The Sky Fisherman (32 page)

"I can't believe you're going to leave me alone with the Labor Day rush." I didn't try to hide my annoyance. "It'll get frantic."

Jake tapped the calendar with a pencil. "I'm coming back Saturday. Anyway, you've got Jed to help out."

"Some help. He limps back to the toilet, contemplates existence for an hour."

I knew Jake didn't have a trip planned because I'd checked the guide calendar. "Where are you really going, just in case I have to send out the county Search and Rescue?"

His eyes widened as he pretended alarm. "Don't do that or I'll have to go rescue those lard buckets once they get themselves lost." After eyeing me for a minute, he said, "Scout's honor?"

"Why not?" I gave a mock salute.

Jake nodded. "Twice a year, old Billyum stretches tribal law a little and takes my white ass fishing—just to keep things in proportion. The reservation water looks so tempting ... but it's not really much better than the water on the white side. Even so, Billyum shows me his second favorite spot—always keeps the best for himself. And I show him a few good holes along our side. That way, no one gets overcome with temptation." His eyes twinkled. "After all, the old man sent me to Sunday school and they taught me the lure of forbidden fruit."

Thinking of those sparsely fished stretches of Indian waters gave me shivers, but I tried to hide it. "So you're taking off for an unscheduled fishing trip?"

"It's scheduled, just not on the calendar. I got to go when Billyum beckons. Anyway, don't think of it as fishing. More like learning about the reservation culture. Promoting understanding. Last June, when the Salmon flies hatched, they covered the water like a blizzard. I caught eighteen big redsides in under two hours. My wrist got sore, no kidding, and I understood a hell of a lot more about their culture.

"Now the fall steelhead are starting to run. And a few salmon. Damn good fishing. Nothing like the old days before the dams on the big rivers. Back then, the farmers filled trap wagons with the fall salmon run. Anyway, you hold the fort until I get back."

I paused, deciding to try a bluff. "What if I quit?"

He shrugged, probably because he knew I wouldn't. "Suit yourself. But that might disappoint your mother."

"How about time and a half?"

He smiled. "Beats quitting. Try this. How about I take you goose hunting? Right before Thanksgiving, so you can plop a tasty grain-fed goose on your mom's table."

He had me. "You're not kidding." I pictured a bird on the table, glazed with orange sauce.

"I never kid about goose hunting." He winked. "Gab's got a great place that belonged to his father-in-law. Goose pits in a canyon below a wheat field—It's candy. I'm sure we can squeeze one more gun in the pits."

My elation dimmed. "I don't have a shotgun."

Jake waved at the racks of shotguns and rifles. "Put your name on one. You've been working hard. Your cost is store cost, plus ten percent. Consider it a bonus and quit bellyaching."

"You got a deal. Shake." He took my extended hand. "You just better be back Saturday."

"Cross my heart. But don't let on to the back-room boys."

"Not me," I said. "Architects. High rollers. I can see where you don't want anyone to know you're fishing illegal."

"Please." He put his finger to his lips. "An ill eagle is a sick bird. We got to protect our endangered species. What they'd really razz me about is the religious aspect."

"What religion?"

Jake glanced around but no one was coming. He lowered his voice. "After we fish, we go into a sweat lodge Billyum made down there. Get the impurities out."

"Nothing wrong with that."

Jake put up his hands. "I'm a tolerant guy—freedom of religion and all that. For Billyum, this sweat's a real serious thing, a regular ceremony. He gets going in different voices, talking to the river, the heated rocks, the pine and juniper he uses to purify the air."

"What's it like for you?"

"Damn hot." Jake paused. "And I guess a little spooky."

I didn't say anything.

"The Indians might be on to something," he continued. "Maybe it's a good thing to have spirits show up and tell you what to do. Point this way or that. If Billyum thinks it helps, great. Me, I got to bump along the current as best I can."

A car stopped outside the store and Jake's eyes focused on it a moment, then shifted to the stacked picnic tables. "While I'm gone, run a special on those damn things, would you? Make a sign:
MANAGER'S LABOR DAY SPECIAL TWENTY BUCKS
. If we don't move those pretty soon, we got to get dishonest or drastic."

