Outcast

by Gary D. Svee

  Hortenzia stamped her feet. “Don’t think I forgot about you, Hortenzia. You’ve worked really hard these past days.” He patted her nose, and she nodded at him.

  “How about a bucket of oats this morning? You can follow that up with some of that fresh meadow grass, maybe a flower or two.”

  Standish filled two buckets with oats and set them on the floor. “Now, I’d like to stay and talk to you, but I’d best go in and change my clothes. Never know when Arch shows up. Wouldn’t want him to see my knee. He’d probably faint or something. No, he’d probably laugh. I’d be sitting there bleeding, and he’d be laughing.”

  Standish walked back into the cabin, muttering with each step. Inside he pulled his boots off and then his pants. He sat down on the chair beside the table, holding the lantern. Not too bad. He’d just wash it off, and put a little bandage on it, just something to keep him from bleeding on his new pair of pants. That’s what he was doing when Arch and Iona stepped through the door.

  Standish leaned back in his chair. “Ma’am, that was the best cinnamon roll I ever had.”

  “Best ever,” Arch said.

  Morning light was streaming through the cabin’s window, and Standish thought he saw a blush like a misty rainbow cross Iona’s face. “I’ll just clean up while you two go,” she said.

  Standish shook his head. “Only take a minute. I’ll do it.”

  “Burning daylight,” Arch said.

  Standish looked across at Arch. “You’re right, Arch. Maybe you better help me clean up.”

  Arch’s eyebrows wrinkled. “Didn’t say I would.”

  “Didn’t say you wouldn’t.”

  “Okay, I’ll say it. I won’t help you.”

  “Arch!”

  Arch looked up at his mother. There was no compromise on her face. “Okay, I will this time.”

  Standish took a chair from the table. “Maybe you’d like to sit outside in the morning sun.”

  She smiled. “No queen had so royal a throne as this.”

  Standish grinned. “To sit in a morning so gently kissed.”

  And Iona replied. “By sun soft as a pillow blessed.”

  And Standish concluded. “With down from an eider’s breast.”

  They both laughed.

  “That came in a sack of flour.”

  “Sugar, I thought,” Standish said.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Standish said.

  “I will retire now to my queenly throne.”

  “And Arch and I will clean up.”

  “You wash; I dry,” Arch said.

  “Yes sir.”

  Arch nodded. That was as it should be.

  Arch was creeping through the grass next to the cabin on his hands and knees. He was every inch a predator. He stopped, raised one hand and pounced. Yellow-belly,” he shouted. “You figure we’ve got enough?”

  “Depends on how many fish you want to catch.”

  “Want two more. Two more fish,” Arch said, forcing the grasshopper into an old Bull Durham sack.

  “I’ve got one,” Iona whooped.

  “Me, too,” Standish said.

  Arch stood. “Those are my hoppers?”

  Standish nodded.

  “Just wanted to make sure.”

  “We’d best be getting up to the beaver ponds.”

  Arch nodded.

  Standish picked up the picnic basket. A question spread across his face. Heavy. Lot of food for three people.

  “Two and Arch,” Iona said.

  Standish nodded. Two and Arch.

  Standish grabbed Arch by the shoulder. “Quiet. I thought I told you to be quiet.”

  “Who the.… Who do you think you are to tell me to…?”

  “You want to make a speech or do you want to fish?”

  Arch glowered. “Let’s see if I can help you with this. I have a fishing pole in my hand with a yellow-bellied grasshopper on the hook. We ain’t standing in no church or no city hall, and if I was to make a speech, I wouldn’t waste my time on you. So you tell me: Does it look to you like I want to fish or speechify?”

  Standish’s eyelids closed slowly, painfully. “Maybe I can help you along with this, Arch. Whose pole is it that you’re holding?”

  “Don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “The point is that if you don’t want to fish, I will.”

  Arch shook his head. “Thought I had explained that to you. Maybe I need to talk a little slower. I…want…to…fish. Does…that…clarify…the…question…for…you?”

