Read Online Gray Ghost Murders (9781101606070) by Keith McCafferty - Free Book Online
Authors: Keith McCafferty
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a couple quarters that had been wedged into the tread of the floor mat. âNext time,â he muttered, clanging the change into the tin box, and came back to the Land Cruiser, shrugged into his fly vest, and slipped the old bamboo rod his father had made from its case. He breathed in the tung oil smell of the rod sock.
âThatâs something you donât get from graphite,â he muttered.
He fitted the German silver ferrules together and strung the rod with a double taper line. True, heâd assured Kenneth Winston that he wouldnât carry a rod while looking for the lost fly box, but what if he found it right off the bat? Heâd be on one of the loveliest stretches of the Madison River with nothing to do about the circles the trout made but watch. A fly fishermanâs Hades.
Along the fishermanâs path, Sean resisted the urge to drink in the beauty of the afternoon, nodding off into purple blues on the ridges and deep greens in the valley, and kept his eyes on the ground. Not only for the fly box, which could have dropped out of Winstonâs vest anywhere in the two miles, but so he wouldnât step into a badger hole. They were everywhere, freshly turned earth to mark the new additions, and yet one almost never saw a badger. Sean did spot a small garter snake and picked it up. After it calmed he held it in front of his face and let the questing forked tongue tickle the end of his nose. He watched it slither away and looked behind him, up a draw through the bluffs. The mansion Winston had mentioned was built from blond logs in a hexagonal design, with a wraparound porch and peaked windowpanes looking toward mountains at each point of the compass. Closer to the water and downriver was the old homestead cabin, freshly chinked with a large picture window facing the river. The newly constructed porch was a long fly cast from the riverbank; there was a picnic table on the porch, slatted Adirondack chairs, a couple old oil lanterns hanging from nails driven into the logs.
Sean hated to see development of any kind along his favorite river, but the structure was reminiscent of fishing huts heâd seen in Maine and had a down-home feel he could relate to. Mercifully, the âNo Trespassingâ signs that Sean had come to see as the state motto werenât in evidence. Although Montana had the best stream access law in the West, permitting anyone to wade, hike, fish, or float a navigable river, the stipulation being only that one had to stay within the high-water mark, many landowners, especially the new gentry from out of state, posted their property and hassled anglers anyway.
He picked up his pace, hiked past the little bungalow, and ten minutes later turned around, facing back upstream. He could see the minute figure of a fisherman who must have strolled down from the cabin. Sean started back up, zigzagging across the path, his eyes glued to the ground. The grass was up past his knees and he realized that finding the box would not be as easy as he originally thought. He searched slowly and methodically, lifting heavy grass tufts with his wading staff to peer underneath them, his shadow lengthening so that it reflected on the water, the river sparkling under the low-angle eye of the sun. Caddis flies swarmed the wild rose bushes on the bank. Pale Morning Dun mayflies batted their wings, rising and dipping in flight. Trout kissed the surface in the slicks behind the boulders. Sean looked wistfully at the parachute Adams hooked to his stripping guide.
âJust my luck,â he said out loud. He was so preoccupied looking at the water that he didnât notice the approach of the fisherman, who had a hitch to his walk and was wearing a tweed fedora.
Shit
, Sean thought.
Heâs going to bawl me out for walking above the high-water mark
. A welcoming smile disavowed him of the presumption.
âYou wouldnât be looking for a fly box, would you?â the man said.
âI sure
âThatâs something you donât get from graphite,â he muttered.
He fitted the German silver ferrules together and strung the rod with a double taper line. True, heâd assured Kenneth Winston that he wouldnât carry a rod while looking for the lost fly box, but what if he found it right off the bat? Heâd be on one of the loveliest stretches of the Madison River with nothing to do about the circles the trout made but watch. A fly fishermanâs Hades.
Along the fishermanâs path, Sean resisted the urge to drink in the beauty of the afternoon, nodding off into purple blues on the ridges and deep greens in the valley, and kept his eyes on the ground. Not only for the fly box, which could have dropped out of Winstonâs vest anywhere in the two miles, but so he wouldnât step into a badger hole. They were everywhere, freshly turned earth to mark the new additions, and yet one almost never saw a badger. Sean did spot a small garter snake and picked it up. After it calmed he held it in front of his face and let the questing forked tongue tickle the end of his nose. He watched it slither away and looked behind him, up a draw through the bluffs. The mansion Winston had mentioned was built from blond logs in a hexagonal design, with a wraparound porch and peaked windowpanes looking toward mountains at each point of the compass. Closer to the water and downriver was the old homestead cabin, freshly chinked with a large picture window facing the river. The newly constructed porch was a long fly cast from the riverbank; there was a picnic table on the porch, slatted Adirondack chairs, a couple old oil lanterns hanging from nails driven into the logs.
Sean hated to see development of any kind along his favorite river, but the structure was reminiscent of fishing huts heâd seen in Maine and had a down-home feel he could relate to. Mercifully, the âNo Trespassingâ signs that Sean had come to see as the state motto werenât in evidence. Although Montana had the best stream access law in the West, permitting anyone to wade, hike, fish, or float a navigable river, the stipulation being only that one had to stay within the high-water mark, many landowners, especially the new gentry from out of state, posted their property and hassled anglers anyway.
He picked up his pace, hiked past the little bungalow, and ten minutes later turned around, facing back upstream. He could see the minute figure of a fisherman who must have strolled down from the cabin. Sean started back up, zigzagging across the path, his eyes glued to the ground. The grass was up past his knees and he realized that finding the box would not be as easy as he originally thought. He searched slowly and methodically, lifting heavy grass tufts with his wading staff to peer underneath them, his shadow lengthening so that it reflected on the water, the river sparkling under the low-angle eye of the sun. Caddis flies swarmed the wild rose bushes on the bank. Pale Morning Dun mayflies batted their wings, rising and dipping in flight. Trout kissed the surface in the slicks behind the boulders. Sean looked wistfully at the parachute Adams hooked to his stripping guide.
âJust my luck,â he said out loud. He was so preoccupied looking at the water that he didnât notice the approach of the fisherman, who had a hitch to his walk and was wearing a tweed fedora.
Shit
, Sean thought.
Heâs going to bawl me out for walking above the high-water mark
. A welcoming smile disavowed him of the presumption.
âYou wouldnât be looking for a fly box, would you?â the man said.
âI sure
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