by Zane Grey
“Gord—what—a pull!” he panted.
“Got an anchor?” queried Keven, sharp and low.
“Sure Mike.”
“Drop it quick. Don’t grab hold of me. I’m drifting with the net. It’s chock-full of salmon. That rock is dragging. You didn’t get back any too soon.”
Garry wasted no time. He thumped over a heavy anchor, after which he reached an oar to Keven and pulled the skiff alongside the big flatboat. Indeed it looked like a barge.
“Gimme hold of—thet net rope,” demanded Garry hoarsely, and as Keven complied he added: “Well, I’m a son of a gun! … Kev, slide your fish over into this boat…. Careful now. If you rock her it’s good night.”
“I’ve been aware of that for a couple of long hours, Garry Lord,” replied Keven, as he began to transfer the heavy salmon.
“Gosh, you must have had a nice time out here, waitin’ an’ fightin’ this tide. How’n hell did you hold on? This net is bustin’ with fish. Never but once in my life did I feel the like. Kev, we’ve got a haul. An’ if we can make a few more sets tonight we’re rich.”
“We’ll make ’em, Garry. Didn’t you even know what a lucky fisherman I was?”
“Sure. I remember how steelhead used to crawl out on the bank an’ die at your feet…. You was lucky with the girls, too, Kev.”
“I never noticed that,” declared Keven decidedly.
When at length he had lightened the skiff Garry stepped over out of the flatboat and began the laborious job of hauling the net, while Keven stood by the oars. The net sagged with salmon. Garry raved while he worked. He was jubilant. He bragged about how he and his new partner were the slickest fishermen on the river.
Before he had hauled twenty feet of the net the skiff was once more dangerously laden. “My Gord! Packed solid! … Row back to the flatboat, Kev. Slow now, fer I’m hangin’ onto the rope, you bet.”
They emptied that load, and this time Garry risked fastening the net rope to the flat boat. That facilitated the work. The heavy anchor held. And Garry told Keven he would give him an exhibition of how to pick a net. “Like a starvin’ tramp pickin’ blackberries…. Ha! Ha! … My Gord, look here, Kev. Whopper of a steelhead. First one. He’ll go sixteen pounds.”
“Heavens!” gasped Keven, as he eyed the beautiful gleaming silvery fish. He knew the graceful lines, the small game head. “Let me have him…. He’s alive yet, Garry. I don’t see how I can do it—but I’ll let him go.”
Reluctantly he consigned the wonderful steelhead to the dark murky water, glad to see it swirl and disappear. “If I ever hooked one like that I’d fall in and drown.”
Garry filled the skiff four times. “Now, Kev, we gotta get back to thet place. How far have we dragged, do you reckon?”
Keven took his bearings from the sand dunes. “Hundred yards or so.”
Garry pulled up the rock anchor, and then left Keven to manage the skiff while he returned to the flatboat. He had another tremendous pull to follow Keven back to their original spot close under the shadow of the sand dunes. Here he anchored the larger boat.
It was long past midnight and cold. The sea wind pierced Keven through. Numb and wet, he stuck to his oars, while Garry handled the net. Salmon continued to come in, and in four sets they filled the flatboat to the top of the gunwales. In the cold dim grayness of dawn, at slack tide, they rowed across the bay and up the river to beach the boats on the sand.
“Go to bed, pard. You sure done noble,” advised Garry. “I’m a dead one myself, but I’ll set on this haul of salmon till it’s sold.”
Keven could scarcely drag himself up to the tent. He was wringing wet, slimy as an eel, so frozen and exhausted that only by dint of the last expenditure of strength could he get out of his clothes and into bed. But his heart was warm and glad. What a night for a fisherman! And there was something singing within him when his weary eyelids glued shut.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN Keven awakened the day appeared far spent. He rolled his aching body out of the blankets and found he was stiff and bent, like an old man. His sore and blistered hands fumbled over his bag, to get out a flannel shirt and pair of blue jeans. Of socks he had plenty, and one extra pair of shoes. It was labor to dress, during which time he wondered what had become of Garry and the carload of salmon they had caught. But had that been a dream?