  The growl started low in Stan dish’s throat. “Arch.” The word rumbled like a summer thunderstorm. “We’re coming up on the beaver pond from below. This isn’t much different from hunting. We go as quiet as we can. We don’t show any more of ourselves than we have to. That’s what I was saying.”

  “Then why the…why didn’t you just spit it out? Why beat around the bush the way you do?”

  Standish rubbed his forehead with both hands. “Don’t know Arch. Just a character flaw, I guess.”

  “Flaw? Disaster is more like it. Can’t see how you’ve gotten along without me to set you straight.”

  “Me either, Arch.”

  The two hunched down as they neared the dam. When they raised their heads, their eyes were only a little above the water level in the pond. The tip of the pole swung back. Arch meant to cast. Standish put his hand on the boy’s arm.

  “See that log over there, about four feet from shore?”

  “Sure I see that log,” Arch sputtered. “You see that mosquito on your ear?”

  Standish slapped his ear, leaving a resounding boom echoing through his head. “Arch if you.…”

  “I didn’t slap your ear. You slapped your ear.”

  “For a nonexistent mosquito.”

  “Well, I don’t know what kind of mosquito it was, but you were the one who slapped it.”

  “There wasn’t a mosquito, was there, Arch?”

  Arch tugged on Standish’s shirt. Standish leaned over. Arch reached up to Standish’s ear. His finger came back with a spot of blood on it. “Now, either you had a mosquito on your ear, or you slapped yourself so hard, you’re bleeding.”

  Standish nodded.

  Arch shook his head. “I should have just left that mosquito alone. At least he knew what he was doing.”

  Standish leaned back and stared into the heavens. When he returned his attention to more earthly matters, he cleared his throat. “See that log?”

  “Ain’t moved as far as I can see.” Realization spread over Arch’s face. “You’re going to tell me that log is a fish, ain’t you?”

  “No, Arch, I ain’t…I am not going to tell you that.”

  Arch didn’t give much credence to Standish’s denial. “I’ve heard of fish stories before, but that is the sorriest one I’ve ever heard. Just because I’ve never been fishing before doesn’t mean I can’t tell a log from a fish.” Arch shook his head in disgust. “You’re some piece of work.”

  “Arch, watch this end of that log.”

  “Which end of the log fish, the head or the tail.”

  “This end. Watch it. Don’t say anything, just watch it.”

  Arch turned in disgust. “If this is fishing, I.… Whooee, that’s a big one, ain’t it?”

  “Biggest cutthroat I ever saw.”

  “I’ll go get my shotgun.”

  “Arch, we’re fishing. You fish with a pole, not a shotgun. Now, just swing that hopper back and forth until you figure you can drop it right in front of that fish. Keep the rod tip up, and just.…”

  The line tangled in a sumac bush.

  Arch shrugged. “That hopper pulled the line right into that skunk bush. Got to give the little guy credit,” Arch said, shaking his head. “Even with that hook stuck through him, he still figures he’s going to get away.”

  One corner of Standish’s mouth curled up. “Arch, you sure you haven’t been fishing before?”

 
; “Sure as anything.”

  “Well, I figure you’ve found your calling. Now, let me untangle this, and you try again. This time keep your rod tip up. Watch what you’re doing and don’t yank while I’m untangling this mess. I don’t want to be digging that hook out of one of my fingers.”

  Arch took on an innocent air. “Not like it was my fault. Can’t help it if I got a mutinous hopper on the line. Course I can’t blame the little guy. Probably wants to run home and take care of his kids, and he finds himself hanging on the end of a fish line. Probably.…”

  “Pay attention, Arch.”

  The line followed the rod tip back and forth, traveling a little farther with each swing.

  “Now, Arch. Let the line go.”

  Arch did, and the hopper plopped into the pond about 18 inches from the trout. The water swirled as the trout came up and.…

  “Diddlydee,” Arch said. “I put it right out there, but that trout didn’t.…”

  The rod doubled, carving a wide arc in the air, and Arch whooped. “I got him. I got the biggest, the diddlydeeest trout in the state of Montana, maybe in the whole world.”

