The Sky Fisherman

by Craig Lesley

  Jake set a dollar on the counter and buttoned his coat.

  "Honk as you drive by," the man said. "If the old fart waves, he hasn't frozen to death yet."

  The cab was cold and we could see our breaths. "Heater's a little on the blink," Jake said.

  As we drove by the junked-up yard, he honked and the bundled man waved. Jake honked again and the man gave a huge wave. "Likes his work," my uncle said.

  A quarter mile from Sherman, we bumped across a double set of railroad tracks covered in snow and passed two tall grain elevators, larger than the ones at Sunrise Biscuits. Here the cement elevator remained in good condition, but the wooden one had partially burned. Smoke streaked the sides; part of the roof had caved in. "Some son of a bitch was torching these historic elevators last summer," Jake said. "Got five in this county alone."

  "How much farther to Gab's place?" I couldn't see much but snow and an occasional farm light.

  "Eight miles. This snow should keep the geese so low we can club them with our gun butts."

  "You bet." I held my new Remington 870 pump to keep it from bouncing around in the cab as the snow-covered road turned to washboard. I had selected the deluxe model at Jake's suggestion because the checkered walnut stock seemed worth the extra price. I carried the shotgun in a padded case and could have left it behind the back seat with Jake's but wanted it closer. Under the heavy hunting coat, I was wearing my father's Filson vest. The pockets were filled with twenty shotgun shells and I felt the weight. I had intended to carry two boxes of shells, but Jake had insisted one was enough. After taking me out to the Gateway trap club and teaching me a little about wing shots, he had pronounced my shooting as "dude-gone good."

  "Think geese," Jake said, grinning at the heavy snowfall. "Just like those skiers with their THINK SNOW bumper stickers. The geese will keep so low today they'll be big as bathtubs."

  I felt exhilarated. Jake sped up and the pickup jarred over the snow-covered corrugations, almost rattling my teeth. Ahead, dark shadows blocked the road. "Hey, look out!" I jammed my foot into the floorboard.

  When Jake saw them, he hit the brakes, sending the pickup into a long fishtail skid. "Shit fire!"

  Turning the wheels into the skid, he straightened a little, and the pickup slid straight toward a herd of horses. The closest bolted as it saw the pickup loom out of the snow, but we grazed its rump with the spare tire Jake kept mounted high on the front. The others lunged toward the roadside, too, plumes of steam coming from their nostrils. Then they ran across the barrow pit and out into an open field. They stood, backs to the storm, their tails and manes shagged with ice.

  "Fucking horses," Jake said. He leaned on the horn and they ran another fifty yards, then stopped, watching us closely. "Reminds me of an ambulance run."

  "What about it?"

  He shook his head. "Too long a story. Gab's place is dead ahead."

  "Think that one's okay?" I asked. "We just grazed it."

  "Sure. If not, we'll shoot the son of a bitch. Shoot the owner, too, for letting his horses run wild."

  Billyum's tribal pickup sat in Gab's driveway. Jake hadn't mentioned his coming along, but I was pleased.

  As soon as they saw our rig, the two rushed out the door carrying their shotguns and flasks of coffee. "Where the hell you been?" Gab asked. "Kept drinking coffee while we waited. Now I'm all jittery."

  "Let's go," Billyum said, opening the door to his rig. "Feeding time for the geese."

  "Just slow down a cotton-picking minute," Jake said. "Before we go any further, I want to see everybody's hunting license and waterfowl stamp."

  I thought he was serious and started to take mine out.

  "I'm not aiding and abetting any game-law violators in this great state." He looked at Billyum. "Got your federal waterfowl stamp, fella? The U.S. government says you got to have it."

  "Gee, I think I left mine back on the rez," he said. "In my other pants."

  "That's a piss-poor excuse," Jake said. "Limpy, gimpy, and lame. Sorry, but you can't hunt then. Like the sign says, 'The Game Law Violator Is a Thief.'"

  "We own all this anyway," Billyum said, pointing to the land toward the river. "Geese belong to us, too."

  "Don't give me that," Jake said. "I'm putting you on notice. Whose side is this anyway? White or Indian?"

  "It's just a short-term loan," Billyum said.