When Jake returned from his outing with Billyum, he had two coolers filled with the big fish, which he kept on ice for a day. "Smart advertising," he called it, and we did a late spurt of fishing tackle sales that weekend to some fellas who imagined they might sneak back for a crack at the monsters. Half a dozen asked if their kids could pose with the fish and Jake obliged. The fathers chuckled with delight as they snapped photos of their kids holding lunkers that went over two feet and imagined the comments the photos would get at the office or plant. The mothers shuddered as slime rubbed off on their children's shirts and dresses, dripped onto their sandals and tennis shoes. The car ride home might be smelly, but the kids' giant grins showed they'd remember this moment. The smaller ones couldn't even hold the fish high enough to keep their tails from dragging on the cement floor. Photos finished, Jake would tousle the kids' hair, give them candy bars, and tell them to come back for a fishing expedition. They eagerly took the guide brochures Jake offered, but no one actually signed up for a trip. "We're building a future business," he said with a grin.

However, the current business was shifting to hunting. Archery season started for deer the second week of September, and men came into the store buying bows, arrows, scents, and calls. We sold camouflage outfits and face paint for stalking or waiting on the stand.

We also did good business with gag items Jake had picked up from one of the talkative salesmen—a camouflage bra and panty set. A
placard above the display read, "Make Sure to Get Your 'Dear.' While You're in the Woods, She'll Be Waiting at Home."

In spite of this particular item's humor, most of the bow hunters were serious about their sport. A different breed from the casual fishermen, they came from the small towns and back country. Most drove pickups or four-wheel-drive rigs, chainsawed their wood. More than a few chewed tobacco.

As Jake had predicted, the unemployed millworkers bought rifles, planning to ensure meat on the table. He put some lever-action Winchester .30–.30s on sale, just a sliver above cost, and they were happy with the reduced price but balked at the ammunition prices. "Jake always used to give a free box of ammo with a new gun," they'd complain. "Can't do that at these prices, fellas," we'd say. A few threatened to run out to Krazy Karl's. Karl came on the radio each morning proclaiming, "I gotta be nuts to make these below-cost gun deals." But he was higher than Jake on most models. My uncle sent me out to check. Even though he wasn't supposed to, Jake started offering half boxes of cartridges for the guys who were really strapped, but few took him up on it. "You better hope you don't wound a deer with the tenth cartridge" was how he looked at it.

Nobody blamed the plant workers for worrying. Things were still unsettled, rumors flying. Whispers of arson persisted. Rebuilding the plant would take time, and unemployment benefits were going to run out long before Christmas. If the plant was rebuilt on the reservation, paychecks would be even slower.

Lean times lay ahead. Not that anybody had tightened his belt more than a couple notches, and they were a long way from putting popcorn and water in swollen stomachs. No one had sold the second car or camper yet. A few who could run field equipment managed to help out with harvest; others had taken jobs on the green chains in the area sawmills, settling for lower pay and no seniority. Still others put their wives to work as waitresses or motel maids, but with summer ending, those jobs would slow, too.

The farmers had money, although they spent little at our store and always complained about the prices, noting this item or that was cheaper at the discount places in Central. Because of the irrigation, their crops were doing fine in spite of the drought. They groused about the fire and all the water it had consumed, although the fact was the whole fire didn't use up any more water than a couple big alfalfa spreads or a few hundred acres of mint.

Of course, the farmers were already speculating about water shortages next year, if the rains didn't come and the mountains attain a decent snowpack.

The weather remained fiercely hot through most of September, but the slant of light shifted, and you got the sense that things would cool in spite of the long heat wave. The woods had become a worse tinderbox, and the Indians finally decided to hire Buzzy to drop fire retardant on lightning strikes, slowing the fires until their crews could get there. Adding fire patrol to crop dusting kept him busier than a rabbit with a credit card, Buzzy said. But he pointed out the rains wouldn't hold much longer.

"Deluge by Halloween," he predicted. "I got to talking with old Sylvester. Indians have ways of telling the weather. They study the woolly caterpillars, check how thick the hair grows on a coyote—stuff like that."

