Miles from Town: Chapter 5

After three months, Gil had established a pattern for himself. He chopped wood and gathered water in the hours just after sunrise, then he spent the rest of his day, exploring his surrounding, including walking back to where he’d followed the horses.

The last time Smith had brought around supplies, Gil hadn’t been there. He had left his boss a note saying he was off looking around and that he’d be back for sundown.

When he returned, the supplies were neatly stacked up on the porch, but Smith was gone. Again the thought of why the old prospector turned city-folk continued to hang on to the claim, found it’s way into Gil’s mind.

“Perhaps, it’s the nature of the man.” He spent the rest of the evening putting away supplies and tidying up the place.

Come the following morning, after completing his chores, he decided to search around to see if he could find a certain sized wire. Gil planned to finally see if he could make a fish-hook, so he could do some fishing.

After combing through a nearby pile of scraps, Gil felt he had a perfect piece of wire to be manipulated into a hook. Through the morning he carefully, shaped and crafted the length of wire into a barb, sharpening it on a stone.

He’d already been hard at work on fashioning pieces of reed into fishing-line following the step-by-step instructions he’d found in one of the older magazines. With around thirty feet of line, a solid hook, an old cork he’d discovered under the counter and some fresh meat, Gil headed to what he’d come to call, ‘Mustang Hole,’ the next morning.

With long shadows falling behind him, Gil stood along the bank of the reservoir testing his skill against some rather large trout. He could see their huge, shiny bodies as they approached the surface, but none had bothered to test his bait.

One hour, two hours and three, with nothing to show for his effort. By then the sun was up and it had grown hot and with no shade nearby, Gil knew he had to return to the mine or risk heat-stroke as the temperature reached the point of unbearable.

Sighing in defeat, he drew his line in, wrapping the hand-made thread around a stick he’d found. That’s when he heard a laugh come from behind him.

Turning he saw Jack squatting some distance away. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to be entertained and amused.”

“Well, they’re jus’ not biting today.”

“Don’t have to bite.” He stood up and approached the area near where Gil had been standing.

From a pouch he had tucked in his waist band, Jack withdrew what looked to be finely ground leaves and he spread it across the top of the still water. “‘Totsimatasukwi’ in my tongue. No idea what you call it.”

Suddenly, and if by magic, several large fish floated to the surface. Though amazed, Gil quickly pulled them on shore.

“You get one. I take others. My totsimatasukwi.”

“No complaint from me.”

In silence the two men walked back towards the mine where Jack broke the quietude, “My real name is Sago Ti-bi-chi, not ‘One-eyed’ Jack.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Father named me. Said I was blue and still — like a stone when born.”

“Does that mean you’re White name would something like ‘Blue Stone?’”

“Perhaps. Better than ‘One-eyed’ Jack.’”

“Well, you do only have one eye.”

“Young boy threw rock. Knocked out eye.”

“When did that happen?”

“I can not remember how old.”

“Any idea how old you are now?”

“No. Long forgotten. Old, though.” Blue Stone laughed.

Once back at the mine, Blue Stone continued without a word up the steep grade and out of sight. Gil went to work cleaning his trout, grilling it in the large cast-iron frying pan on the stove.

It was the first time in over a year, Gil had fish for dinner. And he savored every morsel of it.