CHAPTER SEVEN

Cutthroats

Lying in the prow of the lead boat, with his head pillowed on a rolled-up sleeping bag, Sandy watched the towering stands of green pine glide smoothly by. This was their second day on the river and they had yet to see a sign of human life. The clear, sparkling river wound through what seemed to be an endless wilderness of mountain peaks and sweet-smelling fir forests.

The fast-flowing current carried them effortlessly ahead, deeper and deeper into the wild, tangled beauty of the Lost River country. Occasionally, Joe, who was stationed at the tiller in the rear of Sandy’s boat, would yell, “White water ahead!” This was the signal for Sandy to take up his paddle and brace himself firmly against the prow. Then, as Joe steered skillfully through the suddenly turbulent water, Sandy’s job was to keep the boat well away from potentially dangerous rocks by pushing out with a heavy river paddle, whose shaft was almost as thick as his wrist. Behind the first boat, Mike and his father tried to follow the course Joe set.

Only once—when Joe announced that the rapids ahead were too risky—did they have to portage. It was a long, hot job.

But most of the time they simply floated. Mr. Cook and Joe kept a hand on the tillers of their boats, while Sandy and Mike watched the scenery or sprawled lazily on their backs, drinking in the sun and the bracing mountain air.

As Sandy stretched and shifted into a more comfortable position, he could hear Mike singing in the other boat.

“‘Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam, and the deer and the antelope play! Where seldom is heard a discouraging’—Hey, Joe!”

“What?”

“Ever see any antelopes?”

“Sure.”

“What do they play?”

“Baseball mostly” came the reply. “And a little tennis, sometimes.”

“Thanks. Just wondered.” Mike took a breath and plunged ahead. “And the deer and the antelope play! It’s baseball at night! A discouraging sight! After watching the tennis all day!”

Sandy grinned and hoisted himself up to a sitting position. “I like the original words better, Mike!” he shouted.

In the other boat, Mike assumed a posture of dignified disappointment. “That’s the trouble with people like you,” he replied haughtily. “You never appreciate an original talent. Why, I predict in a hundred years, they’ll be singing my songs from—”

“Quiet, Mike!” The sharp command came from Joe, who was sitting motionless in the stern of his boat. Slowly, he raised one hand and pointed to the shore about a hundred yards ahead. “Look!” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Look what’s over there.”

Sandy turned and followed Joe’s finger. At first, all he saw was restless motion in a grove of trees growing close by the river. Then, as he watched, the underbrush parted and a head appeared. An instant later, a huge mahogany bear was standing on the narrow strip of beach that ran along the water. Cautiously, the bear lifted up its snout and sniffed the breeze. Apparently satisfied, the animal waddled out to the edge of the river.

“Boy!” Sandy breathed. “Think we can get in a shot?” Keeping his eyes glued on the bear, he reached around for a rifle.

“No shooting,” ordered Joe. “It’s against the law.”

“How come?” Sandy asked in surprise.

“Can’t shoot bears from a boat,” Joe explained. “You have to be on dry land. Besides,” he added, “that’s a sow bear.”

“A what?”

“A female. I bet she’s got cubs with her.”

Joe’s guess turned out to be right. In a few moments, the big bear turned around and was pushing something out from behind one of the trees. Two little balls of fur tumbled out on the beach and began wrestling near the water. The mother bear gave them both a cuff that sent them streaking around behind her broad back.

“Never shoot a sow bear, Sandy,” Joe was saying. “The cubs still need her and would die without her. Every time you shoot a female, you’re killing three animals. Bears, you see, usually have two in a litter.”

Sandy forgot about the rifle and turned back to watch the family outing on the beach ahead. Suddenly, when they were about fifty yards away, the mother bear caught sight of them. With surprising speed, she snatched her cubs and tucked them between her legs. Growling fiercely, her huge snout wrinkled and her teeth bared, she backed slowly into the bushes. But just as she was about to disappear into the trees, one of the cubs broke away and scampered back out into the open. Exactly like any irate mother, the bear let out a shrill scream of warning as she jumped to cut him off. Growling and snarling, she scolded her tiny runaway and gave him a slap that sent him spinning head over heels. The little bear scrambled back to its feet and raced for the protection of the underbrush. Still scolding and snarling, the big bear followed. Sandy could hear the tirade go on for several minutes until, at last, it died down.

“Now there,” Mike observed, “is a mother who doesn’t believe in spoiling her child. Did you see the spanking that little cub got?”

“I sure did. I wonder if he knows why he got it.”

“I think so,” Joe said. “Wild animals have to learn fast. She’s probably giving them both a lecture right now.”

“Speaking of lectures,” Mike called out to Sandy, “when are you going to give me that lesson in bait casting?”

