Wilderness Double Edition 28

by David Robbins

  Blue Water Woman caressed his cheek. “You are a good husband. Have I told you that of late?”

  “Not often enough.” Shakespeare hid his shame by swallowing more coffee.

  “You can get out of bed if you want and come out to your rocking chair and read the Bard.”

  “I think I will sleep a bit more,” Shakespeare said. “I am still a mite drowsy. Must be that tasty feed of yours.” He did not mention that he needed to rest now so he could be up later.

  “As you wish.” Blue Water Woman kissed him, took the tray, and padded from the bedroom.

  Shakespeare felt bad about deceiving her. He was not one of those men who played false with their women just to get their way. “But I have it to do,” he said out loud.

  As if anticipating the trial he intended to put it to, his body did not object when he tried to go back to sleep. He did not fidget and toss and turn, as he was sometimes wont to do, but succumbed to slumber within a few minutes and slept the sleep of the innocent, although he was anything but. When next he awoke, Blue Water Woman informed him it was almost nine o’clock.

  Shakespeare got up and went outside. When he came back in, he did as she had suggested and sat in the rocking chair by the fireplace and opened his well-used leather-bound volume of the works of the wordsmith he most admired. But for once he had no interest in reading the plays and sonnets. He could not stop thinking about his next attempt to put an end to the fish.

  That was how he thought of it now, as the fish. He had seen it with his own eyes, and it had nearly drowned him. If ever combat was personal, this was. The fish had thrown down the gauntlet and Shakespeare had accepted. It was the fish or him, and it would not be him.

  His conscience pricked him anew when they turned in for the night. He snuggled up to Blue Water Woman and nuzzled her neck with his beard, giving her the kind of kiss he usually reserved for nights when they planned to be frisky. Planned, because Blue Water Woman insisted on knowing in advance, a quirk of hers he never fully grasped. He liked to be spontaneous; she liked to plan everything out. Even that.

  Inadvertently, Blue Water Woman added salt to his wound by saying dreamily as she drifted off, “Thank you for listening to me. I meant what I said about you being a good husband.”

  “Tell me that again in the morning,” Shakespeare said.

  He tried to get a little more sleep but couldn’t. By the clock on the small table, it was a little past midnight when he eased back the covers and swung his feet to the floor. He dressed in near silence, thankful, for once, that she liked to sleep with a candle burning. Another of her quirks. The only thing that stopped him from complaining about it was the he had more quirks than she did.

  Shakespeare had a lot to gather. Ammo pouch, powder horn, possibles bag, pistols, rifle, knife, a parfleche with food, the coil of rope that hung on a peg, their lantern, and perhaps the most important item of all, the small grappling iron he had for when he went after mountain sheep. The Big Horns lived up in the rocky heights at the highest altitudes. To get to them entailed a lot of climbing, and the iron always came in handy.

  Shakespeare was careful not to let the door creak as he slipped out into the cool of night. Hurrying around to the corral, he lit the lantern and saddled his white mare. Next he went to the chicken coop. Several hens clucked and fluttered, but they were used to him, and when he spoke softly, they quieted.

  Regretfully, he picked up the one he had decided to take, the smallest of the hens, and carried her out. Then came the hard part.

  Shakespeare carried the limp body to the mare and tied it to his saddle. He led the mare a short way from the cabin, climbed on, and glanced at the lake.

  “I am coming for you.”

  The Best Laid Brainstorms

  The canoes were where they had left them.

  Shakespeare tied the mare to Nate’s corral and carried everything he was taking to the Nansusequa dugout. The paddles and harpoons and net still lay on the bottom. He placed his rifle beside them. The rope, grappling iron, and dead chicken went in the bow. The parfleche with the food, in the stern. The lantern was last.

  Shakespeare pushed the canoe out into the water and climbed in. He picked up one of the paddles and peered into the veil of darkness. The risk he was about to take gave him pause. But only for a few seconds. Squaring his shoulders, he commenced paddling.

