The Sky Fisherman Page 9

  ***

  Just before we went into the rapids, Jake shifted the oars and cinched his life vest tight. "Make sure," he said, nodding at me, and I gave my cinches another pull, too. "All set," I said.

  The Bronco was treacherous. I could see jagged rocks teething out of the whitewater. Jake kept to the middle to avoid the rocks at the head of the run and the smooth boulders lining the main chute. Each rapid slammed the boat with a loud chunk, throwing the nose high and tugging at the bow, trying to spin us onto the rocks. The seat jarred my spine, but I kept grinning at Jake, like I was having fun.

  He fought the rapids' pull with long, deep oar strokes, keeping the boat away from the rocks until it was sucked into the long curling chute of slick water.

  The chute hurled the boat downstream like a toboggan, skimming past the large boulders. In spite of Jake's efforts to keep the nose downstream, we were gripped by a momentary eddy and flung sideways against one of the large rocks.

  Water poured over the side of the boat, soaking my right forearm. When Jake tried to push off the boulder with an oar, the blade snapped. "God damn it," he shouted, his eyes widening with fury as he flung the broken oar with such force it sailed onto the riverbank. "Bail!" he yelled, and I quit clutching the gunwale long enough to grab one of the floating coffee cans.

  Plunging his hand through the ankle-deep water, he grabbed the spare oar from the boat bottom and stood, using his full strength to push the water-laden boat off the boulder and into the chute once again.

  I bailed furiously, pushing the body bag aside and flinging half cans of water over the side.

  As I glanced at Jake, his face was red. "Goddamn but ^e's heavy," he said.

  I bailed harder, until the body bag quit floating and rested on the bottom planks.

  When we made it through the rooster tail at the lower end of the rapids, Jake pulled the boat into shore. Both of us got out for a minute and stood in the sand.

  "Sonofabitching oar," he said. "Damn near cost me my boat."

  "I thought we'd bought the farm," I said.

  "You never go through that fucking rapids the same way twice, no matter where you start. Those currents shift with the water levels. Sometimes you can slide through slick as a whistle. Others you hang on every rock." He looked me over a minute. "You look like hell," he said. "You really do. A kid is supposed to look good." He sat on a rock and laughed, and we both felt better. After a couple of minutes he got up and pulled out a pint of Yukon Jack from under the seat. Taking off the lid, he handed me the bottle. "Your first time through the Bronco. And you're here to tell the tale."

  When the bottle was almost gone and the shadows on the water were angling toward the far shore, I asked, "How was it when my father drowned?"

  Jake stood, brushing off his pants. For a moment, I thought he was going to get back in the boat without speaking. But he cleared his throat and started telling the story, measuring each word to get it right.

  "We could have walked up from South Junction. That's how the other fishermen were doing it, because the water was too high that spring. But we were in our twenties and had a new boat and thought nothing could stop us. So we decided to fish the Barn Hole, then run the Bronco—save ourselves lots of walking.

  "The water was so high you could barely see the rocks, but we slipped by them fine and slid into the chute. Just before the rooster tail, the boat hit something, part of a big tree trunk washed down in the spring floods. We both tried pushing off, but a wall of water flipped the boat. I was swept around, but Dave went underneath. The current banged me against rocks and kept sucking me under. Each time I came up looking for Dave. He finally surfaced but without a jacket. Maybe it wasn't on tight and the water tore it off, but probably it caught on a branch, holding him under, so he had to shed it to get clear."

  I shuddered a little, thinking of the tough choice to wriggle out of a life jacket in the Bronco.

  "Fighting for every inch, I closed the distance, until I grabbed his shirt and we spun a moment, locked together. His arm seemed broken, I remember that, and when the current tumbled us against a big rock in the rooster tail, things went black. I came to, choking on water, and I had a hunk of flannel clutched in my fist."

  Jake stared at his hands, thick with calluses and rough from years on the river. "I tried, but I just couldn't hold him. Below the rapids, I crawled ashore and searched the riverbank until way past dark. I kept shouting and cursing but there was no Dave.

  "I hiked to South Junction and called the sheriff. The worst part was calling your mother later that night. When I heard her voice go dead on the other end of the line, I felt cold all over, like it was me lying on the river bottom, drowned."

