SAWBACK CLEANS A LAKER

Another Pipestone Letter

By N. Vernon-Wood

WB Ranch

Pipestone Creek, Alberta

Mr. John Lincoln

Wall Street, N.Y.

DEAR FRIEND:

Me an’ Sawback Smith just got through with a flock of Piscatorial Pilgrims that came up for the fall lake troutin’, and they shure got all the breaks. Every so often a man can hit Lake Minnewanka when conditions are just right, so that all you got to do is heave over yore hook with a pant’s button or just a written invitation onto it, an’ the Lakers will grab on like a Congressman to a PWA appropriation.

Honest, I’ve et so much fish this last while that I have a hell of a time restrainin’ myself from jumpin’ at flies.

When we arrove at the scene of our fishin’ picnic, things was looking some propitious. We pitched camp at Cranberry Bay, drug our home-made puddle duck outer the cache, an’ Sawback paddled the fevered Pilgrims out while I stayed in camp to build a bannock. You don’t get blisters on your mitts from cookin’, less’n you get too clost to the fire.

There’s one disadvantage about lettin’ Sawback off alone with a flock of Pilgrims. As a recontoor he shure fancies hisself an’ is apt to take the bridle off his imagination an’ turn it loose. Unless you’re present, it’s right embarrasin’ at times to corroborate. A Pilgrim after he’s had a tete-a-tete with the ol’ prevaricator is liable to look at you, more in sorrer than in anger, an’ say: “Why didn’t you never tell me about the time you shot the Game Warden, Tex?” or: “What’s this I hear ‘bout you an’ the debby tante? Let’s hear yore side of it, you ol’ hellion!”

Anyway, it’s not long before I notice that Sawback and the Pilgrims have left the bay an’ are off Aylmer Point, an’ also that they are catchin’ fish. Well, that’s what we’re here for, an’ I’m at peace with the world. I get supper all fixed, except I don’t cut any ham, figgerin’ there’ll be broiled Lake Trout for the piece of resistance. An’ there is. When the fishermen come ashore they bring along a coupla eatin’ Lakers, just right for broilin’.

One of the Pilgrims has brung a fish scale & tape along, an’ insists on weighin’-in the catch, keepin’ a record very scientific & business-like. He’s all a-twitter to tabulate a series of statistics for future generations, showin’ weight for girth & length, till fishin’ ain’t romantic any more. An’ as he weighs & measures, my pardner takes ’em down to the edge of the drink an’ cleans ’em, which should of made me suspicious. But as I say, I’m at peace with the world, an’ wouldn’t of suspected a cross-eyed hoss-thief of anything just then. So after vespers we turn in full of fresh fish and friendliness.

Next mornin’s catch is good, an’ the scientific Hombre gets quite a thrill when he gets a fish that’s three pounds heavier than its size warrants. An’ Sawback still insists on cleanin’ & guttin’ with little or no opposition.

‘Longabout noon the wind kicks up the lake some, an’ the Dudes look at the whitecaps with sudden respect. One of ’em speculates on how long a man would last, s’possin’ he’s upset ‘way out in the middle. An’ that brings up the question of how many lives the lake has claimed. The answer is none, to my knowledge, an’ I’m just about to say so when Sawback turns his wolf loose. To hear him tell it, this stretch of water is the grave of forty Injuns, 25 prospectors, five-six Dudes, an’ ontold Wapiti, Moose, & Pack-rats.

“An’ they ain’t found the last corpus delectable yet,” he says. “Ol’ Coyote Bob’s canoe was found last week, down at the fur end, but they ain’t been no sign of him to date.”

Sawback pulls a long face an’ looks real mournful, but my ears stand up. I seen Coyote only a coupla days ago, just before we left town, an’ he looked pretty healthy to me. Coyote’s about the orniest citizen in these hills an’ mean as a blind Rattler, but the Lord don’t seem ready to gather him in quite yet.

However, I don’t spoil Sawback’s yarn. If he wants to thrill the Dudes, it’s all included in the price they’re payin’. We don’t charge extry for nothin’.

That evenin’ the statistician records another extraordinary weight for a Laker he’s caught, an’ I sneak down on Sawback as he’s cleanin’ ’em. I watch him open the Trout, an’ see it’s loaded clean to the gills with sand & small stones.

“So you’re helpin’ along the cause of academic investigation, are yuh?” I ask.

He grins, plumb unembarrassed. “I’m just tryin’ to keep ol’ Scales & Notebook enthused,” he says. This bein’ all the same difference to me, I shrugs, an’ lets him go on.

That evenin’ he inviggles the Student to go out with him again. They head for Aylmer Point, an’ at dusk they come in with a whoppin’ big Laker. Sawback totes it into the light of the fire, an’ after it’s weighed an’ entered, opens it up.

Suddenly he stops an’ says, “Sumpin’ funny about the feel of this’n.”

The Dudes watch as he slits it. Sawback sinks his hand into the plumbin’, an’ when he pulls it out he’s holdin’ up a Ingersoll watch by the chain.

“Goddlemighty!” gasps Sawback, staggerin’ back; “Coyote Bob’s!”

He rubs the back clean, holds it up to the light, an’ shure enough, scratched on the back is R.S., which are ol’ Coyote’s initials. Robert Short’s his full monicker.

The statistician turns kinda green, an’ his voice quavers. “How many Trout we caught off Aylmer Point?” he asks, kinda hollow-like.

‘“Bout six or seven,” answers Sawback, “that we kept for eatin’.”

The Pilgrim turns to me. ‘“Tex,” he says, “from now on it’s bacon & ham, you hear? I ain’t goin’ to eat no more Lake Trout, no how—never!” With that he dives into the teepee an’ don’t come out the rest of the night.

Later, when we was in our own rag house, I says to Sawback, “Smitty, far be it from me to criticize yore teckneek, but the next time you find a deceased rannie’s¹ watch in the trout’s innerds, you ougtha see that it ain’t tickin’ an’ the initials ain’t your’n.”

Which he said he would.

Yours,

TEX.

Hunting and Fishing, December 1936, 12