Rogue River Feud

by Zane Grey

  “Kev, you needn’t have denied that,” she replied, with tears in her eyes. “Come in now.”

  That visit with Emmeline and her mother was an ordeal Keven did not want to undergo twice. It apprised him of his unsuspected weakness. It left him raw. A dull and thick lethargy passed from his consciousness.

  Turning once more into the main street, he strolled down, revolving in mind the need to get away from town, from home that was no longer home, from an awakening, brooding self he did not trust. And it was while thinking thus that he espied Rosamond Brandeth. She was driving a flashy car. Bareheaded, bare-armed she sat at the wheel. Keven stopped stock-still. It was a recognition that staggered him, wrenched his sore heart; yet her bobbed hair and her painted face had something to do with the pang. She saw him. She knew him. That he realized in the flash of her eyes. The sleek, handsome head went up. She drove on with no other sign and her gay laugh trilled back. Keven turned to see her companion was a man, young, and bareheaded, too.

  “Well, that’s over and I’m glad,” muttered Keven, resuming his walk. But the meeting left no warmth in him. Love was dead. He could be tolerant towards anyone whom the war had changed, for better or worse. Did it change anyone for the better? Souls did not require war to be tried in fire. Yet he wished Rosamond had been big enough to regret his misfortune, if not to repudiate the ignominy cast upon him.

  Keven went into Minton’s store and straightway forgot the episode. Here Keven had spent many an hour in the years gone by selecting and rejecting the varieties of fishing gear. He had stepped out of a void into the pleasant and sunny past, over which the river reigned.

  “I’d bet you couldn’t keep long out of here,” laughed Minton, sure of his man. “Kev, you’ll have to get some to catch up. These four years have changed fishing tackle, same as the other and less important things. Lighter rods, smaller flies, fewer spoons. Oh, boy, the steelhead I hung last summer!”

  “It’s nice to see you once more among your treasures,” replied Keven. “How I used to slave, beg, and borrow, almost steal money to spend here! … I’d forgotten…. Joe, I—I guess I’ll never cast a fly again.”

  “Ha! Ha! Listen to him! Once a fisherman always a fisherman, Kev. The old river will get you back. You were born on it. So was I. Do you imagine you can resist? Never, and don’t think you’re too weak or sick or bitter ever to fish again. That’s what you need. The Rogue will cure you, Kev. Give you back all you’ve lost!”

  “Mint, you were always a great salesman,” said Keven admiringly.

  “Sure! But, you darned fool, I’m just glad to see you home. I don’t want your money.”

  “I haven’t any,” replied Keven. “Just got Garry Lord out of jail. Dad’s going to raise enough to buy us a net. I’ve decided to try the market-fishing game with Garry.”

  “Deuce you have! That’s not a bad idea, Kev. You two ought to clean up. Garry is the best salmon fisherman on the river. If you can keep him sober!”

  “Mint, I may need some keeping myself,” laughed Keven.

  “Oh, say, Kev, you didn’t learn to hit the booze?”

  “Afraid I did, Mint.”

  “Then you gotta quit. I hate a drinking fisherman. That old gag about fishermen going out in the morning to return smelling of rum, with the truth not in them—that always gets my goat. It’s not true.”

  “Mint, I got in the habit of drinking because it relieved my pain,” replied Keven sadly. “I don’t know which is worse now.”

  “You take to fishing again, Kev Bell,” said Minton with earnest bluntness. “It’s your best bet. There’s a living in it. And more—for you. Jobs are hard to get in this valley, and there’s none for crippled soldiers. Market-fish for a few years—save your money—and put it in an apple farm. Oregon apples! Fortune in them, Kev. I’m raising an orchard now.”

  “Apple farm? Well, not so bad, Mint. I’d like it, and if I can save some money! … You make me feel sort of hopeful.”

  “That’s the fisherman of it, Kev. Always anticipating, always hopeful. Every bend of the river beckons—every pool may bring better luck. Life should be like that. Then the joy of fishing! The fun, the peace, the sport! Who would ever tire of the music and the beauty of a running river? Especially the Rogue! It’s the best in the world, Kev.”

  “You make me wish I had the dough to buy a lot of tackle,” replied Keven dejectedly.

