speech.

“Natu means nothing or no or not,” interpreted John. “What’s the matter with the salmon, Skookie?”

They all crawled out of the low-hung door and followed the Aleut to the spot where they had left their fish concealed. They found nothing but stripped bones. Around the spot hung a crowd of great ravens and crows, protesting at being disturbed at this easy meal.

“We had six fine salmon there last night,” grieved Jesse. “They’re awfully hard to catch now, too, because they’ve got shy in the shallow water. They’re all down in the big hole at the mouth of the creek, and it’s going to be harder and harder to get any. As for the whale meat that the old chief left, I don’t suppose it was salted enough, and it probably won’t keep.”

“We’ll have to build some sort of shelter for our fish and game,” said Rob, looking at the havoc which had been wrought by the birds. “It isn’t right to waste even salmon, abundant as they are — although they may not be so abundant after this, as you say, Jesse.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said John, after a moment’s thought, “I’ve got an idea!”

“Well, what is it?”

“You know, there was Uncle Dick’s fishing-rod we brought with us in the dory. I took it out and pushed it under a log at the top of the beach wall. Now, I put that rod in the boat carefully myself, because I knew how much Uncle Dick thought of it. I don’t suppose he’ll thank us for bringing it away, because it’s his best trout rod.”

“I don’t see what use it would be to us,” said Jesse. “It’s too light to tie a grab hook to, and even if you hooked it into a salmon the rod would break.”

“Yes,” said Rob, “a trout rod isn’t meant in any case for fish as heavy as this. Besides, you see, these salmon never take a fly; even if we had any flies to go with the rod, or any line, or any reel, for that matter.”

“The reel is on the butt joint of the rod; I’m pretty sure I saw it there. Come, let’s find out! I tell you, I’ve got an idea,” insisted John.

They all repaired to the beach where, as promised, John produced the rod from its hiding-place under the drift-wood log. True, the reel was there in place. Without delay he put the joints of the rod together, finding some difficulty in this, for the rain and salt air had not improved it in the least. None the less they threaded the line through the guides and found that everything was serviceable.

“Uncle Dick would not care,” said John, “if he knew just how we are situated.”

“Still, I don’t get your idea,” began Rob.

“Well, I don’t know whether or not it’s a very good one,” answered John; “but who’s got a few little hooks to lend me now?”

“Here are two or three,” said Jesse, fishing in his pockets. “They’re about big enough for bait hooks for trout, but salmon won’t take any bait. I don’t see what you mean.”

John made no comment, but cut off two or three short pieces of the line about a foot in length. To each of these he attached one of the sharp-pointed little hooks and fastened them at intervals a couple of feet apart on the line. One hook he tied at the end of the line itself.

“Oh, I see!” said Rob. “You mean to throw that outfit as though it were a fly.”

John nodded. “If you can cast as light a thing as a little trout fly with this rod,” he said, “you ought to be able to cast these hooks — larger, not much heavier, and just about right to go straight. Anyhow, let’s go down and try.”

“Good idea!” agreed Rob. And they all departed, the Aleut boy with them, to the lower reaches of the stream, where, as has been said, the salmon now more frequently resorted.

As they stood on the bank above the big pool they looked down into it, and saw that the sea-tide run of the salmon had brought in the average number of fish. The whole interior of the pool, which otherwise would have had a dark-green appearance, seemed to be made up of melted silver layers, all in motion. There were hundreds of fish moving about, up and down, and round and round, hesitating about following up the thread of the fresh water, and not wanting to go back to the salt water, which lay behind them.

“My gracious, there’s about a million in there!” exclaimed John, peering over the edge.

“Yes, but Skookie couldn’t get any with the snag-pole now,” said Rob. “They’re getting wise and stay too far out. I shouldn’t wonder if your idea was a good one, if only that rod were stronger.”

Rob rubbed his chin meditatively. “You are welcome to try first. I don’t want to break that rod, and I know what will happen if you hook on to a big fish with it.”

John set his lips in determination, none the less, and stepped down to the edge of the pool. Slowly the interior mass of silver seemed to grow fainter. The fish saw him, and moved gently away to the opposite side of the pool. Presently, however, they could see the shining mass edge back again to the centre of the pool, where the deeper water was over the gravel.

John began to cast the hooks back and forward above his head, as every fisherman does in casting a fly. Little by little he lengthened the line, still keeping it in the air, until he saw he had out enough to reach well across the pool. Then, gently as he could, he dropped the line and its gang of hooks on the surface of the water. The hooks, being small, were not heavy enough to sink the line directly. John waited and allowed it to settle until the hooks were flat on the bottom on the farther side of the pool. He looked down on the water and saw the silvery mass divided in two sections, as though the line had cut it. The keen eyes of the fish, heedless as they usually are in the spring run, had now grown more suspicious, and they settled apart as the line came across them, visible against the sky as they looked up from below.

John made no motion for a time; but at last, as the fish began to settle back, he gently raised the tip of the rod, and began to work the hooks toward him across the pool in short, steady jerks. At first the line was too low to pass near the main body of the fish, but as it shortened the hooks began to travel up through the depth of the pool. Then, all at once — he never knew how, exactly — something startling happened. There was a sudden breaking of the surface of the pool into a shower of spray, and with a mad rush a big salmon twelve or fifteen pounds in weight nearly jumped into his face as he stood at the edge of the water.

