The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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exclaimed Alfred, as he leaned back in the bow facing her. “There is nothing more to be desired. This beautiful clear stream, the air so fresh, the gold lined banks, the autumn leaves, a guide who—”
“Look,” said Betty. “There is the fall over which we must pass.”
He looked ahead and saw that they were swiftly approaching two huge stones that reared themselves high out of the water. They were only a few yards apart and surrounded by smaller rocks, about high the water rushed white with foam.
“Please do not move!” cried Betty, her eyes shining bright with excitement.
Indeed, the situation was too novel for Alfred to do anything but feel a keen enjoyment. He had made up his mind that he was sure to get a ducking, but, as he watched Betty’s easy, yet vigorous sweeps with the paddle, and her smiling, yet resolute lips, he felt reassured. He could see that the fall was not a great one, only a few feet, but one of those glancing sheets of water like a mill race, and he well knew that if they struck a stone disaster would be theirs. Twenty feet above the white-capped wave which marked the fall, Betty gave a strong forward pull on the paddle, a deep stroke which momentarily retarded their progress even in that swift current, and then, a short backward stroke, far under the stern of the canoe, and the little vessel turned straight, almost in the middle of the course between the two rocks. As she raised her paddle into the canoe and smiled at the fascinated young man, the bow dipped, and with that peculiar downward movement, that swift, exhilarating rush so dearly loved by canoeists, they shot down the smooth incline of water, were lost for a moment in a white cloud of mist, and in another they coated into a placid pool.
“Was not that delightful?” she asked, with just a little conscious pride glowing in her dark eyes.
“Miss Zane, it was more than that. I apologize for my suspicions. You have admirable skill. I only wish that on my voyage down the River of Life I could have such a sure eye and hand to guide me through the dangerous reefs and rapids.”
“You are poetical,” said Betty, who laughed, and at the same time blushed slightly. “But you are right about the guide. Jonathan says ‘always get a good guide,’ and as guiding is his work he ought to know. But this has nothing in common with fishing, and here is my favorite place under the old sycamore.”
With a long sweep of the paddle she ran the canoe alongside a stone beneath a great tree which spread its long branches over the creek and shaded the pool. It was a grand old tree and must have guarded that sylvan spot for centuries. The gnarled and knotted trunk was scarred and seamed with the ravages of time. The upper part was dead. Long limbs extended skyward, gaunt and bare, like the masts of a storm beaten vessel. The lower branches were white and shining, relieved here and there by brown patches of bark which curled up like old parchment as they shelled away from the inner bark. The ground beneath the tree was carpeted with a velvety moss with little plots of grass and clusters of maiden-hair fern growing on it. From under an overhanging rock on the bank a spring of crystal water bubbled forth.
Alfred rigged up the rods, and baiting a hook directed Betty to throw her line well out into the current and let it float down into the eddy. She complied, and hardly had the line reached the circle of the eddy, where bits of white foam floated round and round, when there was a slight splash, a scream from Betty and she was standing up in the canoe holding tightly to her rod.
“Be careful!” exclaimed Alfred. “Sit down. You will have the canoe upset in a moment. Hold your rod steady and keep the line taut. That’s right. Now lead him round toward me. There,” and grasping the line he lifted a fine rock bass over the side of the canoe.
“Oh! I always get so intensely excited,” breathlessly cried Betty. “I can’t help it. Jonathan always declares he will never take me fishing again. Let me see the fish. It’s a goggle-eye. Isn’t he pretty? Look how funny he bats his eyes,” and she laughed gleefully as she gingerly picked up the fish by the tail and dropped him into the water. “Now, Mr. Goggle-eye, if you are wise, in future you will beware of tempting looking bugs.”
For an hour they had splendid sport. The pool teemed with sunfish. The bait would scarcely touch the water when the little orange colored fellows would rush for it. Now and then a black bass darted wickedly through the school of sunfish and stole the morsel from them. Or a sharp-nosed fiery-eyed pickerel—vulture of the water—rising to the surface, and, supreme in his indifference to man or fish, would swim lazily round until he had discovered the cause of all this commotion among the smaller fishes, and then, opening wide his jaws would take the bait with one voracious snap.
Presently something took hold of Betty’s line and moved out toward the middle of the pool. She struck and the next instant her rod was bent double and the tip under water.
“Pull your rod up!” shouted Alfred. “Here, hand it to me.”
But it was too late. A surge right and left, a vicious tug, and Betty’s line floated on the surface of the water.
“Now, isn’t that too bad? He has broken my line. Goodness, I never before felt such a strong fish. What shall I do?”
“You should be thankful you were not pulled in. I have been in a state of fear ever since we commenced fishing. You move round in this canoe as though it were a raft. Let me paddle out to that little ripple and try once there; then we will stop. I know you are tired.”
Near the center of the pool a half submerged rock checked the current and caused a little ripple of the water. Several times Alfred had seen the dark shadow of a large fish followed by a swirl of the water, and the frantic leaping of little bright-sided minnows in all directions. As his hook, baited with a lively shiner, floated over the spot, a long, yellow object shot from out that shaded lair. There was a splash, not unlike that made by the sharp edge of a paddle impelled by a short, powerful stroke, the minnow disappeared, and the broad tail of the fish flapped on the water. The instant Alfred struck, the water boiled and the big fish leaped clear into the air, shaking himself convulsively to get rid of the hook. He made mad rushes up and down the pool, under the canoe, into the swift current and against the rocks, but all to no avail. Steadily Alfred increased the strain on the line and gradually it began to tell, for the plunges of the fish became shorter and less frequent. Once again, in a last magnificent effort, he leaped straight into the air, and failing to get loose, gave up the struggle and was drawn gasping and exhausted to the side of the canoe.
“Are you afraid to touch him?” asked Alfred.
“Indeed I am not,” answered Betty.
“Then run your hand gently down the line, slip your fingers in under his gills and lift him over the side carefully.”
“Five pounds,” exclaimed Alfred, when the fish lay at his feet. “This is the largest black bass I ever caught. It is pity to take such a beautiful fish out of his element.”
“Let him go, then. May I?” said Betty.
“No, you have allowed them all to go, even the pickerel which I think ought to be killed. We will keep this fellow alive, and place him in that nice clear pool over in the fort-yard.”
“I like to watch you play a fish,” said Betty. “Jonathan always hauls them right out. You are so skillful. You let this fish run so far and then you checked him. Then you gave him a line to go the other way, and no doubt he felt free once more when you stopped him again.”
“You are expressing a sentiment which has been, is, and always will be particularly pleasing to the fair sex, I believe,” observed Alfred, smiling rather grimly as he wound up his line.
“Would you mind being explicit?” she questioned.
Alfred had laughed and was about to answer when the whip-like crack of a rifle came from the hillside. The echoes of the shot reverberated from hill to hill and were finally lost far down the valley.
“What can that be?” exclaimed Alfred anxiously, recalling Colonel Zane’s odd manner when they were about to leave the house.
“I am not sure, but I think that is my turkey, unless Lew Wetzel happened to miss his aim,” said