Rogue River Feud

by Zane Grey

  “There’s a connection between the close of the netting season here and the run of large fish up the Rogue.”

  “You bet. An’ thet connection is somethin’ damn important to a hundred thousand people who live between the mouth of this river and Prospect.”

  “Ahuh. It’s up to us to find out what that connection is.”

  “I should snicker to sneeze,” rejoined Garry, with fire in his eye. “I’ve got my idees about it. Never cared so much, till last season, when I got sore. My pard, Jeff Dunn, was bumped on the head by some of these fishermen who hate us upriver fellers. Jeff never has been no good since.”

  So they talked while pitching camp and cooking a meal. After that they spread out the long new net, handling it with care and affection. Garry assured Keven that few nets on the river could beat it, and none owned by independent fishermen. Toward sundown Garry went off towards the town, while Keven strolled along the river, around the south shore of the bay, and out upon the strip of sand. It was the second time in his life that he had come in sight of the sea; and the first occasion had been at Crescent, where the coast lacked the ruggedness and loneliness of this one. The sun was setting out behind the white-ridged horizon, rose and gold, under purple clouds. But the swell and break and boom of the surf claimed Keven’s attention. He would walk on a few steps, then linger to listen and watch. At length he reached the spit of sand, the farthest point he could attain between the sea and river. Gulls and cormorants were screaming along the edge of the sand, where the tide was coming in. It had a resistless flow. Here Keven sat down.

  Sound and movement were on a large scale here. They dwarfed Keven’s familiar impressions of the river. Yet how wild and wonderful the sea! He did not think, however, that he could love it. But it was the mother of the steelhead and salmon, about which he had been concerned since childhood. As a boy he had learned the significant expression: “Fresh run from the sea.” And that meant a fighting fish in the best of condition, like speckled silver, or as pink as a rainbow. Salt water gave the salmon and steelhead the qualities beloved of anglers. The steelhead, after their long climb up the rapids, returned to their mysterious regions in the sea. But the salmon died. What a pity that was! Hundreds of times Keven had lain on a rock or a bank to watch salmon spawn on their beds. He had seen them, spent, scarred, spotted with ulcers, wag wearily and die. And he had watched the cannibalistic offspring feed and thrive off their rotting remains. It was all so interesting, yet obscured in mystery.

  Keven believed that he would profit through these coming months of sojourn by the seashore. But more than ever the black forests of fir that stood almost on end, the amber-mossed and fern-laced banks dotted with white flowers, the pure cold crystal brooks tumbling off the cliffs, called to him to return. The Rogue was destined to dominate the rest of his life, whatever that might be. Solitude haunted him. Here by the chafing tide and with the squall of fierce sea fowl in his ears, the grand peaks of the Cascades and the canyons with their singing river lured him with strong, sweet power. The sea would have no Lorelei for Keven Bell. It was too big, too restless, too cold and aloof ever to rival the Rogue in his affections.

  The sun sank, the afterglow spread its pale gold over the sky, to flush and fade and die, and the pale gleaming light, herald of dusk, stole down across the bay to the narrow outlet. Suddenly Keven’s meditations were disrupted by a heavy souse in the water. He knew that sound. “Salmon!” he cried, in delight, even before he saw the circling break, and a dark tail lazily slip out of sight. Keven had an eye for fish. Rising salmon had been to him what spinning tops and flying kites were to most boys. Wherefore he watched. And before dusk settled down he saw the breaks of many salmon. They were coming in from the sea on that rising tide. Keven remembered then that just before Garry had set out for town he had said: “Little raise on. She’s come up a couple of inches. There’s been some rain somewhere upriver. Reckon not enough, though, to start a run of fish.”

  The Rogue was as sensitive and temperamental, as changeable as a woman. It would rise and lower without warning, between sunset and sunrise. It had a habit of running clear as green glass one hour and pale amber the next. A thundershower in the Cascades would precipitate a flood. But such occasions were rare, at least in the season of salmon running.

  Keven imagined the fact of salmon showing on the surface at the mouth of the river would be interesting news for Garry Lord. Certainly where one salmon broke water there must be a hundred underneath. It might mean the opening of the season. Certainly they could troll in the bay next day and catch fish.

  He wended his way back along the resounding beach, and rowed the curve of the bay, in the melancholy cool dusk. In camp he found Garry squatting before a fire.