  He started untying the boat line. "It hurt me most we never found him. When I do find them, like Kalim here, it eases the hurt just a bit."

  I understood a little of what he meant. Although the discovery of Kalim's murder was terrible, at least his relatives would know the outcome. With my father, things never seemed to settle. "Thanks, Uncle Jake. Thanks for telling me. I never believed it was your fault."

  He nodded. "Your mother does, though, even if she stays quiet. I remember that time she came on the train. We had it out." He threw the tie line into the boat. "I lived, so I get the blame. That's how she is."

  8

  AT SOUTH JUNCTION, we unloaded the body bag and made camp. Jake hiked up the dirt-track fisherman's road to the nearest farmhouse while I "stood watch," as he called it—not that Kalim was going anywhere. Before leaving, Jake suggested that I catch some trout for dinner, and he pointed out some good water with grassy hummocks extending into the river.

  Fishing with an Adams fly as he had recommended, I caught six nice fish in an hour. By that time it was getting so dark I could hardly see the small fly against the gray water. Bats darted out from the basalt cliffs, and a couple made quick passes at my fly on the back cast, flicking aside at the last second.

  Returning to camp, I quickly cleaned the fish near the boat. I was getting hungry but didn't want to cook until Jake returned, so I ate a couple handfuls of Fig Newtons, washing them down with sodas from the ice chest. Still hungry, I ate half a box of crackers, then built a fire to take off the chill.

  After sitting that close to Kalim awhile, I got to thinking about the contents of his jacket pockets, how when we rolled him over I felt something heavy and hard. Curiosity got the better of me, and I took a flashlight over by the body bag. No one was within miles of camp, but I looked around good, just to be sure, then unzipped the bag. Holding my breath, I checked the pockets. They were filled with quarters, silver dollars, and soggy paper. Putting the contents on the ground, I examined them with a flashlight. Among the papers were wadded bills, mostly twenties and fifties. Counting quickly, I guessed he had over three hundred dollars on him.

  I know I didn't plan to take the money—I was just curious—but right then I saw headlights flicker as a vehicle wound down the steep canyon road. It was still a long way off, too far for anyone to see me, even in the campfire's glow, but I could see it fine. I stuffed the paper money from Kalim's pockets into my creel and covered it with fishing tackle, then checked to make certain the pockets of his jacket weren't turned out. I closed the body bag and returned to the campfire.

  As the pickup got closer, I was surprised to see it was a white tribal vehicle rather than one of the dark blue rigs the sheriff drove. Then I remembered how much Jake hated Grady. After Billyum shut off the engine, both men got out of the truck. "How you two been keeping?" Jake asked me. "Kalim didn't give you any trouble, did he? Sonofabitching farmer had the gate locked up there so no fishermen could drive down. I couldn't catch a ride and had to hike a long way for a phone."

  "I caught some fish," I said. "You hungry?"

  "In a minute," Jake said. "Better fry up a couple for Billyum, too."

  Billyum shook his head. "I had me a big steak at the Phoenix."

  "Sweet deal," Jake said. "Some of us were working hard while
others were hardly working."

  "That's why I picked you," Billyum said. "Delegate authority. Anyway, I knew you were a firecracker."

  As Billyum went over to the body bag, he raised his right arm in the air. Holding his palm up, open to the sky, he turned slowly in a circle.

  Jake winked at me and shook his head slowly. "Mumbo-jumbo," he mouthed.

  Squatting by the body bag, Billyum took a flashlight from his belt. He unzipped the bag and studied Kalim for a while. "Not pretty anymore. The girls wouldn't smile to see him now." I thought I saw his hands slide into Kalim's pockets but my view was partially blocked by Billyum's size. "Still wearing his basketball jacket. You remember that outside shot he had. Sweet."

  "I remember the state tournament," Jake said. "It was sour, that championship game."

  "Anybody can have an off night," Billyum said.

  "I lost five hundred dollars on that game," Jake said. "Some people claimed Kalim threw it."