  “Say, you don’t need any dough,” retorted Minton. “Buy what you like and pay me when you can. I don’t care if you never pay, far as I’m concerned. I owe you something.”

  Keven was powerless to resist this offer, and straightway plunged into the old delight of choosing a rod and suitable outfit to go with it.

  “No more,” he vowed, finally, waving back the generous and enthusiastic dealer.

  “Well, when you bust that come in for more,” declared Minton. “Say, the steelhead ran big last year. Late in the season, though. Funny about that. We used to get some twelve-pounders in the first run.”

  “Twelve pounds! And you’ve sold me a six-ounce rod?” ejaculated Keven, awakening to the old argument over heavy versus light tackle.

  “You bet. Wait till you hang a big one on that rig,” replied Minton. “And now listen to your Uncle Dudley. This talk is looking to the future and it’s serious. Keep it under your hat. Find a likely flat or bench down the river. And locate it. File a mining claim. Do your assessment work faithfully. Someday it’ll be valuable property, even if you don’t strike gold.”

  “Gold! What are you driving at, Mint?”

  “Have you forgotten the Rogue has given up its millions to miners?” went on Minton earnestly. “There’s gold down the river. Gold in sand bars, gold in quartz ledges. Fall in with one of those old prospectors and learn from him. Whitehall is one of them. He has a claim at Whisky Creek. If you’re going to run the Rogue cultivate him. Make friends with the half-breeds. Most of them are good fellows. Get acquainted with the trail packers, too.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Minton,” said Keven gratefully. “You make me feel like a regular fellow.”

  “Now one last word, Kev,” went on the dealer, with lowered voice. “There’s a nigger in the woodpile down at the mouth of the river. Every year fewer salmon and fewer steelhead come up! Find out why. This partner of yours, Garry Lord, is keen as a bloodhound. Tough runt, yes, but if I don’t miss my guess he has a heart big as a hill. Anyway he’s a riverman. There’s none better. Get him on the job. We fishermen up here fear Brandeth will ruin the river. He’ll hog the fish and kill the runs—if he isn’t stopped. Don’t get the idea only us few anglers are interested. The people all along the river, from Galice to Prospect, are complaining. Fish used to be easy to catch. They are no more. There’re a hundred thousand people, more or less, who are vitally concerned. The netting at the mouth ought to be stopped. Or if not that, restricted. One man particularly and a few more getting rich at the expense of the people of Oregon. It’s an outrage.”

  “Minton, I certainly agree with you, if that’s the condition,” rejoined Keven earnestly. “Comes as a surprise to me. But it’s in line with everything—since the war…. How does this Gus Atwell stack up to you?”

  “Not very high, Kev,” replied Minton. “He was a slacker. He rolls in money now. Rolls a Rolls-Royce around. Yet it’s like squeezing juice out of a rock to get him to pay his bills—so the town gossip goes about him. He’s against the upriver market fishermen. And for that matter all kinds of fishermen. During the canning season he drives a car between Gold Beach and here. But he sticks there pretty close.”

  “Garry told me as much,” replied Keven meditatively. “Somebody ought to put a crimp in Atwell.”

  “I’ll tell the world,” agreed Minton. “Kev, he lined you from soda to hock when he came home, ‘invalided’ from training service.”

  “You don’t say?” inquired Keven, with affected mild surprise.

  “He stood right there, in this store, and told some of the boys you ha
d been mainly responsible for the ruin of five sisters. Ghastly story! Of course we got hardened to the doings of soldiers. But that was the limit!”

  “It is pretty bad, even for soldiers,” admitted Keven. “Did everybody believe that particular yarn?”

  “No, not everybody. I remember Bill Hall, who was one of the fellows in here when Atwell gabbed so loud—he called him sarcastic enough. And I cursed him. Never speaks to me now. But, Kev, that yarn hurt you with the women.”

  “I suppose Atwell swaggered around in a uniform and dazzled the ladies.”

  “He did. And made us fellows sick.”

  “Well, I might tell a yarn about him if I’d happen to get sore.”

  The thing rankled in Keven and gradually clouded the better mood inspired by Emmeline and Minton. The resentment thus engendered rather augmented than otherwise. Even work with Garry over fishing nets and boat equipment did not suffice to soften it. They planned to pack camp duffle and provisions on Saturday, preparatory to their departure early on Sunday.

