John Fitzgerald GB 05 Great Bra (7 page)

Papa looked at the birds. “We will have roast quail for supper,” he said. “And I’m going to cook them the way trappers and mountain men cooked them-You boys cut

off the heads and feet and clean the birds but leave the feathers on.”

My brothers and I went down to the creek to do what Papa asked.

“Boy, oh, boy,” I said, “if Papa thinks I’m going to

eat quail with the feathers on them, he has got another think coming.”

Sweyn shook his head. “He always gets some crazy idea

from some book about trappers or mountain men he has read.”

When we returned to camp. Papa stuffed the birds with Indian meal, pounded crackers, and plenty of salt and pepper. He let our campfire burn down to red embers. Then he placed the quail on red-hot coals and used our shovel to cover them with more hot coals and ashes. I lost my appetite from the smell of the burning feathers.

“Now, boys,” Papa said proudly, “we will just let them cook for half an hour.”

When the half hour was up Papa uncovered the birds. He got a fork and put one of the quail on a tin plate. He held the bird with the fork and peeled the skin and burnt feathers off as if they were paper. He placed one quail on each of our plates. I got my appetite back in a hurry. That

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was the tastiest and tenderest and best quail I’d ever eaten in my life.

“You can do the same thing,” Papa told us, “with partridges, ducks, wild fowl, and fish. We must try it with some trout.”

After the supper dishes were washed, Tom said he was going to do some night fishing. I went with him. Papa and Sweyn began playing casino with a deck of cards we’d brought along. I helped Tom get the six poles-We baited the hooks with worms and set the poles over the two deep holes where we’d seen big fish on the bottom. We put good-sized rocks on the handle end of the poles, in case we caught anything during the night.

“I’ll get up early in the morning,” Tom said, “and see what I’ve caught. If I don’t get a bigger one than S. D. got, I’ll use a fish lantern tomorrow night.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” he said. “Papa isn’t the only one who read that book about trappers and mountain men.”

When I woke up in the morning Tom was gone. Papa and Sweyn were just starting to get dressed-We came out of the tent just as Tom arrived. He had four good-sized trout but none of them anywhere near as big as the one Sweyn had caught.

“No wonder I couldn’t catch any fish before,” he said. “I’ve been fishing downstream and all the holes are fished out. But look at these beauties I caught this morning upstream.”

I knew Tom had caught the trout on the poles we had set. I also knew why he’d said that he caught the fish upstream. He didn’t want Sweyn going downstream. After

breakfast Tom got his homemade wooden tackle box and I got mine. We walked upstream with our poles and tackle boxes until we came to the first deep hole.

“Darn it,” Tom said, looking back. “Sweyn would de-cide not to fish the rapids today.”

Sure enough, Sweyn was following us. He caught up

with us and began casting over the deep hole.

“If you can catch four medium-sized trout with a pole and worms in this hole,” he said, “I’ll show you how to

catch some big ones flyfishing.”

I thought it strange that Tom didn’t open his tackle box but asked me for some bait, even though I knew he had a whole can of worms. We baited our hooks and dropped our lines into the deep pool. Sweyn gave up in about an hour, after only catching a little six-inch rainbow.

He went back to fishing in the rapids.

Tom opened his tackle box. “Keep a sharp lookout, J. D.,” he said. “Let me know if Sweyn or Papa head this

way.”

I was so curious about what Tom was doing that it was

hard for me to keep a sharp lookout. He removed a half-pint whiskey flask with the label washed off from his tackle box. It had some kind of liquid in it.

“What’s in the flask?” I asked.

“Sweet oil I got from Mamma’s kitchen,” he answered.

Then he got an empty, clean, pork-and-bean can from

his tackle box. He filled it half full of water from the stream. I watched wide-eyed as he took something wrapped in tin foil from the box. He unrolled the tin foil, revealing something white about the size of a marble. “What is that?” I asked.

“A piece of phosphorus,” he said as he dumped it into the can of water. “I had to tell Mr. Nicholson at the drug-store why I wanted it because it is poisonous.”

Then he took out his jackknife and opened a blade. “It has to be cut under water,” he said.

“Won’t it dissolve?” I asked.

“Not in water,” he answered. “But after I cut it into small .pieces it will dissolve in the sweet oil.”