  "People are always buzzing about something," Billyum said. "Especially when it concerns the reservation." Taking a pouch of tobacco out of his pants pocket, he pinched some and began sprinkling it over the body. "You always want to be careful about Wet Shoes," he said.

  "Don't tell me you believe in that hokum," Jake snorted. "Wet Shoes and leprechauns."

  "It doesn't hurt anything." Billyum zipped the bag closed and stood, then sprinkled tobacco in a circle around the body. "Kalim's grandma and old Sylvester might feel better, knowing I did this right. Anyway, Juniper would have my hide if I didn't."

  "They're going to be pretty shook," Jake said. "You think Juniper will come back for Kalim's funeral?"

  "Most relatives do," Billyum said.

  When he tried sprinkling some of the tobacco on Jake, my uncle shrugged, but didn't jerk away. "I guess it won't hurt none."

  "You still got a few things to learn, Jake." Billyum's tone was testy. He put shreds of the tobacco on my shoulders and a little in my hair. "Some of the old people believe that when a person drowns, if his spirit isn't treated right, the ghost comes back out of the water to claim another. If that happens, you hear the spirit walking around the campfire in wet shoes. When I was growing up, lots of fishermen drowned, and all us kids were told to stay close to the fire or the Wet Shoes would get us."

  "I doubt Kalim drowned," Jake said, "unless it was in his own blood. That bullet never gave him a chance."

  "You're right," Billyum said. "Pretty big caliber, too."

  "Either that or a crayfish got him that's big enough to swallow a boat," Jake said.

  Billyum grinned at my uncle's joke. "Might be." Taking a pack of Juicy Fruit out of his pocket, he offered me a stick.

  "No thanks," I said, shaking my head. Shreds of tobacco clung to his fingers, and I imagined I could smell Kalim on his hands.

  Jake took the offered stick and both men started chewing on the gum. "I never have liked this stretch of river," Billyum said. "Nothing but a shitpot full of trouble."

  "Don't I know it," Jake said, and I thought he might have been thinking about my father.

  "I appreciate you and the boy helping out." Billyum slapped my knee, a little too hard. "Grady's never much interested in missing Indians."

  Jake spit at the fire. "Well, hell. I'm going to start cooking that fish." Turning to me, he asked, "What did you use, anyway?"

  "Adams," I said.

  Jake winked at Billyum and started banging around the cooking gear. "You're not as dumb as you look, Culver."

  Billyum chose a rock close to mine and sat in silence a few minutes while we watched as Jake put some corn meal and Krusteaz in a flat pan, then rolled the fish in the mixture. Billyum took the gum from his mouth and threw it in the fire. "Tastes funny."

  Jake fried up the trout, squeezing fresh lemon juice over them, and they were delicious. When I salted the tail and ate it, the thin brittle crackled in my mouth. Inside the papery skin, the pink flesh was moist and hot. More lemon made the fish taste even better.

  "You better try one," Jake said to Billyum. "They're never so good as when you eat them on the river."

  "That's what you said last night," I said. It was true then, too.

  "Watching you guys makes me hungry," Billyum said, helping himself to the fish. "Must have been something puny about that steak. I'm starved already."

  After we finished eating, Jake poured steaming cups of coffee from the pot on the coals at the fire's edge. He took a flask of whiskey out of the cooking supplies and poured a shot and a half into each cup. Billyum took the one Jake handed him, sipping it slowly and smiling. I took one, too. It tasted good, and I began to relax.

  "Times like these, I know I can never leave this river," Jake said.

  "It's pretty peaceful," I said.

  Billyum helped himself to more coffee and whiskey. "Did your uncle ever tell you about the time he played in the All-Indian band? Back then, he thought he was going to be one hotshot musician."

  "Hell, you don't have to tell the kid everything," Jake said. He was smiling at the memory.

  "Remember that little goatee you had?" Billyum asked. "All of about three hairs. He wanted to be Boots Randolph or somebody like that. How he got started was the music teacher asked if anyone wanted to play sax and he thought he said sex. After playing awhile, though, he got to be second chair.

  "When we were out of school, my cousin Harney had this All-Indian band and they were supposed to play at Jordan Mountain, a pretty rough place. Harney thought about the crowd of loggers and cowboys and railroaders and asked if I knew anybody who wanted to be onstage. Of course, I thought of old Jake. He always wanted to be up there."