  If Keven had not had anything to drink on Saturday night he would have gotten away from town without giving the gossips more to wag their tongues over. But out of deference to his father he had left the bottle severely alone, and not until he had left home to stay at Garry’s camp to facilitate an early start next day had he transgressed.

  Still he was sober that Saturday night when he encountered Atwell in the crowded lobby of the principal hotel. Liquor seldom made Keven drunk. But it found a hidden devil in his depths.

  “Hello, Major, I’ve been looking for you,” he said, confronting the well-groomed and well-fed Atwell.

  “Sorry I can’t return the compliment,” replied Atwell, in cold contempt, his dark, rather handsome face flushing with annoyance. He turned his back.

  A tiger leaped up inside Keven Bell. His swift outflung hand spun Atwell around.

  “You lied about me, you—skunk!” exclaimed Keven, in ringing voice. “I’m going to call you to your face. It was you who was mixed up in that Carstone outrage. Not I…. Why didn’t you tell Grant’s Pass that the soldiers burned you in effigy? Why didn’t you tell them your company could have gone to France if you hadn’t been a coward? … For that’s the truth and I can prove it.”

  Atwell’s face grew livid. “You filthy soldier bum! Everyone knows that crack you got made you weak in the head. But take care——”

  Keven struck him, causing him to stagger along the rail of the stairway to the wall. The blow brought blood. It was not violent, but it unleashed a devil in Keven.

  “What I said goes,” he shouted, in scathing passion. “Invalided home! Yes, you white-livered cur. But the soldiers know. Let your friends ask any soldier in your company…. And as for the dirty lie you spread—if you accuse me again of that Carstone muck, I’ll kill you!”

  Fiercely Keven grasped a vase from a table and swung it on Atwell’s head. With a sharp crack it flew into bits. But it knocked Atwell flat to the floor, where he lay stunned or unconscious.

  No one made any move to interfere, and Keven walked out into the night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  KEVEN, remembering his father, regretted his violence, and hurried home to tell of it, and that arrest would surely follow unless he got out of town. To his surprise the old man took the news with satisfaction. “Good! Glad you soaked Atwell. I’d done it myself,” he said spiritedly. “So his soldiers burned him in effigy because he reneged on reporting his company fit for France. Well, that’s the other side of the story.”

  “It is, Dad, and straight goods. I’ll beat it now. Will keep you posted about what’s doing at Gold Beach. Good-by.” Keven took his pack and tackle and went out. He crossed the meadows to the dark pines, and holding outside the edges of these he groped his way down to Garry’s shack. No answer to his whistle! The fisherman was not at home. A fire smoldered in the stone circle. Keven replenished it, feeling a strange, pleasant vibration of his pulses. The blaze crackled up cheerily; the dull embers underneath took on a live red glow. The smell of burning wood was sweet.

  His next action was to remove his uniform and don in its stead the flannel shirt and overalls he had bought. He had also a heavy waterproof coat lined with wool. With something of violence and finality he flung the army uniform into the fire. “That’ll be about all,” he muttered, as he watched it burn. “No more of that patriotic bunk for me.” He believed he voiced the opinion of several million young Americans. “Fight? Hell, yes! If your country was invaded!” Sitting down, he watched the suit burn down to gray ashes. “That ends that.” And he meant all concerning the last few miserable years.

  A rattling of gravel startled him. Someone was stumbling down the low bank under the pine. “That you, Garry?”

  “Wash masher?” came in Garry’s voice, now thick in utterance. And Garry staggered into the firelight, red of face, panting for breath, drunk as a lord.

  “Nothing the matter with me, Garry,” replied Keven, with a relieved laugh. “You’re three sheets in the wind, though. How’d you escape the police?”

  “All lookin’ fer you, b’gosh.”

  “Me? What for?”

  “Heerd you mashed Majjer Atwell on the coco.”

  “Well, for once, rumor is right. I sure did.”

  “We gotta beat it.”

  “Downriver at night?” queried Keven, alarmed.

  “Sure Mike. Little ways. An’ we’ll camp on the other side.”

  “Skiff all packed, Garry?”