He went outside. The clothes he had worn, sight of which attested to the truth of that night haul, lay spread in the sun. Garry was nowhere to be seen. The big flatboat, with its heaped-up shining freight of salmon, was likewise missing. No doubt Garry was absent on the pleasant and profitable task of selling their catch. Whereupon Keven set about getting a meal, which would do for both breakfast and supper.
After starting a fire he went down to the river to fetch a bucket of water. The Rogue ran clear again, at just about the same level. That little freshet, merely a wave from some upriver rain, had come and gone in the night. But it had started a run of salmon, to his considerable profit. The changeable, deceitful, roguish river! Keven conceived an idea the river would bring him good fortune, maybe his old strength, possibly happiness. But that seemed a mad dream. Nevertheless, as he sighed he said: “Good old river! I sure love you.”
He had slept three quarters of the day, as he could tell by the sun, already gilding the wooded hills in the west. And he felt as if he had been pounded with a club. Yet as he moved about, his muscles gradually loosened, his joints lost their stiffness, and much of the cramp and soreness left them. When he had the meal almost prepared Garry appeared, treading as if on air. He wore a smile as wide as his ruddy face, and his blue eyes honestly beamed upon Keven.
“Two an’ a half tons!” he announced grandiloquently. “An’ I sold to Brandeth’s manager—by weight! He had to buy. He couldn’t let the first haul of the season go…. Looka here, pard. Look at this roll of dough. Thet’s yours. Fifty-fifty. You could choke a cow with thet.”
With much extravagant speech he forced upon Keven a sizable roll of greenbacks. Then he produced a smaller one. “Pard, I’m askin’ you to keep this much of my share. Hold it out on me. If I fall for celebratin’—an’ thet’s a cinch—hide it from me.”
“You bet I will,” replied Keven warmly, as he pocketed the money. “Garry, I’ll pay Dad as soon as I can get to the post office.”
“Right an’ proper. I forgot. I’m in on thet,” rejoined Garry, sitting down. “I can’t eat till I get this off my chest…. Kev, we’ve shot the works! News of our ketch spread like wildfire. Stemm saw thet mess of salmon first off this mornin’, and he scooted off like the Indian he is. Before I’d cooked breakfast fishermen began to flock down here. None of ’em would believe. They had to see for themselves. Then Jarvis, the new cannery man, came down an’ made me a swell offer. I said I’d see. ’Cause I was layin’ fer Brandeth’s man. Sure he come, an’ when I chirped double what he paid last year he snapped me up without battin’ an eye. Reckon I was a sucker. He’d have paid three times…. Well, I rowed the boat over to the cannery an’ cashed in.”
“Will that price hold for the season?”
“Yep, prob’bly will. Mebbe not. Last night was jest a flash in the pan, Kev.”
“I had that notion myself.”
“Sure it’s early fer the real thing. But mebbe not. Stemm’s an Indian. He says they used to run thet way, years ago. An’ he predicts an early season an’ a big one. We started somethin’. Fishermen ranted around. Them thet are ready to start stand round in little crowds talkin’, as if there was a prize fight on.”
“Sit down and eat, Garry,” said Keven gaily. “I’m no swell cook. But I’ll learn…. So we started up the machinery, eh? Well, I had no idea of this salmon-fishing business down here. I always hated it. Stretching nets across the mouth of the Rogue when the fish begin to run! It’s a rotten, cruel, greedy business.”
“Sure, Kev, it is. But people gotta eat. Consumption of fish growin’ every year. Cost of livin’ hell! An’ we fishermen gotta earn o
ur keep. The way I look at it is we oughter thank God there are fish to catch an’ sell an’ eat.”
“I suppose mine is the sportsman’s point of view. It oughtn’t have much weight with the legislature, though I think the steelhead should be preserved.”
“You’re right both ways. I reckon the ideal would be to live an’ let live. But Brandeth will hog the river an’ kill the salmon runs, if he’s not stopped. Every year fewer salmon get up to spawn. The day will come when there will not be any salmon. Steelhead, now, they are different. They are a smaller, faster, stronger fish. An’ after they spawn they run back to the sea. If they don’t get stopped altogether they’ve a chance to survive. An’ the upriver folks ought to fight fer them.”