When Sylvester came in to buy ammunition for his .308, I asked him if he had special ways of predicting the weather.

"Sure." His eyes twinkled. "I check the
Farmer's Almanac.
"

T
HE DARK BLUE SHERIFF'S CAR
pulled so close to the sidewalk that the wide chrome bumper was only inches from the line of bikes. The vibrations from the big Plymouth's engine made the front window of the store rattle. By the way Grady hitched his belt as he hurried in, I could tell he was on official business, and I braced myself for some bad news about Riley.

"Jake around?"

"Steelheading," I said. "Lots of fishing trips these last couple of weeks."

"I thought he might be off chasing that Indian skirt."

I measured each word. "No, he's on the river with some dudes."

Grady relaxed, letting his stomach sag. "Figured as much when I didn't see the pickup."

"That's why you're sheriff."

He sighed, releasing an exaggerated breath. "I got no beef with you, kid. It's a small town. Maybe we should try to get along."

"Fine with me, as long as you don't knock over my bike display." I nodded toward the big car's bumper.

"You got it." He took a manila envelope and set it on the counter. "I can show you these pictures. You're around more than Jake is anyway." He put two pictures on the counter. "A couple years older now, but they haven't changed all that much. Recognize this guy?"

"Sure." The first man sat on the tailgate of a pickup holding the head of a pronghorn antelope. He wore camouflage clothes, the kind appropriate for stalking game. "Freight Train Meeks. He was in here a couple of weeks ago. Bought a bunch of ice. The whole back of his pickup was
loaded with dead rabbits. He planned on taking them to the city, dumping them on some poor dope's lawn."

Grady sucked in his cheeks. "I heard about that rabbit stunt. I didn't know if it was true or just Meeks blowing wind."

"It was true, all right. What a mess."

Grady handed me another photo. "Seen him?"

I studied the picture. At first it didn't ring a bell, but then I remembered the jittery, flat-faced man. "He was in here one night. Kept hanging around, acting strange. I thought maybe he was casing the joint and didn't come out from behind the counter. When he asked to see a pistol, I stalled him. Finally, someone outside in a car started honking. He left and they both drove away."

"Was the guy in the car Meeks?"

"Couldn't tell. He parked across the lot."

"This is a bad actor," Grady said, touching the man's face with his thumb. "He did three years in the Arizona pen for armed robbery. Once he came up here, they hired him at the plant. Odd jobs."

"Are they wanted for something now?" I asked. It wouldn't surprise me, but I had kind of liked Meeks.

"Just making some inquiries for now," Grady said. "Meeks's girlfriend filed a missing persons report on him two days ago. No one's seen either one for a couple weeks. Of course, that's not unusual during hunting season. A lot of guys go to deer camp for a week or two. Did Meeks say anything about going hunting, maybe traveling to a different state?"

I took a minute, trying to recall our entire conversation. "I don't think so. Mostly he talked about the rabbits. I guess he hurt his knee pretty bad playing football."

Grady pressed his palms on the counter and shifted forward. "You ever seen him play?"

I shook my head.

"All straight-ahead stuff. Nothing fancy. But he was tough. That's why they called him Freight Train."

"Good, huh?"

"Maybe not all that good. Gateway had a hell of an offensive line that year. But linemen never get any credit. You know how it works. I played guard myself. You could drive dump trucks through the holes we opened up, but the paper never said jack squat about us. I earned a scholarship to state—went to the police academy instead."

He slipped the photos back into the envelope. "I hate missing persons. A wild-goose chase, most of the time. Guys run away with another
woman or take off hunting. Maybe they lose their shorts in Reno. Sometimes they show up married, other times divorced. Sometimes they claim amnesia." He grinned. "That's probably how this thing will turn out."

He tapped the envelope on the counter. "If it's not a wild-goose chase, then it's a mess. I don't even want to think about those messes. When Jake shows, ask him to give me a call. Maybe he remembers something."

"I'll tell him. But this time of year, he's a hard man to catch."

"Kind of like your father." Grady smiled. "Sorry. I couldn't let that one slide."

"Stepfather." I didn't mind. "Riley's my stepfather."

"Sure, kid. It's bad enough being related to Jake."