  At night the lake was deathly still. The ducks, the geese, the teal, all were silent. Were it not for the occasional splash of a fish, a person would never guess that the lake teemed with life during the day.

  A brisk gust of wind sent goosebumps parading up and down his spine. He blamed it on the chill and suppressed a shudder.

  The glow cast by his lantern illuminated a ten-foot circle. Beyond the light, all was liquid ink. He considered turning back and waiting until daylight. But if he did that, the others were bound to try and stop him. With any luck, he could do what he had to do and be back in his cabin by dawn.

  It all depended on the fish. The thing had shown a fondness for waterfowl, so maybe fowl of another kind would appeal to its piscine taste buds.

  The shore gradually receded. Shakespeare was alone with the canoe and the water and the dweller in the depths. He hoped that if the fish was going to attack, it would at least hold off until he was ready.

  His plan was to paddle out to where he had seen the two birds taken. But in the dark, in open water, there were no landmarks, no means to tell where he was, other than the stars. He could approximate, but that was all.

  The slight splish each time Shakespeare stroked the paddle, the swish of the canoe as it cleaved the surface, and the occasional splash of a fish were the only sounds. He listened for the howl of a wolf or the yip of a coyote, but the valley was as quiet as the lake.

  Shakespeare hoped he was not wasting his time. He would never hear the end of the teasing if he spent all night on the lake and had nothing to show for it. He continued paddling until, as best as he could tell, he was about where the fish had taken the duck and the teal. Resting the paddle across the gunwales, he strained his senses for some sign of his quarry.

  All was peaceful.

  Working quickly, Shakespeare tied one end of the rope to the grappling iron. The rest of the rope he coiled in front of him.

  The next step proved harder than he thought it would. The grappling iron had four hooks, or flukes. They were sharp enough that he figured it would be easy to impale the chicken. But when he tried, he could not get the rounded ends to penetrate deep enough to hold fast.

  “I do not need this nuisance,” Shakespeare said. Drawing his knife, he made two deep cuts in the chicken, aligned the cuts with two of the hooks, and jammed the chicken onto the grappling iron. A few tugs satisfied him that the chicken would not slip off.

  Lowering his improvised hook and bait over the side, Shakespeare fed out the rope until only a few feet remained. He needed to anchor it, but had nothing to tie it to. He briefly considered tying it to his leg, but the mental image of being yanked over the side persuaded him not to. The only other thing he could think of to tie it to was the spare paddle, which he wedged under him.

  Years ago Shakespeare had heard that fish could sense prey from a long way off. The wriggle of a worm, the flutter of an insect’s wings, were enough to bring a hungry fish streaking in for the kill. He began wriggling the rope in the hope it would have the same effect on the fish.

  Another gust of wind provoked a shiver. Shakespeare stared to the west. The gusts were stronger than usual. He wondered if a front was moving in. The last thing he needed was to be caught on the lake in a thunderstorm. Sometimes the waves rose two and three feet high. He debated going back, but decided if a storm did break, he would have enough advance warning to reach shore.

  Shakespeare continued to wriggle the rope. The quiet of the night and the near total dark gnawed on his nerves. It occurred to him that the fish could be lurking outside the ring of light and he would not know it. He reached for the lantern t
o extinguish it, then changed his mind. Without the light he could not see the rope, and he must be ready when the fish took the bait.

  Shakespeare’s uneasy feeling grew. He and the canoe were an island of light in an ocean of dark. The glow could be seen for miles. Possibly even from the bottom of the lake.

  None of them knew how deep the lake was. Once, shortly after they built their cabins, Shakespeare and Nate had lashed together the logs they had left over and ventured out on the lake on the raft. Nate had the notion to find out how deep the lake was by tying a rock to a hundred-foot rope and lowering the rope until it struck bottom.

  It didn’t.

  They added fifty feet, then fifty more, and when that was still not enough, Nate went to Bent’s Fort for the express purpose of buying a hundred more. Surely, they had reasoned, three hundred feet would suffice.

  It didn’t.