Frightened, he dropped the tip of the rod, and every boy present gave an exclamation of surprise. The words were not out of their mouths before, suddenly, the water on the far side of the pool was broken and the spot at John’s feet was vacant. The fish, swift as lightning, had tumbled back after its leap across the pool and gone up on the other side in an attempt to escape the hooks, one of which, by chance, had fastened in the lower jaw. Therefore, as the fish could keep its mouth closed, it was ready for as fair a fight as though it had taken the fly, although little can be said in praise of foul-hooking a fish under any circumstances save those such as now existed, for these boys were in need of food.

John had caught trout before, and had seen many a good fish handled on a fly-rod. After the first rush or two of the fish he gathered in the line rapidly with his left hand and put a strain on the rod. The salmon at first did not attempt to repeat its earlier mad rushes, but in fright began to circle the pool, scattering all the other fish into a series of silver splashes as they spread this way and that.

Having got in touch with the fish, and finding that the hook still held, John now reeled in all the slack and settled down to a workman-like fighting of the fish, the others standing near him and volunteering suggestions now and then, of course.

“The tide’s coming in all the time,” said John. “If this fish ever leaves the pool and starts across on the flats, I don’t see what I’m going to do, because the creek’s too deep to wade now.”

The salmon, however, obligingly kept to the pool, once in a while making a mad leap into the air and shaking himself. Skookie, without advice from any one, stationed himself at the foot of the pool, and whenever the fish headed that way, he tossed a stone in front, heading it back and keeping it from running out toward the sea. Finally he motioned Jesse to take up this work, and without removing any of his scanty clothing, or asking advice from any one, walked up above the place where John was standing and deliberately plunged into the creek and swam across, taking up a position on the opposite side of the pool, where the tide-water was beginning to spread out into the flats. Thus the boys had the pool surrounded, and whenever the fish started one way in dangerous fashion, a stone thrown in front of him would usually turn him. All John had to do was to keep the strain of the rod on his fish and to see that he had plenty of line on the reel.

They fought the old fellow in this way for more than half an hour, until John’s arms fairly ached from the strain of the rod — a sturdy split bamboo of the best American make, which well withstood the skilful use it now was receiving. There is no need to break a fly-rod when the reel is full of line, and the strain can be eased to suit the rushes of the fish.

“Well, I don’t see that we are much closer to our salmon than we were when we began,” said Rob, at last. “It’s good fun, but a slow way of getting salmon. Can’t you pull him in on the line?”

John shook his head. “I’m afraid it would break,” said he. “Never you mind. We’ll get Mr. Salmon before we’re through. I can handle him all right, I’m pretty sure.”

He came near speaking too early, however, for now, with some impulse of its own nature, the salmon concluded it had had enough of this sort of thing and decided to go back to sea. With a long, straight rush it headed for the bottom of the pool. Rob and Jesse began to cast in rocks, but in spite of all their splashing the fish kept on taking out yard after yard of John’s line. At last John, still using all the strain the rod would stand, was obliged to follow on shore. The fish turned the corner of the pool and entered the narrow gut in the rocks which led out to the sea, where the creek entered it over a wide flat of shingle. John was able to keep his feet in the hurried rush along shore, and he kept touch with the fish all through the narrows and until it had reached the shallows, where the flats were now covered two or three feet deep with the advancing tide. Here the last inch of his line was exhausted, and he himself, desperate in his anxiety to keep his fish and to save his rod, followed until he was waist deep in the sea. The salmon did not swerve, but headed straight for some distant haunt which perhaps it remembered as existing out there in the ocean.

At length John could go no farther with safety, and in desperation gave the fish the butt, as an angler says. The rod bent up into a splendid arch, all its strength being now pitted against the power of the swimming fish.

The latter, somewhat tired by its long flight, felt this added resistance of the rod, and unable to gain any more line, since there was no more to gain, and to ease itself of the strain, flung itself high into the air just as the last limit of the rod was reached. Down it came with a splash, but this time apparently confused; for as it fell on the water and chanced to head up-stream, it started directly back over the course it had come. The long slack of the line could not be recovered fast enough to follow it, but the hook held. A moment later the fish was back in the pool, the line back on the reel, and John, perspiring and flushed, was still master of the situation.

After that matters were simpler. The fish was more tired, and its leaps into the air were shorter and more feeble.

Without advice from any one, Skookie now ran out into the grass and found his long salmon gaff. Wading at the edge of the pool, he made one or two ineffectual attempts to gaff the salmon; then flinging the pole across the creek to the others, again he plunged in, swam across, and took up his stand near John, who by this time had shortened the line and was fighting the fish close in.

“Now we’ll get him!” cried Rob. “Go slow there, John. Don’t let him break away. He’s headed in now. Just lead him in. There!”

With a swift, sure movement the Aleut boy had gaffed the salmon, and an instant later it was flapping high and dry at the top of the bank. It seemed to them this was a better fish than any they had taken directly with the snagging-pole, although, as a matter of fact, it was the latter implement, after all, which had landed the fish.

John sat down on the shingle, tired after the long fight. He patted the rod affectionately.

“Talk about fun!” said he; “this is the only way to catch fish.”

Indeed, this proved much to be the truth within the next few days, for the salmon became so wary as to make it hard to reach them by anything but a long line. Sometimes it would be an hour before they could foul-hook a fish, but in this way they got a number of salmon — some of them fastened around the head, one or two, strangely enough, directly in the mouth, and several directly under the back fin. Again a fish might be hooked close to the end of the tail, and in such cases it was almost impossible to land it for a long time. But with skill and care the fly-rod, devoted to this somewhat crude form of sport, held its own, and much more than paid for itself in actual food, not to mention the added sport.