Part 24 (1/2)

”Now I think about it, when I held you up I felt something give. I guess the buckle was pulling out. Well, we ought to see the brown leather.”

They did not see it and Jimmy said, ”All the cartridges I had are gone.

How many have you got?”

”Twelve,” said Deering, rather grimly. ”Anyhow, I'm not going down again.”

Jimmy nodded. He thought the belt had gone over the cliff.

”I brought about six pounds of pork from the camp.”

”My load's flour, desiccated fruit, and a few cans of meat. Looks as if we had got to eat salmon.”

”In the Old Country, one doesn't grumble about eating salmon,” Jimmy remarked.

”Oh, well,” said Deering, ”I was raised in the bush and am not fastidious, but if we can't get salmon, I'll be resigned. The trouble is, since food's short we can't push back too far from the settlements.

Well, we must try to hit a creek.”

In the evening they came down to a small river and pitched camp on the bank. The Indian cut and trimmed a straight fir branch, but left a fork at the thinner end. Then he pulled out two cleverly-carved bone barbs, which he fitted on the forks and fastened by sinews to the staff.

”You could carry the business part of his outfit in your pocket,”

Deering remarked. ”I expect his folks have used barbs like that for a thousand years. An Indian's tools are standardized, but when he thinks them good enough he stops. All the same, I reckon he gets most as far as a man can get alone. He's an artist, but we beat him by cooperating to make machines. Anyhow, the fellow doesn't want you. Take a smoke and let him spear a fish.”

Jimmy lighted his pipe and looked about. A few yards off, the current splashed against the stones. The water was green, and the line of driftwood and dead leaves on the bank indicated that the frost was stopping the muddy streams from the glaciers. Some distance down the river, the Indian balanced on a rock in a pool at the tail of a rapid.

For a time he did not move and Jimmy thought his quietness statuesque.

The fellow was like the herons he had studied with his gla.s.ses by a pool on the Scottish border. Then his body bent and the spear went down. The thrust and recovery were strangely quick and Jimmy rather doubted if the man had moved.

”It looks as if he missed his stroke,” he said.

”He's using a fir branch. An Indian spear is beautifully modeled,”

Deering replied.

A few minutes afterwards, the Indian bent backwards and a s.h.i.+ning object struck the bank. Coming to the fire, he put down the fish and Jimmy's appet.i.te was blunted. The salmon was lean and battered. Its color was dull and its tail was broken. Rows of scales were rubbed off; the fins were worn from the supporting ribs.

”I'm not as hungry as I was. Are all like that?” he said.

”It depends on when you get them,” Deering replied. ”A June steelhead, fresh from the sea, is pretty good, but a salmon that has pushed through to head waters in the fall is another thing. When you think about it, the salmons' journey inland is remarkable. They bore against the autumn floods when the melted snow comes down; they force tremendous rapids, whirlpools, and roaring falls. Where the water's calm in the valleys, eagles and fish-hawks harry them, and the mink hunts them in the shallows. But they can't be stopped; they follow Nature's urge and shove on across all obstacles for the distant gravel banks. Then they sp.a.w.n, where they were hatched, and the bears eat their spent carca.s.ses. The trouble is, I'm not a bear, but I've got to eat salmon.”

When the Indian had fried two or three thick steaks, Jimmy sympathized with Deering. The flesh was soft and its taste was rank. For all that, he thought if he had not seen the salmon he might have had a better appet.i.te. At the hotel he had eaten because his food tempted him; now he ate because he must. By and by he threw down his tin plate.

”I've had enough. If we can find a deer, we must risk another cartridge.

We have got twelve.”

”You can't reckon on getting a deer for every shot, and although, as a rule, the deer are pretty numerous about the small clearings, in some belts of back country you can't find one. I expect they're attracted by the crops. In fact, the wild animals and large birds aren't much afraid of the ranchers; they quit when the automobiles and city sports arrive.”

”But if we stop in the neighborhood of a settlement, the police may get on our trail,” Jimmy rejoined.