The Sky Fisherman (38 page)

***

The deaths of Meeks and Chilcoat were having a bad effect on the school, too. Even before that mystery, tensions ran high between the children of unemployed millworkers and the Indians. On the basketball team, sons of plant workers wouldn't pass the ball to Indians and vice versa. I got caught in the middle. Needless to say, we lost. The opponents' defenses double-teamed white or Indian players, depending on who controlled the ball downcourt.

Probably Coach Stevans hadn't helped the situation any by dedicating the football season to Meeks. The
Gazette
kept the pot stirred and joined Grady in calling for an FBI investigation.

In the locker room after phys ed, clusters of Indians and white kids snapped one another with wet towels, raising angry welts. And after
basketball practice no one kidded around much or played practical jokes like putting analgesic balm in jockstraps. Traveling to away games, the Indian players stuck to their side of the bus.

Woof Stevans was watching the season slip away but seemed unable to stop the hard feelings. When I walked the hallways between classes, I paused in front of the old trophies and banners, wondering if the season couldn't go better. Sometimes I browsed through old yearbooks, fake and Billyum were in the championship team photo. Billyum posed like a downlineman, fist planted on the ground, leaning forward, his face twisted in a ferocious scowl.

Franklin and my mom came to every game. She looked terrific, but he always seemed a little overdressed in a blazer, ascot, and matching pocket handkerchief. During warm-ups, I'd give them a quick wave, then duck my head and concentrate on layups. Jake came, too, usually by himself. Seeing my uncle at the games gave me a boost. His confidence was apparent when he came through the door. He knew almost everyone in the place and stopped to talk with half a dozen people before he sat down to watch. Not growing up with a real father, I couldn't say for sure, but I think the love I felt for Jake was pretty close to how other guys felt about their dads.

The spectators divided into two groups. Most of the farmers, millworkers, and businesspeople sat on the bleachers behind the home team. The rally squad worked these bleachers.

People from Mission, Ace, and the RedWings sat on the bleachers opposite, not behind the visitors' bench but close to the gym entrance and the concessions. Everyone carried in tubs of buttered popcorn, garlicky hot dogs, soft drinks, and red licorice whips sold by the Girls Athletic Association.

The night we played Pinedale, Jake and Juniper arrived late, just as we were finishing warm-ups, so most of the crowd was already in. They hesitated in the doorway; she was leaning toward the Mission bleachers. Right then, Grady called out from the other side, "Hey, Jake. We got room here. Bring the little woman." Grady stood and pointed to a small section of bare bleacher. "Lots of room." He was grinning.

If Jake had a moment's pause, Grady settled it for him. My uncle and Juniper sat on the Mission side.

Pinedale was leading the league and figured we'd be a cinch. During warm-ups, I saw the moonfaced kid who had stopped and talked one night when I'd been running. He was beefier than I remembered, and I
realized he'd be hard to outmuscle on the boards. "Hey," he said when he'd caught my eye. "I can't believe you pussies lost to Bridgeport. Our girls' team could beat them."

"In Pinedale, it's hard to tell the girls from the boys," I said.

Thatcher Toopah, our starting guard, grinned at that one.

"What's so funny, Calijah?" the Pinedale boy asked. "You look like a girl yourself with that braid. You know what they call an Indian with
two
bottles of whiskey on the reservation? They call him
mayor.
" A couple of the other Pinedale players snickered.

I looked around to see if one of the refs heard, but they hadn't. Thatcher just kept smiling until someone tossed him the ball. Then he canned one from the top of the key.

"He won't make that when he's double-teamed," the blond boy said.

Before they announced the starting five, I sidled close to Thatcher. "You see any Indians on that Pinedale team?" I asked. "Come on. Let's get all five guys in the game and whip their butts."

Thatcher tapped my shoulder with his fist. "I don't want to see you casting off from the corner."

The first couple times Thatcher brought the ball downcourt, it looked like the same old shit. As soon as he crossed midcourt, Pinedale double-teamed both him and our forward Wilbur Tapish. First Thatcher tried forcing Wilbur a pass that got picked off and then he got called for a charging foul. Pinedale scored twice and led 4–0.

"I thought tonight was supposed to be different," Stork Whealey complained as he lumbered back to his high post.