  “Where in hell have you been?” queried that worthy, with manifest relief.

  “Down by the shore.”

  “You gotta stay in camp,” growled Garry. “Somebody might bump you off in the dark. An’ steal everythin’ we own.”

  “Any news from town?”

  “Lord, yes. Heaps. Good an’ bad. New cannery opened, in opposition to Brandeth’s. It’ll be about the only one at thet, an’ on a small scale, I reckon. Town’s full of hulligan fishermen from everywhere on this dinged coast. All waitin’ fer the leather-backs to run.”

  “Well, they’re running,” said Keven nonchalantly.

  “Wh-at?”

  “The first run is on.”

  Garry shook his tousled head dubiously and eyed Keven askance. “See here, boy, if you spring thet on me I’ll reckon you’ve got wuss than a bum memory. You’ll be goofy.”

  “Garry, I’ve got as good an eye for salmon as you or anyone else, and when it comes to steelhead I can beat you all hollow.”

  “Listen to my new pardner!”

  Whereupon Keven calmly stated the facts about the salmon he had seen on the incoming tide.

  “Jerusalem!” shouted Garry, and scrambling up he ran down to the river. Presently he came thumping back, puffing hard. “By gosh, Kev, the river’s up half a foot. Sure as guns a bunch of salmon out there have got a snootful of mountain water, an’ they’re on the move…. You’re sure a pard after my heart. There I was uptown drinkin’ with them muckers, an’ you go off to find fish! Com mon.”

  He dragged Keven down to the boat. “Grab a big long stone while I roll up the net…. We gotta have anchor, rope, buoy…. But no lantern. We’re moles, an’ we can see in the dark. A light would give us away to some of them rivermen. Gosh, this’s great. Me an’ my pard stole a march on them last season. Surer’n hell we’re agonna do it this year.”

  In short order they were in the skiff and rowing out down the river towards the bay. The shore lines were indistinct. Lamps flickered in the shacks. Up on the bluff the electric lights shone brightly. Soon they were in the bay, feeling the slow press of the tide. A cool, damp, salty breeze came over the sand dunes.

  “Pretty nifty, huh?” queried Garry, in low voice of exultation. This drink-sodden fisherman had the soul of adventure in him. He felt the thrill of the night, of the wide gleaming bay, of the booming sea so near at hand, of the pursuit of their quarry. He reveled in the prospect of surprising and outdoing their rivals. And somehow, to Keven, it seemed more than a game. There was an intimation of hazard in it.

  “I heard a fish break,” he whispered.

  “Got a ear like your eye, huh? By gosh, Kev, I’m cottonin’ to you somethin’ fierce,” rejoined Garry.

  “Took you long, Garry,” replied Keven with a laugh. “I did that to you, just after we shot Alameda Falls.”

  Souse! A heavy fish rolled on the surface close to the boat.

  “Kazoozle! Did ye hear thet loafer? Too big and fat to cut the water. He’d go about fifty pounds.”

  “Garry, will we get paid by weight or just so much for every salmon?”

  “So much a pound, first off, if we make a haul. An’, Kev, by gosh, I feel it in my bones. We’re gonna do it. Tide’s just well in. Mebbe they’ll hit
in before flood, mebbe after…. Listen to thet hunker. Wow!”

  Garry rowed noiselessly across the bay, where on the pale, gleaming surface, in the reflected starlight, the boat might have been espied by keen eyes. When, however, it reached the shadow of the dunes it would be invisible. Garry enlarged upon a stretch of water close to where the bay converged again into the river, preparatory to its confluence with the sea. Here in days past, on the early runs, he and his partners had made great hauls. There was a shelving bottom, over which the current flowed quickly, and here the salmon, keen to taste the fresh cold water from the river, swam in bunches.

  “Kev, the idee is to locate your fish, then anchor one end of your net, tie on a buoy, stretch her across the run, an’ hang at thet end with the boat,” expounded Garry, as he paddled to and fro in the shadow, evidently jockeying for position. “No picnic fer one fisherman. I swore I’d never have another pard. But you’re different…. Kazoozle! Thet was a buster.”

  “Garry, they’re all around us now,” returned Keven, whose eyes were keen as those of a cat in the dark. “Heads upstream, lazy, just rolling along. But they’re moving. I’d say it was a run.”