  The lake was more than three hundred feet deep. Shakespeare did not know how that compared to other mountain lakes, but three hundred feet was damn deep, deeper than most fish ever went. The thing he was up against was extraordinary if, in fact, it normally dwelled at the bottom.

  To the best of Shakespeare’s logic, there were three possibilities. Either the fish was an oversized member of a known species, it was of a species yet to be officially discovered, or it was a holdover from an earlier era, a relic from the time when, according to many Indians, the land and the water were overrun by huge animals of all kinds.

  Shakespeare could not say what the fish was, but he hoped to have an answer by the rising of the sun.

  Time passed. The swaying of the canoe lulled Shakespeare into lowering his chin to his chest and closing his eyes. He had no intention of drifting off, but before he could stop himself, he did.

  Suddenly Shakespeare’s head snapped up and his eyes opened. He tried to figure out what had woken him. The lake was as still and dark as it had been before, save for the splash of a fish.

  Shakespeare started to succumb to drowsiness again. Another splash, louder than the first, brought him out of it. Acting on the assumption that the bigger the fish, the bigger the splash, he gazed about for the source.

  The rope had not moved. The chicken still dangled in the depths. Leaning back, Shakespeare sighed. He had forgotten how much waiting there was with fishing, whether the fisherman was after bass or sunfish or catfish—or monster fish.

  Shakespeare wondered if the monster might not be a catfish. They sometimes grew to exceptional lengths. He was not sure exactly how big they could get, but he seemed to recollect hearing that twelve feet was not out of the question.

  The dugout swayed slightly.

  Stiffening, Shakespeare raised the lantern. The wind was not strong enough to account for the movement. He peered over the side, but it was like gazing into a black well. “Was it you?” he asked the water.

  As if in answer, the dugout abruptly rose half an inch, then settled back down again. In reflex, Shakespeare grabbed the gunwales. He waited for another bump or the rising of a swell, but nothing happened.

  Not so much as a twitch from the rope.

  Shakespeare picked up a harpoon, then put it down again. The cocoon of water the fish displaced when it moved at high speed had deflected Zach’s cast. What made him think he would fare any better? He drew a pistol instead.

  The lake was still again. Above him a multitude of stars sparkled. More wind renewed his concern about an incoming front. Once again he debated heading for shore and safety.

  Then the rope moved. Not much, no more than a shake, but something was interested in the bait.

  Scarcely breathing, Shakespeare glued his eyes to it. It moved again and his heart jumped. It occurred to him that maybe a smaller fish was nipping at the chicken, and his elation vanished. It surged again when he realized a small fish could not move the rope like that. It would take a fish of considerable size. It would take his fish.

  Shakespeare smiled at this thought. His fish? It was not a pet. It was his adversary, his enemy, his personal dragon.

  Another jerk on the rope prompted Shakespeare to lightly wrap his hand around it. He felt an ever-so-slight vibration. “What are you doing, fish?” he wondered.

  The vibration stopped.

  Once more Shakespeare waited with bated breath, but the rope stayed still. He feared the fish had lost interest, that a chicken was no substitute for a duck.

  That was when the rope jumped taut. Shakespeare started to whoop in triumph, but the shout died in his throat as the paddle he had tied the end of the rope to started to slide out from under him. Setting down his pistol, he gripped the paddle with both hands and shifted so all his weight was on it. It worked. The paddle stopped moving.

  The canoe moved instead.

  The rope began cleaving the water, pulling the canoe after it. Shakespeare chuckled, pleased that his ploy had worked. The fish had taken the bait and swallowed the chicken. Now it was only a matter of time before the fish tired and he could haul it up out of the benighted depths and dispatch it.

  The canoe was gaining speed. Apparently the dugout was no more of a hindrance to the fish than a leaf would be.

  Shakespeare tugged on the rope, but he could not draw it up. The fish was too strong or too heavy, or both.

  The canoe went faster, knifing the water more swiftly than Shakespeare could ever hope to paddle. More swiftly, even, than two men could. The sheer brute strength the fish possessed was a wonderment.