  “You haven’t got him yet, Arch. Keep that rod tip up. Come on. We don’t want him tangled in that beaver dam.”

  Both ran up the creek bank to stand on the bank of the pond. Arch had both hands on the rod’s handle; line buzzed off the reel.

  “That’s it, Arch. Keep the pressure on him. Don’t let him get into that bunch of brush.”

  Arch’s eyes were round, his skin white with excitement. “Diddlydee. Diddlydee.”

  “Keep that rod tip up. Big as he is, he could snap the line.”

  “Diddlydee. Diddlydee.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “What,” Arch said, perturbed at the interruption.

  “Diddlydee?”

  “I say that so I won’t have to say the other D word.”

  “Diddlydee,” Standish said. “He’s one of the diddlydeeest trout I’ve ever seen.”

  “He sure is,” Arch said.

  “Keep the rod tip up.”

  “I’m doing that.”

  “Trap the line between your hand and the pole’s handle. You can keep pressure on him; let it go when that hog trout puts too much pressure on the line.”

  “Diddlydee,” Arch said. “Diddlydee”

  “That’s it, Arch. Keep his head pointed toward you. He can’t swim backward. Keep him coming.”

  The trout was close to the bank, exhaustion showing in each swirl to get back to the deeper water in the pond. Standish stepped into the water, slipped and fell armpit deep into the pool.

  “Diddlydee!” Arch scowled. “You’re spooking my fish.”

  Standish crawled dripping from the pond. “Diddlydee,” he said.

  The fish was in its last throes, and Arch slid it on the short grass beside the pond. The trout was magnificent, a little over two feet long and probably four or five pounds.

  “Biggest cutthroat I ever saw,” Standish said.

  “Why do they call it a cutthroat?”

  “See that red/orange slash at the bottom of the gill cover?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it looks like somebody cut his throat.”

  “Don’t look like that to me.”

  “Well it looked like that to somebody. He’s a beauty, Arch. You want to keep him or let him go?”

  “Want to eat him.”

  “Good choice,” Standish said.

  Standish jerked back as a shadow fell on him from a bank above the two fishermen. Iona Belshaw. She seemed as spooked as Standish did.

  “I heard all the shouting. I.…”

  “Ma, look at this hog cutthroat.”

  “Cutthroat?” She shrank back, her hand fluttering to her throat.

  “Ain’t he a beaut, Ma?”

  “Well, I.…”

  Arch picked up the fish holding it toward his mother.

  Iona smiled, as only parents can smile when their children have pleased them. “Arch, that’s a beautiful fish. He will make a real treat for dinner.” She turned her attention to Standish. “You’re sopping wet.”

  “Sometimes you have to go into the water to land a fish big as this one.”

  “You went into the water to.…”

  “Came up carrying it in his teeth, Ma, just like an otter.”

  “Or an alligator,” Standish added.

  “Holding the fish in his teeth?”

  Arch and Standish laughed. “Ma’am.…”

  “Iona.”

  Standish nodded. “Iona, Arch and I will have to take you fishing.”

  “So you can learn the language,” Arch said.

  “Sounds to me like fishing is built on tall tales.”

  “Sounds to me like your mother is a natural,” Standish grinned, and all three laughed.

  Standish was lying on the grass, propping himself up on one elbow. “Ma’am that was the best fried chicken I ever had.”

  “And potato salad,” Arch said.

  “I wouldn’t know about the potato salad,” Standish said, “Seeing as how someone else ate all of it.”

  “Didn’t you get any salad, Mister.…”

  “Miles, ma’am.”

  “Iona.”

  Standish nodded.

  “He got salad, Ma. He’s just being a fisherman.”

  Grins were traded around the picnic basket.

  “How did you ever get a name like Miles?”

  “To go with Standish?”

  Iona nodded.

  “My father had a great love for poetry. So.…”

  “Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.”

  Miles nodded.

  “Seems that you take after your father.”

  “Most of the time it was the other way around. Most of the time he caught me, too.”