  "Let's get going, you loggerheads," Gab said, opening the passenger door on Billyum's rig. "We'll miss the geese."

  "Just don't expect me to bail him out," Jake said.

  From Gab's place, we drove six miles, then stopped at an old abandoned farmhouse crouched in a depression out of the wind. At the back of the farmhouse was a cistern filled with fifty or sixty empty farm chemical barrels and assorted junk.

  Gab walked to the cistern and started peeing. "Damn coffee."

  "It'll take you a while to fill that up," Jake said. "What the hell did they use that for? Swimming pool?"

  "I don't know," Gab said. "It's always been dry long as I remember."

  "What was in all these barrels?" I asked.

  "Just farm stuff," Gab said. "People dump everything here. Look, there's an old sofa, a tricycle. I guess they think they're saving dumping fees, but it makes me mad."

  In places the wind had scoured, wheat stubble poked through the snow. We walked a couple hundred yards across drifts and scours, then stood on the edge of the basalt rim overlooking the deep canyon. The bottom was swallowed by snowfall so you couldn't see the Lost.

  "Over there." With a mittened hand, Gab pointed to a long saddle that ran about three hundred yards downslope, ending in a cliff face. "Those are the pits." Two dark circles stood at the far edge of the saddle.

  "The geese come up both draws or fly low right over the point, depending on the weather. I love this kind of hunting," Gab said. "You don't have to drag out decoys or screw around with a boat. I even left the dog at the house. She's getting old. Loves to hunt but not when it's this cold."

  We covered the distance to the pits in about ten minutes. The saddle was rugged and rocky, providing treacherous footing. The men were huffing and puffing by the time we arrived. I was a little tired, but felt in good shape because of basketball.

  "You and Billyum take the left pit," Jake said. "Gab and I will shoot from the right."

  "How come you always take that pit?" Billyum asked.

  "I like shooting left-winged geese," Jake said. "They taste better. Anyway, our pit's more comfy."

  Neither pit was luxurious. Each was a slight depression in the terrain circled with a pile of basalt rocks about five feet high. Some of the rocks had spilled off the wall with erosion and frost heaves, but the remaining walls seemed pretty solid, held by the frozen ice. The pits were about six feet in diameter, just big enough for two hunters. But the rocks were hard and cold. You had to sit, kneel, or squat so the geese couldn't see your head and shoulders above the pits. None of the positions were comfortable.

  "These places get worse every year," Billyum said. "Let's take up a collection and buy some pillows or beanbag chairs."

  "These pits are the pits," Jake said. "Next time we'll go to Billyum's place. Don't even need a federal waterfowl stamp to hunt there."

  "Wind's getting worse." Billyum hunkered. "These rocks aren't much help. Cold wind just whistles through the gaps." He took out the thermos of coffee and poured a cup, then offered it to me. "Steady your nerves."

  I took off my mittens to hold the cup, and the warmth felt good. Billyum had doctored the coffee with whiskey. "Makes the wait shorter," he said.

  "Are you contributing to the delinquency of a minor?" Jake called. "I thought I smelled happy coffee on the faint summer breeze."

  "No you didn't," Billyum said. "Wind's blowing wrong." He sneezed. "Damn it! I'm going to be pissed if I catch a cold for the holidays. Have to go take the old Indian cure."

  "What's that?" I said. "A sweat?"

  "Sort of. Vitamin C and lots of whiskey. That makes y
ou sweat good."

  "I'll bet you wish you were on the river instead of freezing to death in this goose pit. You and Jake sure caught some monsters."

  Billyum shifted his position. "These are the coldest, hardest, most miserable rocks I've ever been around. I'm sure Jake and Gab went out of their way to make this the worst pit." He glanced at the sky. "I'll bet we catch double pneumonia for nothing. I've never seen snow like this before Thanksgiving. Even old Sylvester says it's deeper than he can remember."

  "Jake thinks the snow will keep the geese low. He says not to shoot until I see their feet."

  Billyum grinned. "Big advice. Jake can't shoot straight. He brings me out here every year just to try and beat me. So far eleven to nothing." He took off his right glove and put his hand inside his coat, next to his warm belly. "Thaw my trigger finger."

