cunningly--there was no still up that creek--and as he had left
his horse below and his gun, she waited for him to come back,
which he did, by and by, dripping and soaked to his knees. Then
she saw him untie the queer "gun" on his saddle, pull it out of a
case and--her eyes got big with wonder--take it to pieces and make
it into a long limber rod. In a moment he had cast a minnow into
the pool and waded out into the water up to his hips. She had
never seen so queer a fishing-pole--so queer a fisherman. How
could he get a fish out with that little switch, she thought
contemptuously? By and by something hummed queerly, the man gave a
slight jerk and a shining fish flopped two feet into the air. It
was surely very queer, for the man didn't put his rod over his
shoulder and walk ashore, as did the mountaineers, but stood
still, winding something with one hand, and again the fish would
flash into the air and then that humming would start again while
the fisherman would stand quiet and waiting for a while--and then
he would begin to wind again. In her wonder, she rose
unconsciously to her feet and a stone rolled down to the ledge
below her. The fisherman turned his head and she started to run,
but without a word he turned again to the fish he was playing.
Moreover, he was too far out in the water to catch her, so she
advanced slowly--even to the edge of the stream, watching the fish
cut half circles about the man. If he saw her, he gave no notice,
and it was well that he did not. He was pulling the bass to and
fro now through the water, tiring him out--drowning him--stepping
backward at the same time, and, a moment later, the fish slid
easily out of the edge of the water, gasping along the edge of a
low sand-bank, and the fisherman reaching down with one hand
caught him in the gills. Then he looked up and smiled--and she had
seen no smile like that before.