  “Say! My Gord, man! You can whoop it to the skies. Mebbe only the vanguard. Mebbe the big run will be days later. But here’s salmon, an’ we’re gonna ketch a ton.”

  “Not a boat on the bay!” exclaimed Keven, gleefully as a boy.

  “What’s worryin’ me is we can’t load any big haul in this skiff,” went on Garry.

  “Well, when we get the net out there’ll be lots of room for fish.”

  “By gosh, I’ll tell you what,” returned Garry, as if inspired. “If there’s a good run I’ll swim ashore, mozy back to Stemm’s an’ fetch out the big flatboat.”

  “Excuse me from swimming in this Rogue water. With a freshet on? Nix.”

  Eventually Garry found a location to his liking. It was perhaps a quarter of mile from the mouth, just where the river broadened into the bay, and close to the north shore. The current ran fairly swiftly.

  “Why not make a set across the mouth?”

  “It’d be great, but thet’s forbidden,” said Garry. “An’ we upriver fishermen observe the law.”

  “Oh, I see. I suppose there are all kinds of regulations.”

  “You take the oars now, Kev.” He carefully slid the big stone overboard. When it touched bottom he tied a buoy on the rope, where it joined the net, and let that over. “Now row toward shore, Kev…. Not so fast.”

  “Do you anchor both ends?” asked Keven.

  “I don’t. You bet I stick with my net. These cannery favorites ain’t above stealin’ your fish. Not to say nuthin’ about nets! I anchor my skiff an’ tie the net onto it. Then when the salmon come I pull up anchor an’ go over the net. It’s slow, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Presently Keven found himself idle in the skiff, watching Garry, who kept a hand on the taut net rope. By this time Keven had gotten used to the darkness and could see very well. There was charm, not to say excitement, in the place. Outside, the surf fell with resonant hollow boom; close at hand the current drifted by with silky swish. Faint splashes and here and there a souse told of rising fish. Then came a break near the boat.

  “B’gosh, I felt one hit,” said Garry with a chuckle. “Kev, old top, we’ll have salmon steak for breakfast an’ tenderloin steak for supper…. Wow! Another! Another! … Gosh, this is gettin’ good! So early in the evenin’! Com mon, you leather-backs!”

  Far out toward the buoy a salmon leaped the net with cutting splash. The breaks on the surface occurred oftener, here, there, all around. Souse! A big fellow hit the net high up, but did not get over. He stuck fast and threshed with whizzing sound.

  “Kev, would you believe it? Our swell net has already begun to sag,” said Garry. “We’ve gilled some hunkers…. Aw, wake me up, I’m dreamin’.”

  “Strikes me they’re running pretty thick,” returned Keven eagerly.

  “Nope, not yet, an’ mebbe they won’t a-tall. But gosh, consider. Here we are, ahead of thet whole tribe of hoags. We’re broke, too, an’ in debt. An’ a few salmon’s like strikin’ gold.”

  The moments passed, fraught with ever keener stir and thrill for Keven. There were lulls in the breaks on the surface and again continuous though scattered splashings. Salmon leaped the net in considerable numbers.

  “Pull up anchor, Kev,” said Garry finally. “I jest can’t wait no longer. I know we’ve got this damn skiff full, but I can’t believe in no such luck.”

  Keven did as directed, and the skiff slowly drifted with the current up the bay. Garry began to haul in the net. The first ten feet fetched in two salmon, big fellows over forty pounds. They had to be big to catch by the gills in an eight-inch mesh. Garry swore softly to himself as he, with difficulty, extricated the fish. Then he slid them into the skiff. Both net and skiff now had drifted straight upstream, in line with the buoy, which Keven could just barely make out, a black dot on the surface. The next ten feet of net came in heavy with a number of kicking salmon. As Garry tugged and tore he talked to himself. He was happy. He was rich. He might have been meeting old friends among these salmon. He called this one Old Sock-eye and that one Leather-back and another Big-jaw and still another Fatty. The bottom of the skiff was soon covered with flapping, tail-flipping salmon. It did not take many to crowd Keven out of his seat. And still they came, all huge, black-humped fellows, plump-sided, with silvery bellies that shone in the starlight.

  “It’s a swell run, Kev,” said Garry. “Lord, if they come thick an’ fast later, as I reckon, we’ll be swamped.”

  “We’re going to be swamped right now,” declared Keven.