  "You guys shut up!" Gab called from the next pit. "We're listening for geese here. Which way's the wind blowing? Upcanyon I think. We should hear them when they lift off the river."

  "Have Jake stick his thumb up his butt," Billyum called. "Heck, that'll tell you what way the warm wind blows."

  I smiled. "If they come, they'll look like bathtubs, Jake says. That's how low."

  "Thinking of bathtubs, I'm going to get in a nice hot one tonight," Billyum said to me. "About two hundred degrees. Too cold this time of year to go to the sweat house—jump in the river." He shivered. "Thank God, I'm no Finn."

  "Did you and Jake sweat and fish that whole time you were on the river?" I asked.

  Billyum squinted at me, the snowflakes settling on his lashes. "We hit the great steelhead holes on both sides. Ate like kings. Went to the sweat house." He took his hand out and put his glove back on. "Why are you asking?"

  "I could have used some help in the store. That's all."

  Billyum chuckled. "Jake finds any excuse he can to get on the river. You got to admit it beats work."

  "Did you ever take my dad to the sweat house?"

  "No," Billyum said. "He and I weren't as close as Jake and me. Now I wish I had. Sort of missed the chance."

  "Well, at least Jake's still here," I said. "Both of them could have drowned when the boat went down."

  Billyum furrowed his brow, remembering. "Well, Jake could have drowned going in after your dad. But he wasn't in the boat."

  "No, that's not right. They were both going through Bronco Rapids."

  Billyum shook his head. "Jake wasn't in the boat. He worked hard at drowning himself, but he was diving in from the shore."

  In spite of the cold, Billyum's words made heated blood flush my face. I was about to protest again, but Billyum put his finger to his lips. "Here they come," he whispered. "Don't talk."

  I heard them, too, the honkers coming upcanyon from the river.

  "Keep your head low," he whispered. "They might spook."

  Kneeling, I kept my head down, and felt the shock of Billyum's words numbing my neck and back. The honking grew louder and louder until it sounded like the geese were flying straight into the pit. Billyum had pulled his parka hood forward but tipped his head to one side, so he could watch without showing his face. The cold basalt stones pressed against my knees.

  Compelled to look, I turned to face skyward and saw the huge geese lumbering upcanyon, dark silhouettes against the snow-washed sky. The combined beating of their wings sounded like a train.

  As soon as he heard firing from the other pit, Billyum leapt to his feet, but I was slower. He fired twice, flame leaping from the gun barrel into the darkening sky, and I stood confused, the gun silent at my shoulder.

  A goose to my right dropped from the sky, hitting the snow and frozen ground with a sickening thud, then lying still as a sack of potatoes. Another goose glided on one wing, hit fifty yards uphill, and somersaulted, but after a minute began flapping and hopping one-footed toward the wheat field. The wounded goose made sharp warning honks.

  "Shit. I wish we'd brought the dog," Gab said. "Jake can't shoot turds in a toilet."

  "At least I hit something," Jake said. "Old Gab the veteran goose guide killed about three million snowflakes. Fellas, I can't do any more for him. He bought the biggest gun I sell."

  "You jostled my elbow, you loggerhead," Gab said.

  Billyum winked at me and called out, "Would you guys hurry up and chase that goose? Another raft of them might head up and he'll scare them off, honking like that."

  "Let him stiffen up," Jake said. "He's bleeding. I heard those pellets thump."

  The goose continued flailing toward the wheat fields. He would go a way, then stop, making an erratic trail through the snow.

  "Time's wasting, men. And it's getting dark," Billyum said.

  Grumbling, Gab and Jake climbed out of their pit.

  "Would you fellows mind handing me my goose, as long as you're getting out?" Billyum asked.

  "Maybe Culver got the goose," Jake said. "It'd be just like you to go claiming credit for someone else's kill."

  "A little goose fever?" Gab asked me. "I never saw you shoot."

  "He's waiting for the big ones," Billyum said. "Hurry up or they'll flare."

  Jake dropped over to the right side of the saddle and Gab to the left. By staying below the crown, they figured they could get close enough to shoot the goose again. It had stopped moving but was still honking. The cries seemed to be answered by the geese that had landed in the wheat field above.

