Outcast (14 page)

Cold! The seat was cold. Hard to think when you're sitting on a block of ice. Hard to think anytime. He sure as hell wasn't thinking yesterday when he invited Arch and Iona to a picnic. What would he fix for a picnic lunch? If Iona brought some of her bread, he could make some ham sandwiches…if Arch hadn't taken all of it. That boy had a helluva career ahead of him as a bank robber. More likely, he'd just talk the bankers into thinking what a great idea it was to give him all their money.

Horses! He had to get the horses their morning oats and turn them out on the meadow. Wouldn't do to have them worrying. They had heard him by now, probably when he stumbled over that rock. They would be fussing, ready to go and wondering why Standish wasn't taking care of them. He didn't know about Hortenzia, but Sally could sulk for days if she thought she'd been mistreated. Best he go take care of the horses.

Ooof
. Damn rock! Standish picked himself up and brushed himself off. Hole in his pants. Just what he needed: shredded clothes. His hands explored his knee. Wet! His damn knee was bleeding. Probably get infected and swell up like a balloon, and some sawbones would look at it and grin. Another leg for his collection. That's probably what would happen.

Standish stepped toward the barn. Well it didn't hurt. That was good. At least he could walk on it until some blood-thirsty.…

Standish shook his head. He'd best get this under control. He glanced toward the east. The sun just about to jump over the horizon. Civilized people didn't have picnics at daybreak, but Standish couldn't remember the last civilized person he'd known. Well, maybe Iona and Arch. No, maybe Iona, but Arch was a long way from being civilized—or even civil.

Sally nickered as Standish opened the door. He walked over to her and ran his hand along her sleek neck. “Well, I got you Sally. Man ought to be thankful for what he has.”

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?”