  “Turn the skiff, you amateur. This ain’t nuthin’ yet, an’ it won’t be nuthin’…. Kev, I’ve stopped countin’ ’em; an’ when I do thet it’s good night.”

  It required an hour for Garry to clear the net, and then the skiff was so full that its gunwales were only a few inches above water.

  “Row carefully now,” instructed Garry. “Back where we were, inshore from the buoy.” As Keven rowed, Garry again let out the net, until he came to the end. “Drop anchor, Kev…. Hurry.”

  The skiff swung heavily, almost careened, then dragged to a stop.

  “Okay. Couldn’t be better. Here, take the rope,” said Garry. “Jest you set there an’ feel yourself gettin’ rich. I’ll go after the big flatboat. Don’t you get nervous now, pard.”

  “Careful, you’ll swamp us,” rejoined Keven, as Garry slipped over the side into the water.

  “Aggh! … My Gord!” ejaculated the fisherman huskily. “If this water ain’t from Crater Lake I’ll drink it all.”

  He let go of the skiff and struck out for the shore, his head and shoulders darkly parting the pale gleaming shadow. Finally he disappeared, but Keven could hear him swimming. He felt relieved when he heard the fisherman wading out. Then Keven attended to the vibrating rope in his hands, and the many other sensations that assailed him. Tug! A salmon had hit the net hard. For a space around, the water appeared quiet, though he heard distant splashes. The stars seemed to watch. How the rising tide outside roared and crashed in mounting waves on the strand! The night breeze was cold. Tug! Tug! And that was the beginning of an onslaught on the net. Salmon began to pound against the cork line, to swish in the air, to split the water like plummets. If there were so many on the surface, how many more would be deep down? Wet salmon piled against his legs. He could find no room to sit comfortably, and he began to get cold. But this was fun, this was fishing, and more—it was business. Tug! Tug! Soon the net sagged so heavily that he could no longer feel when another salmon hit. He had to loop the rope around the oarlock. Then followed a spell of quiet, when he attended to his more distant surroundings. The bold Cascade Range stood up against the fretwork of stars; the tide glided faster, with more of hiss and gurgle; a plover passed overhead with weird cry; dogs barked across the bay, and the lights of the town glimmered through openings
in the pines.

  Suddenly there came a surge on the net that rocked the overloaded skiff. Keven thought it was a stronger thrust of the tide. But, as there followed a quick flurry of water along the rope, then sharp splashes, culminating in a roar, he realized that he had been struck by a wall of fish. He could have yelled in his excitement. Then the skiff anchor began to drag. The burdened net was swinging upstream. At first Keven was alarmed. But a moment’s calculation convinced him that if he were careful he was in no danger, and could not lose the fish, so long as the tide was flooding in. Whereupon he cautiously drew the anchor off the bottom. After that the boat, dragging the net, drifted upstream, until in line with the buoy. Would the heavy rock at that far end suffice to hold both net and skiff? Keven let down his anchor. Also he released the net rope, and let it slowly out, until the drag was perceptibly lessened. The floundering of salmon along the net ceased as soon as it sank. But soon again the tremendous weight reasserted itself, until Keven was hard put to it to keep the skiff afloat. He was now in a pretty predicament, and he racked his brain to meet the situation. It would not help matters much to lighten the load in the skiff, though he feared he would have to do it. What would happen if he let go of the net rope altogether?

  He gazed around helplessly, and in desperation, up the bay in the direction from which Garry must return. The gloom could not be penetrated for any considerable distance. It was opaque and weird. The incoming tide flowed by the skiff, drawing it perceptibly. When would Garry come? In any event he must have a hard row against that current.

  Keven located his position by a tuft of brush on top of one of the sand dunes, and when he gradually edged out of line with this he knew the net anchor was dragging. At last, when he was about to abandon the net to row ashore and save at least the skiffload of salmon, he heard something that was not splashing fish. He listened, his ear turned upstream. The slight breeze came in from the sea, and it brought the almost incessant moan and beat of the surf. But presently he heard squeaky oarlocks. And he felt a rush of glad excitement. That would be Garry coming. So he held onto the net rope, while he tried to peer through the gray obscurity. It seemed a long time before he made out a dark object on the water. The sound of oars grew louder. Indeed Keven feared they could have been heard ashore by some watchful, keen-eared fisherman. Garry was a long time heaving up. The flatboat was wide and heavy. But at last Garry reached him.