The fault did not lie with them. They had done all that was humanly possible. Their mistake, if it could be called that, was in going out to engage an enemy they knew nothing about. Ignorance had been the cause of their downfall. ‘Know thy enemy’ was coined for a reason.
What did they know? Shakespeare asked himself. What had they learned so far? He mentally ticked off the short list: they knew the creature was a fish, they knew harpoons were useless against it, and they knew it would fight, and fight fiercely, in defense of its domain.
“Not much, is it?” Shakespeare continued his conversation with the rafters. Certainly, none of their paltry knowledge would help him destroy the thing. Frowning, he closed his eyes and tried to relax, but he was asking the impossible of his racing mind.
“There has to be something,” Shakespeare said. Again he went over his list: it was a fish, it had the temperament of a mad bull, it was more intelligent—in his opinion—than any fish he ever heard of, it liked to eat ducks, it stayed in the—
Shakespeare sat up. “It likes to eat ducks,” he said out loud. Or was it, he mused, that the thing was partial to meat covered in feathers? He chuckled, an idea taking form. He was still contemplating when Blue Water Woman returned, bearing a tray with the cup of the tea she had promised, along with a steaming bowl of soup.
“What is this, wench? The condemned man is treated to a last meal?”
“What are you babbling about?
“Were I a building, I would be on the verge of ruin,” Shakespeare said, moving his arms so she could set the tray in his lap.
“Does this have anything to do with your silly notion that you are being treated like a child?”
Shakespeare tugged at his white mane. “You don’t see infants with a mop of snow.”
“We are back to that again.”
“To what?”
“Never mind.” Blue Water Woman tapped the saucer. “I put toza in the tea.”
Shakespeare did not need to ask why. He was familiar with dozens of Indian remedies, everything from bitterroot for sore throats to juniper berries for bladder problems to the root of the horse-tail plant for sores. Toza was a tonic for those who were run down.
“Drink it.”
“Well moused, lion,” Shakespeare quoted. But he obliged her and took several sips. Setting the cup down, he picked up the spoon and was about to dip it into the soup when the aroma tingled his nose. “Unless my nostrils are mistaken, this is chicken soup.”
“We were out of badger meat,” Blue Water Woman bantered. They hardly ever ate badger.
“A fowl by any other feather,” Shakespeare said, and cackled. He eagerly spooned some of the broth into his mouth and delightedly smacked his lips. “Yes, indeed. It will do, and do nicely.”
“I am glad you like my soup.”
“I like your feathers more, madam,” Shakespeare said. “How many would you say we have, give or take an egg?”
Blue Water Woman could not hide her puzzlement. “What are you on about? I do not have feathers. As for eggs, I collected eleven from the coop this morning.”
“Eleven eggs but no feathers.”
“Will you stop with the feathers? You are making less sense than usual, which I did not think was possible.”
“On the contrary, my dear,” Shakespeare gloated. “You have given me a most wonderful inspiration.”
“In regards to what?”
Shakespeare spooned more soup into his mouth. “Between the feathers and the tea, my vigor and vim have been restored. I am ready to slay that finny dragon.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I talked it over with Winona on our way to shore, and she agrees it is entirely too dangerous. We should let the water devil or fish or whatever it is be. Let it get on with its life and we will get on with ours.”
“You would give up just like that?” Shakespeare said, and snapped his fingers.
“You could have been killed. Lou nearly died. What more will it take to convince you to leave well enough alone?”
“Have I mentioned lately how wonderful your English is? If you were behind a screen, and I did not know you were a Flathead, I would swear you were white.”
“Are you trying to change the subject?”
“Me?” Shakespeare touched his chest in mock amazement. “Do you honestly think I would stoop so low?”
“Lower, if you thought you could get away with it.”
“Is’t come to this? In faith, hath the world not one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion?”
“I know how your mind works,” Blue Water Woman said. “You are as devious a man as any who ever lived, red or white.”
“I thank you.”
“It was not a compliment, husband. You are up to something. Confess what it is and I will not be nearly as mad as when I find out on my own.”
Shakespeare covered her hand with his and gazed up into her eyes. “Since brevity is the soul of wit, and tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief,” he quoted. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Don’t you?” Blue Water Woman said. “Whatever you are plotting, do not do it. I ask you this as your wife of many winters.”
“I live to please you,” Shakespeare said.
“Good.”
“But I am also a man.”
“Not so good.” Blue Water Woman placed her other hand on his shoulder and leaned down. “Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.”
“You are a most marvelous parrot.”
“I mean it.”
“I am yours to command.”
“You mean that?”
“I am a living fount of truth,” Shakespeare said. “You can trust me to do what I have to.”
“Very well.” Blue Water Woman smiled and straightened. “I have chores to do. Eat, then rest. By tomorrow you should be back to your old self.”
“Assuredly,” Shakespeare said. He waited until she had left the bedroom, then snickered and said to himself, “A fox has nothing on me.” He ate heartily, plotting as he chewed and swallowed, and washed the chicken soup down with the tea.
Content with the food and his plot, and feeling as warmly snug as a bear in its den, Shakespeare pulled the blankets up. He needed to get as much rest as he could. He let himself drift off, and to his surprise, he slept so long that when he woke up the bedroom was dark and the front room was lit by the glow of their lamp. Yawning and stretching, he sat up. He was about to slide out of bed when he remembered his brainstorm. Grinning slyly, he called out to his wife and erased the grin before she appeared.
“You are finally up.”
“Don’t blame me. It was your idea,” Shakespeare said grumpily.
“I am glad you slept so long. You needed the rest.” Blue Water Woman came over and pressed a palm to his forehead. “You do not have a fever. How do you feel?”
“Still a little tired,” Shakespeare fibbed. “But hungry enough to eat an entire buffalo, hooves and horns included.”
“You stay right there. I will bring your supper to you.” Blue Water Woman kissed him on the cheek. “I am happy you have decided to listen to reason.”
Shakespeare watched her go out, marveling at how little she truly knew him after all their years together. Never in his entire life had he ever given up on anything. He was not about to give up on this.
The tantalizing aroma of cooking food filled the cabin. Shakespeare’s stomach rumbled. He was famished. When she brought in a tray with a sizzling slab of venison, hot potatoes smothered in gravy, and green beans, he ate with relish, savoring every bite. The deer meat, in particular, was delicious. It had been a staple of his diet for so long, he preferred it over beef. Three cups of piping hot coffee helped fill his belly. As he was pouring his last cup, Blue Water Woman came in and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I have something to ask you.”
“Ask away,” Shakespeare warily said, afraid she had guessed what he intended to do and w
ould insist he not do it.
“That talk we had a while back about each of our families getting a cow,” Blue Water Woman said. “Do you still want one?”
Shakespeare smiled in relief. “I do if you do.”
“I talked about it out on the lake with Winona. It was Nate’s idea, and it is a good one. We will have milk every day, and I can churn butter. I have never done that, but if white women can do it, I can, too.”
“A cow it is,” Shakespeare said. “Nate and I aim to ride to Bent’s Fort in a couple of weeks to see about buying some from any pilgrims who might be bound for Oregon Country.” Invariably, in every wagon train, more than a few emigrants had cows tied to the back of their wagons, or else the cows were bunched in a common herd.
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 goose bumps 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 inse
ct’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 to 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 relict from the time when, according to many Indians, the land and the water were overrun by huge animals of all kinds.
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