“They will, Garry,” returned Keven enthusiastically.
“Well, I’ve my doubts about the survival of anythin’ there’s money in. What do men care fer the future? Not a damn! Take the case of the California redwood trees. Them grand trees—they’re bein’ cut. Or the Oregon cedars. Thet’s a still grander tree, but not so big. An’ where are they? Only one stand in the whole world, Kev. Thet’s north of here a ways, on the coast. The Japs bought thet stand before the war. An’ they cut an’ they’re still cuttin’. I worked there one winter. White cedars, Kev. You should see them trees once before they’re gone. If you love trees.”
“I sure do. Pines and firs. What’s more beautiful than an Oregon fir? Why, they make shipmasts of them, everywhere ships are built.”
“An Oregon fir is a pretty nifty tree, I’ll not gainsay, Kev. An’ as we jest passed through millions of them thet won’t never be cut—if Uncle Sam stays put—we ain’t worryin’ none over them. But the redwoods an’ the cedars are in much the same boat as the salmon an’ steelhead.”
Later when Keven asked his partner if they would make any sets that night, Garry scratched his stubbled chin:
“Reckon we’ll lay off. The river’s back again. I ain’t seen a fish break water all day, an’ you bet I’ve kept my eye peeled. Thet run was jest a school of lunkers. They’ve gone up. But gosh, my fish, sense says you can never tell what’ll come off. The only way to ketch fish is to keep on fishin’.”
“It’s just as well we lay off tonight,” replied Keven. “I’ll be laid out if we have two such nights in succession. I haven’t been long out of the hospital, Garry. I’m not very strong.”
“Thet was worryin’ me, Kev. But you sure did noble last night. I see I gotta break you in easy. We’ll let them yannigans lambast the river tonight all fer nuthin’.”
After supper Garry went to town and Keven made his way by slow stages to the sand dunes, where he spent the hour of twilight and dusk beside the sea. It seemed new and strange; it helped to keep his mind off the unjustness of his fate; it roused in him a conception of the vastness of the world and the inscrutability of life. More, too, it increased his yearning for the tranquil solitudes of the mountains, where instead of all this boisterousness of the sea, the boom of billows, and the ceaseless, marvelous crawling of the white foam up the strand, there were the sweet, low-singing river and the deep solitude of the green canyons.
Garry did not return to camp that night, which omission in no wise surprised Keven. In the morning he got up late, rested and refreshed, and after cooking breakfast started for town. Down by the river he encountered Stemm, to learn from him that no salmon had been netted by the fishermen. Keven passed a group of them, and appreciated that they appeared a hard-looking disgruntled crew. Soldiers were tough—and here again he wiped an encroaching thought from his consciousness. What he ought to remember he had forgotten; what he should forget was always recurring.
Gold Beach appeared to be quite a place, clean, wide-streeted, with a fine stretch of business houses, and colorful residences in the background. It was certainly not a sleepy town at this time. Keven leisurely sauntered down the main thoroughfare, and upon locating the post office he went in and dispatched two money orders to his father. They almost canceled his debt, which fact afforded him great satisfaction. He added a note to acquaint his father with his safe arrival at Gold Beach and the wonderful good luck of his first market-fishing venture.
The clerk in the post office was a pretty girl. She made eyes at Keven, and he reflected that he might have returned the compliment if she had not had bobbed hair. Somehow he hated that. Then he went out to look for Garry.
It looked a vain task even before he started, and it certainly proved to be one. There were in fact not many places where Garry Lord might have been found. At last far down the main street he came to a sign “Sock-eye.” That was the name of a certain species of coast salmon, as were “humpback,” “tyee,” “quinnat,” “silversides.” Keven went in the Sock-eye.
A cigar and newsstand occupied the front. From this a door led to a smoky, noisy poolroom, full of boys and men. Keven did not need to be told that he had happened upon a rendezvous of the market fishermen, such as Garry had described to him. Tired from the walk, which had been a long one, Keven sat down to rest and watch. Nobody paid any attention to him, and he gathered that strangers in Gold Beach were plentiful enough not to excite notice.
