Read Online When We Were Wolves by Jon Billman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jon Billman
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back in Camp Crook. The sky hung heavy with rain or snow, give or take a degree or two. “The thing about General Crook. After the Indian Wars on the Northern Plains, he retired to Arizona to chase Geronimo around the desert. Goddamn government sun-bird.”
“I’m gonna throw some bugs at some fish before the drinking begins. What’s in the river?”
“Carp, catfish mostly. Some perch and maybe a sauger or two. Ain’t trouty.”
“Smallmouth make it this far up?”
“Don’t believe. Want to borrow a baitcaster?”
“No, thanks.”
“Remember, Strain, whichever way you’re headed is north, east is to your right.”
Dark came early now. Dusk had begun to settle in. Strain didn’t wear a watch, another point of contention between him and his supervisors, so he didn’t know, didn’t care, what time it was. Maybe 1700. Like Horton said, Camp Crook time. Time to fish.
The Little Missouri ran muddy and shoaled from the summer of drought and fire. Strain needed the hike. He reached the closest bank, then walked upstream to find a hole to start with. He walked in ankle-deep water in his fire boots, to a sandbar, and began rigging up. Though grasshoppers still plagued the landscape, a bullet-head grasshopper pattern hadn’t yielded anything. Hoping for a sauger, maybe a perch, he chose a number ten renegade his father had sent him. His father spent his long retirement days tying bugs, the lion’s share of which he sent to his son in Wyoming. Strain clicked-in his floating-line spool, looped a twelve-foot 4x leader to the line, tied the renegade on with an improved clinch knot, and painted the fly with floatant. The renegade didn’t resemble anything in particular, but fish saw something in it. Strain thought of it as the bastard calf of the fly world, and if forced to have only one fly in his cache, he’d think long and hard about making it the renegade. He made several false casts, stripped line from the spool, and let the fly drop in the current and drift over the dark pools. Hefished the renegade on top drying it with false casts, then let the bug soak up river water and slowly sink.
A weak front passed and the evening cooled. Strain was used to the fall-like temperatures from summer night duty at altitude. He fished in his shirtsleeves.
Nothing worked the topwater. He covered the green-black area around him with the thoroughness of a room painter. The fluorescent chartreuse line cut through the dusk like a tracer round.
He felt the line go heavy on the back-cast and he missed the throw. Must have caught a limb, he thought. He retrieved the slack out of the line. A high screech, the pitch of a dog whistle filled the night behind him. Struggling on top of the eddy at the end of his leader, a bird of some kind. He carefully pulled the slack line and stepped into the water to retrieve what he could tell now was a Little Brown bat. With his left hand he cupped the wings, to keep the tiny mammal from hurting itself before he could cut the barb free. The bat was all of three inches long, rounded ears, face like a tiny bear cubs. He unclipped his Leatherman tool from his belt and unfolded the wire cutters against his pantleg. The number ten barb protruded through the bat’s lower mandible, below the tiny triangle of soft pink bat-mouth. “You like my renegade, eh,” Strain said in a calming voice. “Fish here don’t think much of em, but I fooled a pretty stealthy little exterminator anyway.”
He deftly clipped the barb and slipped the fly from the bat’s mouth, and in the same movement set the tool down and made a cave of both hands. “It’ll sting for a bit, but you’ll be back to eating your mosquitoes in no time.”
Gently, he blew warm breath on the wings and body, then placed the bat on the sand to finish drying. He stepped away backward, carefully, to let the bat dry in peace with a minimum of humiliation. The bat looked more human than birdlike, as if someday manwould evolve winged hands
“I’m gonna throw some bugs at some fish before the drinking begins. What’s in the river?”
“Carp, catfish mostly. Some perch and maybe a sauger or two. Ain’t trouty.”
“Smallmouth make it this far up?”
“Don’t believe. Want to borrow a baitcaster?”
“No, thanks.”
“Remember, Strain, whichever way you’re headed is north, east is to your right.”
Dark came early now. Dusk had begun to settle in. Strain didn’t wear a watch, another point of contention between him and his supervisors, so he didn’t know, didn’t care, what time it was. Maybe 1700. Like Horton said, Camp Crook time. Time to fish.
The Little Missouri ran muddy and shoaled from the summer of drought and fire. Strain needed the hike. He reached the closest bank, then walked upstream to find a hole to start with. He walked in ankle-deep water in his fire boots, to a sandbar, and began rigging up. Though grasshoppers still plagued the landscape, a bullet-head grasshopper pattern hadn’t yielded anything. Hoping for a sauger, maybe a perch, he chose a number ten renegade his father had sent him. His father spent his long retirement days tying bugs, the lion’s share of which he sent to his son in Wyoming. Strain clicked-in his floating-line spool, looped a twelve-foot 4x leader to the line, tied the renegade on with an improved clinch knot, and painted the fly with floatant. The renegade didn’t resemble anything in particular, but fish saw something in it. Strain thought of it as the bastard calf of the fly world, and if forced to have only one fly in his cache, he’d think long and hard about making it the renegade. He made several false casts, stripped line from the spool, and let the fly drop in the current and drift over the dark pools. Hefished the renegade on top drying it with false casts, then let the bug soak up river water and slowly sink.
A weak front passed and the evening cooled. Strain was used to the fall-like temperatures from summer night duty at altitude. He fished in his shirtsleeves.
Nothing worked the topwater. He covered the green-black area around him with the thoroughness of a room painter. The fluorescent chartreuse line cut through the dusk like a tracer round.
He felt the line go heavy on the back-cast and he missed the throw. Must have caught a limb, he thought. He retrieved the slack out of the line. A high screech, the pitch of a dog whistle filled the night behind him. Struggling on top of the eddy at the end of his leader, a bird of some kind. He carefully pulled the slack line and stepped into the water to retrieve what he could tell now was a Little Brown bat. With his left hand he cupped the wings, to keep the tiny mammal from hurting itself before he could cut the barb free. The bat was all of three inches long, rounded ears, face like a tiny bear cubs. He unclipped his Leatherman tool from his belt and unfolded the wire cutters against his pantleg. The number ten barb protruded through the bat’s lower mandible, below the tiny triangle of soft pink bat-mouth. “You like my renegade, eh,” Strain said in a calming voice. “Fish here don’t think much of em, but I fooled a pretty stealthy little exterminator anyway.”
He deftly clipped the barb and slipped the fly from the bat’s mouth, and in the same movement set the tool down and made a cave of both hands. “It’ll sting for a bit, but you’ll be back to eating your mosquitoes in no time.”
Gently, he blew warm breath on the wings and body, then placed the bat on the sand to finish drying. He stepped away backward, carefully, to let the bat dry in peace with a minimum of humiliation. The bat looked more human than birdlike, as if someday manwould evolve winged hands
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