I knew that these fish leaped, and I had heard that some of their bounds up cascades were tremendous, but I had never known that a salmon could spring fifty feet up out of the water over the top of the rocky wall which formed the river-bank, and away through a screen of young firs. There, however, was the fact before me, and with delightful visions of broiled salmon before my eyes, I dropped my pack and ran forward to secure the prize before it should take it into its head to make another gymnastic leap into the water.
It was a splendid fellow, a full yard long, its scales silvery blue and pearly in the morning sunshine, and regardless of wet and slime, I dropped on my knees.
“Oh, you beauty!” I exclaimed, and I raised it by the gills, and—dropped it directly, and remained as if turned to stone, gazing in a hideous, painted red face, which had been thrust out between the boughs of the firs, and stared as wildly at me as I at its owner.
For a few moments I forgot that I had friends behind, and rested there quite still with what seemed to me a terrible silence all around, till it was broken by the salmon throwing itself over, and giving the stones upon which it lay a resounding flap.
I fully expected to see the arm belonging to the head thrust out with a knife in the fist; and when it was darted out from among the bushes, my own hand went involuntarily to the pistol I carried, but I dropped it again as I saw that it was only an open palm extended toward me, and I placed mine therein for a friendly shake, my heart beating less heavily.
Then the hand was withdrawn, the salmon pushed toward me, and the hand held out again.
“Hallo!” cried a voice, which made me glow with satisfaction. “Been fishing, Gordon?”
Gunson strode up to us, and seeing the situation at a glance, he took out his tobacco-pouch, opened it, pinched out a piece, and pointing to the salmon, offered the cut-up herb to the Indian, who now stood out in front of the young pines. I thought it ridiculous to offer what I considered a pinch of rubbish for the salmon; but the Indian laughed, darted back, and returned holding another quivering fish by the tail, threw it down, and held out his hand for the tobacco, evidently well pleased with his bargain.
“Fish is cheap out here,” said Gunson, laughing. “Here, Quong, one to cook and one to dry.”
Our Celestial friend literally pounced upon the two salmon as prizes as soon as he saw that there was no danger, and set to work cleaning and splitting the fish, lightening them by getting rid of head and tail, and then cutting some splints of wood to keep one well open for drying in the sun and for easy carriage.