"Pass the damn ball to the other guys!" Woof called from the bench.

"Don't worry," I told Stork. "Thatcher's just setting them up." I hoped it was true.

The next trip downcourt, Thatcher faked the drive, faked a pass to Wilbur, and slipped me a no-look pass as I cut for the basket. It was so slick, I almost dropped the ball but hung on for an uncontested layup.

"He must've gone color blind all of a sudden," the moonfaced kid said as I hustled back on defense. But Thatcher kept them off balance all night. He passed to the open man, drove the lane, and went on a red-hot shooting streak, casting off hip shots that had no business going in.

Pinedale was caught flat-footed, and all of us rallied behind Thatcher. Gateway fans stood and cheered, rocking both sets of bleachers. Every time Gab stood up from his broadcast mike to cheer, he dumped popcorn on the people in front, but they didn't mind. Everybody was too delighted watching Pinedale get drubbed.

After the game, Gab interviewed Thatcher and Stork for his radio show, and I stopped to talk with Franklin and my mother. "Great job, Culver," he said. "You got twelve points." He thumped my back, the most emotion I had ever seen him display. He had taken off his blazer and held it folded across his arm.

I looked around for Jake and Juniper, but they were gone.

"That your dad?" Thatcher asked as we showered after the game. "Guy with that funny thing around his neck?"

"No. But he goes with my mom sometimes."

"Could have fooled me." Thatcher grinned. "You look exactly like that weenie. Spitting image."

W
HEN WE PULLED INTO SHERMAN
, the snow obscured most of what little there was to see. Jake stopped at a tiny café on the edge of town, and the manager poured us the dregs of the coffee. I had wanted hot chocolate but he was out. "Closing early today," the man said. "Even the truckers are stopped with this snow." He glanced out the window. "See you got four-wheel drive. Big winch. You come prepared."

Jake nodded. "Triple A can't find this place," and the man grinned.

Across from the café were a couple acres littered with farm equipment, used appliances, flat-tired school buses. A weather-beaten old farmhouse rose from the middle of the junk. On the roof was a kind of widow's walk, and through the falling snow I could just make out what seemed to be a bundled-up person sitting in a lawn chair.

"That the mayor's place?" Jake asked.

"Old man Mossby and his two sisters. He tried to be mayor. Got four votes, but it wasn't enough." He poured Jake a little more coffee, thick and black, then rinsed out the pot. "With separate domiciles they collect three times as much support from the county. That's the law, believe it or not. Fact is, he can't stand the sisters, so he sits on the roof, watches the world go by."

"Not bad work," Jake said. "Where'd that fourth vote come from?"

"It's a mystery." The café owner placed the pot on a shelf. "Me, I don't care who wins, but they have to be Republicans."

Jake set a dollar on the counter and buttoned his coat.

"Honk as you drive by," the man said. "If the old fart waves, he hasn't frozen to death yet."

The cab was cold and we could see our breaths. "Heater's a little on the blink," Jake said.

As we drove by the junked-up yard, he honked and the bundled man waved. Jake honked again and the man gave a huge wave. "Likes his work," my uncle said.

A quarter mile from Sherman, we bumped across a double set of railroad tracks covered in snow and passed two tall grain elevators, larger than the ones at Sunrise Biscuits. Here the cement elevator remained in good condition, but the wooden one had partially burned. Smoke streaked the sides; part of the roof had caved in. "Some son of a bitch was torching these historic elevators last summer," Jake said. "Got five in this county alone."

"How much farther to Gab's place?" I couldn't see much but snow and an occasional farm light.

"Eight miles. This snow should keep the geese so low we can club them with our gun butts."

"You bet." I held my new Remington 870 pump to keep it from bouncing around in the cab as the snow-covered road turned to washboard. I had selected the deluxe model at Jake's suggestion because the checkered walnut stock seemed worth the extra price. I carried the shotgun in a padded case and could have left it behind the back seat with Jake's but wanted it closer. Under the heavy hunting coat, I was wearing my father's Filson vest. The pockets were filled with twenty shotgun shells and I felt the weight. I had intended to carry two boxes of shells, but Jake had insisted one was enough. After taking me out to the Gateway trap club and teaching me a little about wing shots, he had pronounced my shooting as "dude-gone good."

