Bert Wilson in the Rockies

by J. W. Duffield

They moved along, a little more soberly now, and their eyes narrowly scanned the trees ahead as though at any moment through the forest aisles they might discover a giant form lumbering down upon them. They did not think it at all likely, as there had been no rumors for some time past of a grizzly having been seen in the locality, nor had the mutilated body of some luckless steer borne traces of his handiwork. Still it was "better to be safe than sorry," and their vigilance did not relax until they came out of the thicker forest onto a more scantily wooded plateau and saw before them the shining waters of the lake that marked the goal of their journey.

Under the cloudy sky the waters had the steel-gray luster of quicksilver. It seemed to be about three miles in length, although this they could not clearly determine, owing to a curve at the upper end, which concealed its limits in that direction. It was not more than three-quarters of a mile wide, and the expanse was broken by a small wooded island about half way across. Nothing living was in sight, except a huge fish hawk that waited expectantly on a dead branch overhanging the water. Even while they looked, it darted downward, cleaving the air and water like an arrow, and reappeared a moment later with a large fish struggling in its jaws. Resuming its seat upon the branch it tossed the fish in the air, caught it cleverly as it came down, and swallowed it at a gulp.

"Talk about juggling," laughed Tom. "That fellow would make a hit upon the vaudeville stage."

"I'd like first rate to have him at the end of a cord," said Dick.

"Like those natives we saw in China, eh?" suggested Bert. "Do you remember how they used to fasten a ring about the throat so that they couldn't swallow them? It always seemed to me a low-down game to make them fork over as soon as they caught the fish."

"Well, at any rate, that fellow has shown us that there are fish to be had for the taking," said Tom. "I'll hunt up that canoe while you get the rods and reels ready. What are you going to try for first, pickerel or bass?"

"Suppose we take a hack at both," suggested Dick. "I'll get out the spoon bait and try for pike and pickerel. You and Bert can use the live bait and see what luck you have with the bass."

A careful search revealed the canoe, so cunningly hidden by its owner under a heap of brush and sedge-grass, that only the explicit directions they had received enabled them to find it. It was in good condition, about eighteen feet in length and two paddles lay in the bottom. Tom got in, pushed off from the shore, and with deft strokes brought the slender craft down to where his friends were waiting.

Bert eyed the frail boat dubiously.

"A canoe is a dandy thing for cruising in, especially if you want to get somewhere in a hurry, but it was never meant for a fishing party," he commented. "We'd have to be so careful in moving about that we couldn't keep our mind on the sport. You couldn't play a bass from one without danger of upsetting. I tell you what we'd better do. Let one of us fish from the shore for bass, while the two others in the canoe troll for pickerel. Two lines can be put out over the stern and one can paddle gently while the other keeps a sharp eye on the lines. Between us all we ought to get a mess in less than no time. We'll toss up to see which shall do the lonesome act while the others use the canoe. At noontime we'll have a fish fry right here on the shore to help us out with the lunch. The one who catches the first fish gets out of doing any of the work. The one who gets the next will have to do the cooking and the one that trails in last will have to clean the fish. What do you say?"