“Soon as we find some fish,” Sandy replied. “I thought you said this river was full of trout,” he said, turning to Joe.

“It is. You’ll have your chance tonight after we make camp. I know a pool ahead that’s a regular hangout for cutthroats.”

“Cutthroats! Never heard of them.”

“They’ve got a red slash on both sides of their lower jaw. I think this is the only part of the world where you’ll find them.”

“That’s right,” agreed Mr. Cook. “The Lewis and Clark expedition was the first to describe them. They’re greedy fish and fighters.”

“Hey!” Mike shouted. “Sounds good. How do they taste?”

“You _would_ think of that,” his father commented. “But, for your information, they’re delicious.”

“Great!” answered Mike. “Put me down for three or four.”

“Got to catch them first.”

“Sandy’ll take care of that.”

“How far away is that pool of yours, Joe?”

“About five miles from here we’re going to run into the worst rapids on the river. I call them Cutthroat Rapids because the trout run is just upstream.”

“Are they worse than Dog Leg Falls?”

“Much worse. You can’t get through them. The river drops about six feet—right on a row of razor-sharp rocks.”

“Oh, oh!” cried Mike. “Sounds like another portage!”

“You’re right. Feel the river picking up speed? That’s Cutthroat Rapids. We’d better move over a little closer to the shore.”

An hour later they were tied to the roots of a stranded drift log. Mr. Cook and Joe were busy unloading gear for the night, while Sandy and Mike inflated two small rubber rafts and checked over their fishing equipment. When Mr. Cook saw the rafts, he raised an eyebrow. “How come?” he demanded.

“I thought we could move up and down along the shore a little easier with these,” Sandy explained.

“I guess you’re right. But isn’t it a little dangerous? We’re just above Cutthroat Rapids.”

“We’ll be careful,” Mike assured him. “Don’t worry about that.”

“All right,” Mr. Cook agreed reluctantly. “But wrap a length of rope around your middles. In case you start to drift, it might come in handy.”

“Okay,” Mike said breezily. “But now it’s time for us fishermen to go to work. We’re bringing back tonight’s supper, you know.”

“I’ll go grease up the frying pan right now,” Mr. Cook said, grinning at his son. “It won’t take you more than ten minutes, will it?”

“Give us fifteen.”

Mr. Cook laughed and went back to help Joe build the fire.

It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon by the time Sandy and Mike got down to the river with their fiberglas casting rods. Taking a position opposite some broken currents about three quarters of a mile above the roaring cataracts of Cutthroat Rapids, Sandy unhooked the catch of his reel and made ready for his first cast.

“A good caster,” he told Mike, “can hit a leaf floating in the middle of a stream.” He pointed to a small twig moving in their direction. “That’ll be my target,” he said.

Sandy placed his right foot in front of his left, almost as if he intended to walk out into the water. He held his rod in front of his body with his right hand. With an easy, swinging motion, he brought up his rod until his thumb reached eye-level. The rod quivered back in an arc, then lunged forward. The line snaked out and soared gracefully through the air.

A moment later there was an almost imperceptible splash about three inches from the twig. Sandy kept a gentle pressure on the reel with his thumb and allowed the bait to be carried along by the river for eight or ten feet before he began to reel in.

Mike whistled in admiration. “Pretty fancy. Let’s have a lesson.”

“Okay,” Sandy said, putting down his rod. “Now hold your thumb against the reel like this. Bring the rod up so that the tip is just about level with your eyes. That’s it. Now, keep your elbow away from your body. No, no. That’s too far. Just a couple of inches or so. Use your elbow as a pivot and bring the rod up. Stop it when your thumb comes up even with your eyes and then snap forward with your wrist as you come down with your arm.”

Mike nodded. “All right. Let me try.”

Sandy stepped back and watched as Mike concentrated on his first cast. The light rod whistled back and sprang forward. But instead of coming out in an even play, the line fluttered from the reel and flew erratically over the water.

Mike shot a glance over at Sandy. “What did I do wrong?” he demanded.

“Just about everything,” Sandy said, laughing. “First of all, relax. You’re snapping the rod instead of swinging it. You just need a little twist on the downstroke. In the second place, you’re not using your thumb right. When the line begins to play out, make your thumb act like a brake. Here, let’s try it again.”

After forty minutes of Sandy’s expert coaching, Mike managed several reasonably accurate casts. “Okay,” Sandy said approvingly. “You’re on your own. I’m going to take the raft and drift downstream a little ways.”

“Watch the current,” Mike warned as he set himself for another cast.

“Like a hawk,” Sandy said, pushing off from shore.

But Sandy had underestimated the treacherous power of Lost River.