  “Yep. But I’ll hev anozzer look.”

  Keven took his bag and tackle and carried them down to the river. He flashed his light. The skiff had been neatly packed. Keven made a thorough survey of it, satisfied himself about the four oars in place in the rowlocks, two extra oars on the floor of the boat, and particularly the long rope coiled in the bow. Then he deposited his belongings below the stern seat and went back up the bank. Garry came out of the shack with a roll of blankets and a canvas.

  “Here, man, let’s roll them up in the tarp,” said Keven. “That river will be wet and cold…. There. Now I’ll put out the fire.”

  He spread the blazing sticks and kicked sand over them. Suddenly all was pitch dark. Feeling his way down, he finally made out Garry’s shape and the pale outline of the boat. He was about to flash the electric light again when a police whistle deterred him.

  “Garry, they’re after me,” he whispered.

  “Sojer boy, they’re after us,” returned the fisherman, chuckling.

  “What’d you do, Garry?”

  “I shure beaned thet ossifer. He ast me where you was. An’ when I swore didn’t know he pinched me.”

  “Get in the skiff. Easy now. I hear footsteps…. What’s the dope?”

  “Watz me, Kev, old boy,” rejoined Garry, who had taken the seat facing the stern.

  Keven stepped softly into the skiff and, sitting down upon the other seat, he carefully pushed off with an oar.

  “Garry, you won’t shoot this rapid below in the dark? We’d better line the boat down.”

  “Line nuthin’.”

  “But, man, you’re drunk!”

  “Whassthell’s difference?”

  Out from the gloom of the pines the skiff moved and the current caught it. The river gleamed under the stars. Garry faced downstream, his oars dipping noiselessly. Evidently, drunk or sober he knew his business on that river. Another shrill whistle rang out from the dark shore, followed by a hoarse call: “Hyar’s the shack, Bill. Come on.”

  Keven roused to keen and vibrant feeling. Long had authority weighed like a yoke upon him. He poised his oars and watched the guarded movement of Garry’s. Then a dull heavy roar of tumbling waters smote his ears. His hair seemed to freeze at the roots and stood up stiff. From boyhood he had been taught to respect the Rogue. Companions of his youth had defied the river to find watery and unknown graves. The skiff was now in the middle of the stream; the current was quickening; the roar grew clearer. Garry turned to whisper: “Al
l we gotta do is hit the middle where she dips.”

  Keven stood up, the better to see. Somewhere beyond them the livid gleaming river appeared to end. Bold black banks stood up on each side, and sharp treetops pierced the sky. Keven resumed his seat, only to rise again, bending somewhat to hold the oars. With this movement of the boat, the swelling of the roar, an old daring, pulsating spirit of adventure seemed to be having a rebirth. Or was he just remembering? Then, not so far ahead, he made out white tips of wild waves upflung. Next he saw a long silvery incline, V-shaped, rolling and bobbing, from which thunder rose. His skin tightened cold on his face as he felt the wind of the rapid. Many a time had he run this stretch of river. He knew it. His eyes pierced the gloom. He bent over his companion, to speak in his ear.

  “Garry, we’re square in the middle.”

  What the hoarse answer was Keven could not distinguish, but it rang full of the daredevil assurance of the riverman. Keven sat down to grip the oar handles. Swifter current caught them; the banks blurred; the stern of the skiff rocked and dipped; then they shot down, to smash into the curling backlash. They bounced high between spread sheets of water and went over straight as a die into the long buffeting incline. Then Keven saw only Garry’s oars, the action of which he duplicated so swiftly as to be almost in perfect time with them. His arms felt like those of a giant. He could have yelled above the roar of the rapid—a liberation of long pent-up agony. But he bit his tongue. He was aware of cold, stinging water on his face; of the solid lessening thumps on the gunwales; of the dim canopying sky, studded with stars. Garry began to pull hard, edging to the right. Below, the rapid split bellowing round a black rock. Keven had hit it once. He bent powerfully on his oars. The skiff slowed, slanted diagonally across the channel, moving inshore while on the breast of the current, and missed the ugly obstacle by a yard. Garry racked his oars, to turn and grin at Keven in the pale gloom. Keven followed suit. They drifted on below the rapid into smooth deep water where the river glided darkly.