  Iona smiled. “So you were taught to the tune of a hickory stick.”

  “Reading and writing and ’rithmatic.”

  They both laughed.

  “How about you, Arch? Are you a poet in the making?”

  “Don’t know much about it.”

  “Don’t they teach poetry in school anymore?”

  “Don’t go to school.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s none of your…diddlydee business.” Arch had jumped to his feet, and he leaned toward Standish, his face painted with rage.

  “Arch!”

  “Well, it ain’t.”

  Iona was on her knees, gathering plates and utensils, and the remaining shreds of the picnic. A mask had slipped over her face. She tried to smile at him as she collected the plates and blanket, but the smile couldn’t crack the façade.

  “Thank you, Mr. Standish. We very much enjoyed this day.”

  “Miles,” Standish said. “From the poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.”

  The words washed against the backs of the two as they walked away, lost in the swish of their feet moving through the tall grass of the meadow.

  Standish leaned back to wipe his sleeve against his forehead. He was standing beside a sandstone ledge presiding over one side of a dry coulee. The ledge cracked from eons of exposure to the wind and severe temperatures in Montana. Some of it had sloughed off into the coulee, and that was what Standish was loading into the wagon.

  Hortenzia was fidgeting. The coulee was dry with only occasionally tufts of bunch grass for her to taste. Apparently, it didn’t stack up to the fresh green grass in the meadow. She chuffed, and Standish stopped for a moment to talk to her. He stepped over to her, running his hand along her neck. “Won’t be long now, girl. We’re almost done. I know you need a drink of water. I do, too. Won’t be long, now, girl.”

  Hortenzia nodded, and Standish wondered if she had understood his words as Sally always seemed to. Standish leaned over, pulling the opposite end of the flat rock up and toward him. Bzzzzzz. Standish dropped the rock. Thump.

  Hortenzia started, and the wagon rolled forward two or three steps.

 
“Easy girl. He isn’t causing any trouble. He’s just like us, eager to get out of the sun. Easy, girl. Easy.”

  Standish picked up the crowbar and the shovel and the pick and put them in back of the wagon. He settled on the wagon’s seat and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Hortenzia set out eagerly. The wagon clattered along the two-track road, rocks shifting on the wagon bed. Passing through the air created a breeze and cooled the day. Hortenzia’s unique odor complemented by the scent of grass. Occasionally wild roses or sage poked into the milieu like punctuation marks in a sentence.

  Something white winked at him from a small knoll by the trail. Standish pulled back on the reins. He walked up the knoll as he might walk up the aisle in a church. There on slender stalks was a stand of Sego Lilies. Three petals and as white as Christ’s robe with a blush of royal purple at the base. Extending from that base was a three-pointed golden star. So slender were the stalks that the lilies bobbed and nodded in the slightest of breezes, a royal court discussing the latest gossip.

  Standish knelt at the flowers, reveling at the beauty of God’s creation, wondering when a meadowlark offered its seven-note arpeggio if that might not be the choir singing at this service. He prayed for the first time for as long as he could remember. He thanked God for the beauty of his creation. He thanked God for the sense of serenity that had entered Standish’s life and prayed that he would remain vigilant, so that he might survive if Bodmer came hunting him. That thought jerked him back to the day. He slipped behind a large rock and studied the area, probing the grass and the swales for any glint of metal, any dust following a bunch of running horses.

  Nothing waited for him, and it wasn’t until he sighed that Standish realized he had been holding his breath. He rose and stepped to Hortenzia. She was snatching at the grass beside the trail. He suspected that horses didn’t spend much time looking at flowers. He suspected that was a lesson he might adopt if he were to survive.

  The track steepened. Not much farther now to the trail to his home. What a strange concept that was, his home. He’d best stop thinking like that. The cabin wasn’t a home so much as hideout, and he might have to abandon it at any moment. That thought left an ache in his chest, and that wasn’t good. Arch had told him not to get attached to the chicks, because it hurt too much to kill them. He had to think of the cabin, like that: something temporary, a rest stop in his run for life.