He cut up the piece of phosphorus under water. Then he poured the water from the can. He used the tip of the knife blade to put the pieces of phosphorus into the whiskey flask. Then he put the cork in the bottle good and tight.

“And that, J. D.,” he said, “is how trappers and mountain men made fish lanterns.”

“I don’t see any light coming from it,” I said.

“It takes a few hours for the phosphorus to dissolve in the sweet oil,” he explained. “I’m going to circle the camp and go hide the fish lantern with the poles.”

It was lunchtime when Tom returned. During lunch Sweyn got in a few more digs at Tom. He had caught four good-sized trout that morning.

“I think you had better confine your fishing to before breakfast,” he said to Tom. “That seems to be the only time you can catch anything.”

“Maybe you are right,” Tom said. “I think I’ll go hunting this afternoon.”

Papa nodded his head. “Try to get some more quail,” he said. “They were delicious.”

I went hunting with Tom. We didn’t get any quail but we did kill three rabbits. We had fried rabbit, beans, and sourdough biscuits for supper. After eating Tom said he was going to go night fishing. I went with him. We

started upstream and then circled the camp to get to where the poles and fish lantern were hidden. Tom dug up the whiskey flask from under ground, where he had buried it. And I’ll be a four-legged duck if that flask wasn’t shining as if it had a light inside it.

“How did you do it?” I asked.

“The sweet oil dissolves the phosphorus,” he explained, “forming a thick fluid that throws out light.”

“Now that you’ve got it, what are you going to do with it?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” he said.

We walked downstream to the deep pool where we had seen the big trout on the bottom-Tom removed the hook from one of the poles. He tied the end of the line around the neck of the flask. Then he tied a rock to the fishing line so it would sink in water. He lowered the fish lantern into the deep hole. It gave me the willies, seeing that eerie light under water.

“What’s the idea?” I asked. “So the fish can see the bait at night?”

Tom laughed. “No, J. D..” he said. “According to the book, fish are attracted by any unusual brightness in a deep pool. When those big fellows on the bottom see the fish lantern they will come up to look at it. And when they do, they will see the bait. I am just hoping they will be hungry.”

Tom put big fat worms on the hooks of four of the poles. He set the poles so a baited hook was on each side of the fish lantern.

I was positive when I went to bed that night that the fellow who wrote the book was telling a tall fish story. Tom woke me up with his hand over my mouth while it

was still dark. We slipped out of the tent and dressed quietly. Taking our fishing poles and tackle boxes with us, we walked downstream to the deep hole. I could tell from the tightness on three lines there had to be fish on the other end. The sun was just coming up as Tom picked up the first pole.

“Got one,” he said, grinning.

But he wasn’t grinning for long after landing the fish. It was just a medium-sized rainbow trout. Tom removed the rock and picked up the second pole. I knew from the way he held it and the tightness of the line that he had a big one this time. He began to baA up to keep the line tight. And suddenly the biggest trout I’d ever seen was stirring up the water in the pool.

“Don’t lose him!” I shouted.

That fish gave Tom a longer and harder battle than the German brown had given Sweyn. But when Tom finally landed it, it was the biggest ‘rainbow trout I’d ever seen. It was a beauty and had to outweigh Sweyn’s by at least a pound. And I had to take my hat off to the fellow who wrote that book. Tom hauled in another rainbow trout bigger than Sweyn’s on the next pole. The fourth pole didn’t have a fish on the hook. But Tom had two big trout and either one ot them would outweigh the trout Sweyn had caught-

“You did it!” I shouted. “And if that doesn’t cure Sweyn of his selfishness and bragging, I don’t know what will.”

I removed all the hooks and lines from the poles while Tom took care of the fish lantern. We hid the poles and buried the fish lantern in the ground so it couldn’t be seen at night. We circled the camp to make it appear

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we were coming from upstream. Tom had the three trout hooked through the mouth and gills to a Y tree branch. We hid in the bushes until we saw Papa and Sweyn come out of the tent.

“Now, J. D.,” Tom said. “And don’t forget to yell what I told you.”

I ran from behind the bushes toward the campsite. “Papa!” I shouted. “Papa! Papa! Wait until you see what T. D. caught! Get the scale ready!”