  A sliver of doubt pricked Shakespeare, but he cast it aside. His plan would work. It might take longer to tire the fish, was all.

  The bow began rising and falling, rising and falling, slapping down with enough force to rattle Shakespeare’s teeth and spray water all over him. He hunched his shoulders, determined to ride it out.

  Suddenly the rope changed direction. Shakespeare clung on, his hair and shirt soaked. Cold drops trickled down his chest and back, raising yet more goose flesh. “Damn you, fish,” he growled. He had not counted on anything like this. He had not counted on anything like this at all.

  Incredibly, the dugout went faster. The bow was smacking the surface in violent cadence, the harpoons and his rifle and pistol clattering and bouncing madly about. He worried the Hawken would go over the side. He could always get another rifle, but it would mean riding all the way to St. Louis, and Lord, he did not want to do that.

  The rope was a rigid bar. Try as he might, Shakespeare could not budge it. He was at the mercy of the fish. His wife’s warnings came back to him, and he was almost sorry he had not heeded her. Almost.

  To complicate matters, either the canoe was moving so fast it was whipping his beard and hair, or the wind from the west was gusting relentlessly, which did not bode well.

  “Damn,” Shakespeare said again. Too many things were going wrong. In frustration he wrenched on the rope, but all he succeeded in doing was to give his palms rope burn.

  The lantern tilted. Another hard jostle and it would fall.

  Shakespeare had forgotten about it. He would be in total darkness if it went out, an unappealing prospect. Lunging, he set it back up and slid it flush against the inner curve of the bow so it would not tip.

  A loud hissing arose. Shakespeare marveled anew at the prodigious might the fish displayed.

  Again the dugout changed direction. By now Shakespeare had lost all sense of where he was. He might be out in the middle, he might be close to shore. All he could say for certain was that he did not like the predicament his stubbornness had placed him in.

  The canoe smacked down so hard, Shakespeare nearly tumbled. He had to grip the sides to stay on his knees. The next instant the whole canoe commenced shimmying, shaking him to his marrow.

  Shakespeare had a terrible thought: What if the canoe collided with something? Drifting logs were not uncommon. Deer and elk sometimes went for a swim. Once, years ago, he had caught sight of a black bear splashing about.

  Once more the dugout changed direction. Seconds later, yet again. A few more
seconds, and a third time. It suggested the fish was growing frantic.

  Shakespeare took that as a good sign and clung on. He wished he knew where he was. He sought a glimpse of a cabin but could not even see the shore. The bow abruptly dipped, almost spilling him, but the dugout righted itself and he was safe.

  Safe, Shakespeare somberly reflected. The notion was laughable. He was anything but.

  The bow slid under the surface and went on sinking. With a start, Shakespeare realized the fish might pull the dugout under. He had one recourse: he must cut the rope. His hand flew to the sheath at his hip and he started to draw his knife. But his fingers had barely gripped the hilt when the canoe gave the most violent lurch yet. He was propelled forward. Flinging out his arms, he kept from smashing into the lantern, but his forehead hit the side. It was like being kicked by a mule.

  Pain exploded, Shakespeare’s vision spun, and his gut was wrenched by invisible fingers. He struggled to sit up, but his body would not do as he wanted. “No!” he cried, and got his hands under him.

  Inner blackness swallowed all there was left to swallow.

  Ordeal

  Shakespeare McNair opened his eyes and thought he was dead. He was floating in a misty cloud. Pale grayish wisps hung in the air in front of him, writhing like ethereal serpents. He reached up to touch one and it dissolved at his touch.

  The mist was everywhere; above him, below him, around him, a vaporous cocoon his vision could not penetrate.

  Shakespeare had never been sure how the afterlife would be, but he’d never imagined it would be like this. A lot of folks were certain they knew: Heaven would have pearly gates and great white mansions and winged angels singing in celestial choirs; Hell would be fire and brimstone and unending torment. It was Shakespeare’s view that it was presumptuous to anticipate the Almighty; he would find out when he got there. Wherever there turned out to be.