  "Can you blame me?" Jake asked. "The good-looking women always go for the band guys."

  "He figured as soon as he stepped on the stage, women would faint, but there weren't any good-looking women at Jordan Mountain. Just a lot of double uglies, the kind you might invite to tractor pulls, if you didn't have a tractor. And you should have seen the look on your uncle's face when he saw Harney's half-brother Bruno was already there playing saxophone."

  "They didn't want me to play anything," Jake complained. "They just wanted a white guy to keep the drunks off the stage."

  Billyum cut Jake off. "It's my story. He was supposed to play the folding chair. His job was to stand up on the stage with this heavy metal chair and bash any loggers or cowboys that tried to scramble onto the stage and grab the mike away from Harney. Meantime, those local boys were getting liquored up and shouting, 'Do you Redskins know "Ira Hays?'" or 'I can play better than any goddamn Indian.' One drunk cowboy had buddies that tried pushing him onto the stage five or six times."

  "I've seen some tough hombres," Jake said. "He was the worst. After I clobbered him a couple good ones, they carried him out for stitches, but he promised to come back the next week and kill me."

  "If you were Indian," Billyum said, "his buddies would have killed you right there."

  Jake shook his head. "The next weekend, that rowdy bastard showed up stone sober. He came after me with an ax handle out behind the dance hall. I rolled under a pickup and yelled bloody murder to keep him from beating me to death."

  Billyum nodded. "We heard this screaming inside the dance hall and rushed out to save your uncle. That cowboy had the hardest head I ever slugged." He held up his fist and flexed it. "We packed the band and cleared out before things got really ugly."

  "He got in a few solid pokes with that ax handle," Jake said. "My ribs hurt for months." He laughed. "I figured a musician's life was too dangerous, so I took up guiding."

  "Taking a bunch of slick dudes fishing," Billyum said. "Old Easy Money." He sighed, leaning back against the rock.

  "Harney played a pretty fair guitar and his singing wasn't half bad," Jake said. "I thought maybe he'd make it to Reno or something."

  "Me, too." Billyum turned the cup in his hands. "Come back with a big old Caddy and a couple of blond showgirls."

  "Couldn't he make the music business?"
I asked.

  Billyum shook his head. "He got shot up near the Yakima Reservation. This guy who worked swing shift at the fruit-packing plant lipped off once too often and got fired. Came home early, double bent, and found Harney with his wife. Harney ran like hell, but there's no cover around there, and the guy shot him with his deer rifle. Maybe he was a good guitar player, but Harney couldn't keep his pants zipped."

  Jake shook his head. "Too damn bad about Harney. Tough luck. Drunks don't usually shoot straight, except around Yakima."

  Just then the moon peeked over the basalt rim, bathing the river and canyon in a cold light. Nobody said anything for a few minutes while we watched the moonrise. Then I asked, "You suppose that's why Kalim got shot? Maybe he was involved with some woman."

  "The kid might have something there." Jake half winked at Billyum and a look passed between them that I couldn't fathom. "You suppose Kalim couldn't keep his zipper up?"

  Billyum stood and stretched. "You know the rez. Anything's possible. But all this yammering has made me sleepy. I'm gonna throw out my bedroll."

  "What about the dishes?" Jake asked. "The kid caught the fish and I cooked them. That means you wash up."

  Billyum groaned. "I'm too damn tired. Make you a deal, Culver. You wash up and I'll take you to a couple secret lakes on the rez. We got fish to drool over, but you gotta have a special invitation to get in."

  "It might be worth it," Jake told me. "They do have some blue-ribbon trout."

  I began gathering the dirty dishes, figuring I could wash up in twenty minutes. "Sounds good." After carrying the dishes and flashlight down to the riverbank, I began scouring the frying pan with sand to cut the grease. The wind was coming upriver, and away from the fire I grew chilled.

  Jake and Billyum teased one another as they rolled out the sleeping bags. Billyum looped a horsehair rope around his bag to keep snakes away, and when Jake wisecracked about the Wet Shoes, I turned to watch.