  "If you guys hear another flock coming, drop down and pretend to be rocks," Billyum called. "Don't spoil this hunt for me and Culver, or I'm not paying." He climbed out of the blind to retrieve his goose. With lowered voice he told me, "I could get dozens of these on the reservation but I can't resist coming along and showing up Jake."

  Billyum returned to the blind carrying the goose by the neck. A dark spot showed on the head and two red drops on the large gray breast. "I always aim for the head," Billyum said. "But two pellets hit the breast. Jake must have sold me some bum shells." When he held the fallen goose out for me to inspect, I brushed the snow away from its feathers with my mittened hand.

  "Look at those snow clowns." Billyum pointed to Gab and Jake, stumbling and sliding on the basalt side slopes, trying to get close enough to finish the wounded goose.

  "We'll be lucky if Gab doesn't trip and roll all the way to the river. Go goose hunting in a wheat field and drown." Billyum paused, realizing what he had said. "Sorry, I didn't think..."

  "It's all right," I said. "Anyway, I wanted you to finish telling about the river. You were saying Jake wasn't in the boat."

  Billyum rubbed his thighs, trying to improve the circulation. "I figured you already knew the story by heart." He gave me a long look. "No harm in telling it again, I guess." Billyum seemed to be measuring each word, getting it right. "No one belonged on the river that spring, not until the water settled down some. But those two brothers were hell-bent to get some early fishing. Well, I was, too, but I drove down to Bronco. You can get fairly close on our side.

  "I was fishing the big eddy about halfway through the rapids—damn nice spot when it's clear—but the high water made it too roily. I stuck with it all day, then toward night I looked up and here comes your dad bobbing and weaving through the rapids, the boat riding high as a cork. He was good with the oars. In fact, I thought it was Jake—they looked a lot alike.

  "I waved and shouted, but if he saw me he didn't show it. How could he, the way he had to row like hell? Maybe he was a quarter mile below me when he hit a big submerged log that floated down in winter. Stopped the boat dead and he started taking water.

  "The boat was sinking fast, I knew that, so I started running downstream like a wild man. I pushed through a stand of thick jack pines, and when I came out into the clearing, he was gone. Water swept him out, I guess. I ran downstream, seeing if the current carried him ashore. No luck. The bow of the boat stayed above water awhile. The boat could have pinned him against a rock.

  "Then I saw Jake on the other side. For just a minute, I thought he
got out, but when he started diving into the water, I realized he was after your father. Jake went in and got as close to those rocks as he could. I yelled, but he was concentrating on the river. He had an extra life jacket with him and he kept holding it out, like a parent holds out a child's coat while they look for him outside—you see that sometimes."

  Billyum peered over the pit at the two men struggling toward the goose. The snow made it hard to see, but they were almost even with the bird, and both came stumbling up the side slope onto the saddle. Gab tried angling ahead of the goose, cutting it off, but he fell and didn't rise for a moment.

  "I'll bet that hurt," Billyum said.

  He returned to his story. "I never saw a man work so hard at drowning himself. Time after time, he went into that freezing water, until I knew he was going to stay under, too. 'Get out, you dumb bastard!' I shouted. Or something like that. But he wouldn't quit. Finally, I took my three fifty-seven Magnum out and fired a few rounds in his direction just to get his attention." Billyum chuckled. "When those bullets hit around him, he finally understood my drift. He crawled back to the bank and just sat there, holding the empty life preserver."

  Billyum shook his head. "Those boys were too reckless that spring, I guess. But even if they had stopped to study the rapids, I don't think they'd have seen that submerged log. I went and flagged that bastard the next day, and when the water lowered, a diver went down and blasted it clear with dynamite. That's pretty much the story."

  Jake started running helter-skelter over the snow-covered rocks until he was close enough to fire. Seeing him coming, the goose cut back toward us and Jake fired, a flame tongue leaping from the gun barrel in the dusk. Gab fired, too, and we saw snow fly around the goose, but it turned back toward the wheat field, flapping its good wing and honking.

  Jake fell down, cursed, and was up again. Billyum slapped his knees. "This is better than a greased-pig chase at the county fair," he said. Jake stopped, planted himself, fired again. Finally, the goose lay still. Above us, we heard a raft of geese climbing high, away from the shooting.