Snatches of conversation he overheard betrayed a twofold occupation of these loungers’ minds—fishing and gambling. Keven doubted not that there was a secluded hall somewhere near, and most probably upstairs. For the building was two-storied. He lingered there until he felt rested. On his way out a sharp-eyed man behind the cigar stand accosted him:
“What you want, stranger?”
“I stepped in to look for my partner,” replied Keven easily.
“An’ who’s he?”
“Garry Lord.”
“Lord, huh? Are you another upriver fisherman?”
“Yes. And I gather from the way you speak that the upriver fishermen are not so welcome in Gold Beach.”
“You gathered correct, young man. But that doesn’t apply here at the Sock-eye. All fishermen are welcome.”
“Glad to hear that. Are you the proprietor?”
“Hardly,” replied the man, with a wry smile.
“Who is?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I certainly don’t. Never was in Gold Beach before.”
“Well, it won’t be long till you find out who runs the big interests here—the Sock-eye included.”
“Ahuh. I’m not a nosy fellow, though. And it doesn’t matter to me. Do you have any idea where I might find Lord?”
“Jail mebbe. He was drunk last night. I heard he slugged some fisherman.”
“Quite likely. Garry’s quarrelsome when he’s drunk. Where’s the jail?”
Upon being directed, Keven walked toward the jail with perturbing thoughts. Garry was the best of fellows, but that besetting sin of his might well spoil his usefulness as a business partner. Presently Keven encountered a middle-aged man, who stood in the doorway of the building designated, and who wore a star on his vest.
“I’m looking for Garry Lord,” said Keven, without any beating about the bush.
“What’d you come here for?” queried the man, looking Keven over with shrewd eyes. He had a stern, yet not unprepossessing face.
“I was told I’d find Garry in jail.”
“Who said so?”
“A man at the Sock-eye.”
“An’ who’re you, young feller?”
“My name’s Keven Bell. I’m Garry’s partner, and I want to get him out of jail.”
“What’d you tell me your name for?”
“Because that’s my real name,” replied Keven, puzzled. This was surely the sheriff, and he appeared a dry, curt, yet not unkindly man.
“No reason for you to hide it?”
“Not on your life!” retorted Keven.
“Come inside,” said the other.
Keven followed him across the threshold into a small, barely furnished office. From a desk he picked up a sheet of yellow paper and handed it to Keven, manifestly for his perusal. It was a telegraph blank. Keven’s
heart sank. He read rapidly. The message came from Grant’s Pass, ordered the arrest of one Keven Bell, for assault and resisting officers, and was from the chief of police.
“So that’s—that,” replied Keven, returning the telegram. “I—I should have expected it. Guess I’ve spared you the trouble of hunting me up.”
“Bell, I read in a Seattle paper about you—if you’re the soldier who spent two years in a training-camp hospital.”
“Yes, I’m the—the fellow.”
“Had a queer accident, didn’t you? Gun busted in practice. Backfired on you.”
“I should smile it did. Look here,” replied Keven, beginning to realize that this sheriff was not unsympathetic, and he pulled down his lower lip to expose the iron jaw.
“Hell! Knocked your teeth an’ jaw out?”
“That was nothing, sheriff. It near killed me—and left me with a clouded brain.”
“You don’t say! Wal, you look a bright an’ handsome young feller. No one would guess it…. I had a boy who got to France. He—he never came back.”
“That’s damn tough for you. I’m sorry,” Keven hastened to say. “Some boys were taken and some left behind. For my part I wish to God I could have gone in place of your son.”
“Why? That’s no sane attitude. Your mind must be clouded.”
Briefly then Keven recounted the misfortune and shame he had fallen upon when he returned home.
“By God! I heard about that Carstone family. An’ you was innocent?”
“Yes, I was—of complicity in that.”
“An’ you slugged this Atwell for ruinin’ your character at home?”
“Guess that was an excuse—to be perfectly honest, sheriff,” returned Keven ruefully. “But I was jealous. I left a sweetheart behind…. When I came back Atwell was rushing her hard. It galled me.”