"Think geese," Jake said, grinning at the heavy snowfall. "Just like those skiers with their
THINK SNOW
bumper stickers. The geese will keep so low today they'll be big as bathtubs."

I felt exhilarated. Jake sped up and the pickup jarred over the snow-covered corrugations, almost rattling my teeth. Ahead, dark shadows blocked the road. "Hey, look out!" I jammed my foot into the floorboard.

When Jake saw them, he hit the brakes, sending the pickup into a long fishtail skid. "Shit fire!"

Turning the wheels into the skid, he straightened a little, and the pickup slid straight toward a herd of horses. The closest bolted as it saw the pickup loom out of the snow, but we grazed its rump with the spare tire Jake kept mounted high on the front. The others lunged toward the roadside, too, plumes of steam coming from their nostrils. Then they
ran across the barrow pit and out into an open field. They stood, backs to the storm, their tails and manes shagged with ice.

"Fucking horses," Jake said. He leaned on the horn and they ran another fifty yards, then stopped, watching us closely. "Reminds me of an ambulance run."

"What about it?"

He shook his head. "Too long a story. Gab's place is dead ahead."

"Think that one's okay?" I asked. "We just grazed it."

"Sure. If not, we'll shoot the son of a bitch. Shoot the owner, too, for letting his horses run wild."

Billyum's tribal pickup sat in Gab's driveway. Jake hadn't mentioned his coming along, but I was pleased.

As soon as they saw our rig, the two rushed out the door carrying their shotguns and flasks of coffee. "Where the hell you been?" Gab asked. "Kept drinking coffee while we waited. Now I'm all jittery."

"Let's go," Billyum said, opening the door to his rig. "Feeding time for the geese."

"Just slow down a cotton-picking minute," Jake said. "Before we go any further, I want to see everybody's hunting license and waterfowl stamp."

I thought he was serious and started to take mine out.

"I'm not aiding and abetting any game-law violators in this great state." He looked at Billyum. "Got your federal waterfowl stamp, fella? The U.S. government says you got to have it."

"Gee, I think I left mine back on the rez," he said. "In my other pants."

"That's a piss-poor excuse," Jake said. "Limpy, gimpy, and lame. Sorry, but you can't hunt then. Like the sign says, 'The Game Law Violator Is a Thief.'"

"We own all this anyway," Billyum said, pointing to the land toward the river. "Geese belong to us, too."

"Don't give me that," Jake said. "I'm putting you on notice. Whose side is this anyway? White or Indian?"

"It's just a short-term loan," Billyum said.

"Let's get going, you loggerheads," Gab said, opening the passenger door on Billyum's rig. "We'll miss the geese."

"Just don't expect me to bail him out," Jake said.

From Gab's place, we drove six miles, then stopped at an old abandoned farmhouse crouched in a depression out of the wind. At the back of the farmhouse was a cistern filled with fifty or sixty empty farm chemical barrels and assorted junk.

Gab walked to the cistern and started peeing. "Damn coffee."

"It'll take you a while to fill that up," Jake said. "What the hell did they use that for? Swimming pool?"

"I don't know," Gab said. "It's always been dry long as I remember."

"What was in all these barrels?" I asked.

"Just farm stuff," Gab said. "People dump everything here. Look, there's an old sofa, a tricycle. I guess they think they're saving dumping fees, but it makes me mad."

In places the wind had scoured, wheat stubble poked through the snow. We walked a couple hundred yards across drifts and scours, then stood on the edge of the basalt rim overlooking the deep canyon. The bottom was swallowed by snowfall so you couldn't see the Lost.

"Over there." With a mittened hand, Gab pointed to a long saddle that ran about three hundred yards downslope, ending in a cliff face. "Those are the pits." Two dark circles stood at the far edge of the saddle.

"The geese come up both draws or fly low right over the point, depending on the weather. I love this kind of hunting," Gab said. "You don't have to drag out decoys or screw around with a boat. I even left the dog at the house. She's getting old. Loves to hunt but not when it's this cold."

We covered the distance to the pits in about ten minutes. The saddle was rugged and rocky, providing treacherous footing. The men were huffing and puffing by the time we arrived. I was a little tired, but felt in good shape because of basketball.

"You and Billyum take the left pit," Jake said. "Gab and I will shoot from the right."