hooked!”
Ellie was squealing, clapping her hands.
The rod bent in a half-circle as Roebuck worked frantically with the reel. His thumb slipped and the line played out as he cursed and tried to keep his balance in the rocking boat. He got the fish under control again and began reeling more frantically than ever, feeling every movement of the unseen fish, every vibration of the desperate struggle for life.
The bass leaped and Roebuck saw its glistening silver flank as it hung for a moment above the surface of the lake. Then it was back in its cool world of silence with only the threadlike fishing line cutting the surface of the water in mad zigzag patterns to attest to its struggle below, pulling, pulling it back up to another world of heat and dry death.
“The net!” Roebuck yelled. “Get the net!”
Ellie fumbled in the open tackle box before she thought “We didn’t buy a net!”
“No net! No net!” Roebuck’s voice was incredulous.
The battling fish was near the boat now, and Roebuck tried to land it without a net. He bent over and gripped the line, pulling it carefully toward him, feeling the pressure of the fish trying to change direction.
For a second he saw a silver head, a gaping mouth, magnified beneath the water. Then as he tried to lift the fish into the boat the line snapped and he fell back to a sitting position in the boat bottom.
“No net,” he repeated miserably, sitting with the wet, limp line in his hand.
They sat in silence as the boat rocked.
“He was a big one,” Ellie said. “At least five pounds.” And she began to laugh.
Roebuck sat looking down at the broken line for a while, then he began to laugh with her. “Chili again for supper,” he said, wiping his eyes and struggling back up to sit on the boat seat.
“I guess I feel like having chili,” Ellie said, still smiling, reeling in her line.
Roebuck closed the tackle box and reached for the oars. He drew a deep breath and began rowing toward the bank. “I think that fish was closer to ten pounds,” he said.
There were still a few hours of daylight left after supper. Roebuck got the smaller of the two pistols he’d bought in Illinois, a .22 caliber, and looked about for a place to target shoot. He lined up four tin cans on a stump behind the cabin and backed off about twenty-five yards.
With four evenly spaced shots he cleared the stump.
“You sure can shoot,” Ellie said admiringly.
Roebuck walked to the stump to replace the tin cans. “I can outshoot any son of a bitch!” He held up the punctured cans, turning them so Ellie could see light through the holes.
“Nothing cheap about any of those,” she said.
Roebuck walked back to stand beside her. He raised the pistol and again cleared the stump with four shots.
“I’m going inside,” Ellie said. “You coming?”
He looked closely at her. “You bet.”
Tucking the revolver in his belt, Roebuck followed her into the cabin.
It was warm inside, so Roebuck opened all the windows a crack and a lazy breeze stirred through the cabin. He went into the bedroom behind Ellie. She turned back the bedspread and they both undressed casually, unhurriedly, without having to speak.
He made love to her then, taking her slowly, almost leisurely, giving something of himself as he felt her respond warmly beneath him.
“You were gentler that time,” Ellie whispered, resting her tousled head on his chest. She had her eyes closed, her wide, flushed lips curved in a sensuous smile. “How come you were gentler?”
“I don’t know,” Roebuck said. He lay for a while longer, then he stood and slipped into his pants.
Ellie watched him as he walked to the bureau and reloaded his revolver. Without a word he crossed the cabin and went out through the screen door into the fading light.
She lay listening for a long time to the measured crack! crack! of the pistol as he took dead aim at his tin cans.
2
Idyllic was the word. Roebuck’s tension and fear drained out of
Ellie was squealing, clapping her hands.
The rod bent in a half-circle as Roebuck worked frantically with the reel. His thumb slipped and the line played out as he cursed and tried to keep his balance in the rocking boat. He got the fish under control again and began reeling more frantically than ever, feeling every movement of the unseen fish, every vibration of the desperate struggle for life.
The bass leaped and Roebuck saw its glistening silver flank as it hung for a moment above the surface of the lake. Then it was back in its cool world of silence with only the threadlike fishing line cutting the surface of the water in mad zigzag patterns to attest to its struggle below, pulling, pulling it back up to another world of heat and dry death.
“The net!” Roebuck yelled. “Get the net!”
Ellie fumbled in the open tackle box before she thought “We didn’t buy a net!”
“No net! No net!” Roebuck’s voice was incredulous.
The battling fish was near the boat now, and Roebuck tried to land it without a net. He bent over and gripped the line, pulling it carefully toward him, feeling the pressure of the fish trying to change direction.
For a second he saw a silver head, a gaping mouth, magnified beneath the water. Then as he tried to lift the fish into the boat the line snapped and he fell back to a sitting position in the boat bottom.
“No net,” he repeated miserably, sitting with the wet, limp line in his hand.
They sat in silence as the boat rocked.
“He was a big one,” Ellie said. “At least five pounds.” And she began to laugh.
Roebuck sat looking down at the broken line for a while, then he began to laugh with her. “Chili again for supper,” he said, wiping his eyes and struggling back up to sit on the boat seat.
“I guess I feel like having chili,” Ellie said, still smiling, reeling in her line.
Roebuck closed the tackle box and reached for the oars. He drew a deep breath and began rowing toward the bank. “I think that fish was closer to ten pounds,” he said.
There were still a few hours of daylight left after supper. Roebuck got the smaller of the two pistols he’d bought in Illinois, a .22 caliber, and looked about for a place to target shoot. He lined up four tin cans on a stump behind the cabin and backed off about twenty-five yards.
With four evenly spaced shots he cleared the stump.
“You sure can shoot,” Ellie said admiringly.
Roebuck walked to the stump to replace the tin cans. “I can outshoot any son of a bitch!” He held up the punctured cans, turning them so Ellie could see light through the holes.
“Nothing cheap about any of those,” she said.
Roebuck walked back to stand beside her. He raised the pistol and again cleared the stump with four shots.
“I’m going inside,” Ellie said. “You coming?”
He looked closely at her. “You bet.”
Tucking the revolver in his belt, Roebuck followed her into the cabin.
It was warm inside, so Roebuck opened all the windows a crack and a lazy breeze stirred through the cabin. He went into the bedroom behind Ellie. She turned back the bedspread and they both undressed casually, unhurriedly, without having to speak.
He made love to her then, taking her slowly, almost leisurely, giving something of himself as he felt her respond warmly beneath him.
“You were gentler that time,” Ellie whispered, resting her tousled head on his chest. She had her eyes closed, her wide, flushed lips curved in a sensuous smile. “How come you were gentler?”
“I don’t know,” Roebuck said. He lay for a while longer, then he stood and slipped into his pants.
Ellie watched him as he walked to the bureau and reloaded his revolver. Without a word he crossed the cabin and went out through the screen door into the fading light.
She lay listening for a long time to the measured crack! crack! of the pistol as he took dead aim at his tin cans.
2
Idyllic was the word. Roebuck’s tension and fear drained out of
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