Tom came from behind the bushes, holding up the three trout. Papa got so excited he ran to meet us. He took the fish from Tom.

“Get them in water,” Papa said proudly. “We will want to take them home with us, packed in wet mud and grass to show people. There is no doubt about it. These are the biggest trout ever caught in Beaver Creek.”

“Not until I weigh the biggest one,” Tom said.

Papa insisted on weighing the biggest one himself. It weighed four pounds and five ounces. Poor Sweyn stood staring at the scales. He looked like a cowboy who, after losing his month’s pay playing poker, comes out of a saloon and finds somebody has stolen his horse.

“I’ve still got all day,” he said.

“Take all day,” Tom said, grinning. “And take all night too. Just remember we are breaking camp and leaving for home in the morning right after breakfast.”

Tom and I sure got even with Sweyn for his selfishness and bragging that day. Tom’s (rick of pretending he’d caught the fish upstream worked. Sweyn began fishing the deep holes upstream. Tom and I sat on the bank of the creek getting in our digs.

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“You are wasting your time in this hole,” Tom said. “It is all fished out.”

“You are just trying to talk me out of fishing this hole,” Sweyn said.

“Just be careful with my rod and reel,” Tom said. “I don’t want either one broken when you hand them over to me.”

“I’ll bet, T. D.,” I said, “that you aren’t going to be selfish like some fellow we know when the rod and reel belong to you.”

“That is a bet you’d win,” Tom said. “You can practice casting any time you want. And when we go on our fishing trip next year, you can use my rod when I go hunting.”

I don’t know if it was to get away from Tom and me or because he hadn’t caught anything, but Sweyn finally decided to give up fishing the deep holes upstream. That afternoon he went back to fishing in the rapids. And for the first time he decided to try some night fishing after supper. Papa began to get a little edgy when Sweyn hadn’t returned by nine o’clock-

“We had better go look for him,” Papa said. “He might have slipped on a rock and fallen or something.”

We found Sweyn upstream, fishing in the dark at one of the deep holes.

“I know this is our last day,” Papa said, “but it is time we turned in.”

I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for Sweyn when we got back to camp. He removed the reel and carefully placed it in its box. Then he unscrewed the rod and placed it in its canvas bag. But the saddest part of all was watching him remove the fly hooks from his fisherman’s

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hat and placing them in a box. Then he handed Tom the rod, the reel, and the fly hooks.

“You won the bet,” he said sadly. “They’re all yours now.”

Papa stared at Sweyn over the flames of the campfire. “Just what was that all about?” he asked.

“I bet T. D. that I would catch the biggest fish on this trip,” Sweyn answered.

Papa then turned his head and stared at Tom. “Knowing you as I do,” he said, “I’m positive you wouldn’t have made the bet unless you knew you would win. But for the life of me I can’t understand how you could possibly know that you would catch the biggest trout.”

“Fisherman’s luck,” Tom said, grinning. “And J. D. is my witness that I won fair and square. I caught both of those big trout using just a pole, line, hook, and worm bait.”

“That’s right. Papa,” I said. “And T. D. only made the bet to cure Sweyn of his selfishness and bragging.”

“What selfishness and bragging are you talking about?” Papa asked.

I told him how selfish Sweyn had been with his rod and reel and how he had boasted he would catch twice as many fish as Tom and me put together.

Papa was shaking his head when I finished as he looked at Sweyn. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “you deserve to lose your fishing gear. Perhaps it was provi-dence’s way of punishing you for being selfish and a boaster. Let’s go to bed now.”

And that is the story of how The Great Brain hooked a fish named Sweyn.

A FEW MILES SOUTH of Adenville there were twelve hundred and eighty acres of land called Alkali Flats which nobody wanted because it was all alkali soil-Being rather arid country, Utah has many of these large alkali beds. Nothing would grow on this land, not even range grass for grazing, which made it worthless. Papa told us an easterner named Boswell had bought the land sight unseen many years ago. When he discovered it was all alkali soil, he had stopped paying taxes on the land.

Every year old-man Hobbs, the country treasurer and tax collector, posted delinquent tax notices on Alkali Flats in Papa’s newspaper. Anybody foolish enough to pay