The Sky Fisherman (39 page)

"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 you 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.

"I'm not taking that goose," Billyum said. "More buckshot than bird." Taking out his pocketknife, he cut a notch in his own bird's wing. His cold hands fumbled with the blade. "Just so Jake doesn't try pulling an old switcheroo." He looked at me—eye level. "I thought you knew all about your dad's drowning."

"Pretty much," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I just always thought Jake was in the boat. That's all."

"Jake dresses up a story from time to time, but he gets the main parts right." Billyum chuckled. "By the time we hit town, he will have shot that goose seventy yards overhead, clean as a whistle. Like I say, he tells the main parts right. Probably he wishes he was in the boat. I know how bad he feels, even now. Sometimes I think maybe he'll talk about it during our sweats, but he never says a word. That's how I know."

Jake and Gab floundered back toward the blind. At this distance my uncle seemed small and clumsy as he picked his way across the saddle.

When they were about halfway back, Billyum yelled, "Get down! Geese!"

They both hunkered and I did, too, even though I hadn't heard the
geese calling. After thirty seconds Billyum yelled, "Sorry, fellas, false alarm. I guess it was one of those Russian satellites. Looked kind of like a goose though."

"Smart-ass," Gab said when they were back. "Hit my knee on a rock. Scratched my gunstock falling down, too."

"The practice did you good. You seemed a little stiff getting up though."

"Twisted my ankle going after that damn goose."

"Let me see your goose," Jake said to Billyum. "I think this one's a little bigger."

"Bullshit," Billyum said. "Yours is
heavier
because you shot it six or eight times. Mine's practically a virgin. I notched the wing, too, so don't try to pull an old switcheroo."

Grumbling, Gab and Jake climbed back into their pit. It was almost too dark to shoot; we were past the legal hours.

"Getting late," Gab said. "Fifteen more minutes. My balls are blue."

"This is the time they come again," Billyum told me. "Don't go firing at the whole flock. Choose one target and keep shooting. Sometimes they're hard to bring down. Get one that's off a little ways. They fly so close, the shot pattern's too tight."