Free The Sky Fisherman by Craig Lesley Page A

"After our training session for the day, we got to ride a riverboat down the Mississippi, a big old stern-wheeler, just like Mark Twain wrote about."
    "That's great, Mom. Are you sure it was the Mississippi? I thought it was farther east."
    She clucked her tongue. "What are those schools teaching you? Don't you learn any geography? When I get back we're going to put a big map of the U.S. in your bedroom."
    "I was just kidding, Mom," I said. A map would look horrible alongside the pictures of basketball players I kept up there.
    "I haven't told you the best part," she said. "There was a dance band right on the boat, and I had several dances with one of the men from the seminars." Her voice got a little lower, taking on a confidential tone. "Not one of the participants—most of us are women. He's one of the actual directors, a big muck-a-muck who works right here in Minneapolis."
    "Don't let him sweep you off your feet, Mom. Winters are pretty cold back there." I tried to picture him, a blond, no doubt.
    "Don't you go worrying. He's not really my type. But it was fun, and it's nice to know a little bloom's still left on the rose."
    "You haven't lost a thing, Mom," I said, and she seemed pleased with the compliment.
    "Everything all right there? You eating okay? Be sure to get enough vegetables."
    "I've got it covered, Mom. Don't
you
work too hard."
    "I won't, but I'm ringing off for now. Got to run for class. Just one more thing. Any word of Riley?"
    I shook my head. "Not a bit, unless the post office is keeping his cards tacked up with the Most Wanted posters. I haven't looked."
    Her voice got lower. "Don't even kid about that. This is a dorm phone
and I don't want anyone to know we've got the law mixed up in this. It's a sorry business." She paused. "Well, love you." She hung up, as usual, without pausing to say good-bye, as though her thoughts had already outpaced the conversation.
    ***
    Three days after my mother had left, a tribal policeman driving a white pickup with the reservation insignia stopped by the store. Getting out, he seemed huge, solid and tall, like an upright freezer.
    Jake introduced us. "You haven't met my nephew, Culver. He's riding shotgun around here now. Number two man. This is Billyum Bruised-Head. His people were from Alberta, but moved out here. We go back a long way—high school football."
    "Jake was the slowest halfback Gateway ever had," Billyum said. His hand was calloused and rough, but he shook lightly, the Indian way.
    "I thought I was half fast," Jake said, pronouncing it like "half-assed."
    "Not anymore," Billyum said. "You should see how you look from behind. Two hogs fighting under a sheet. Aaay." Turning to me, he said, "This boy's a lot better looking."
    "Takes after his father." Jake pointed to the picture above the cash register. "Culver and his mother moved to town three weeks ago."
    Billyum squinted at the picture a moment, then motioned us to the back of the store.
    Jake poured three coffees and turned over an ammunition box to sit on. He pointed Billyum to the good chair. "Take a load off."
    When Billyum sat, I saw he was wearing black cowboy boots with silver toeplates.
    The two men talked about high school football, fishing, the progress of building the dam on the Upper Lost. I sipped my coffee and waited. Their talk seemed casual, but something about the way Billyum acted made me realize he was here on business. Jake knew it, too, but just waited politely until Billyum got around to it.
    Eventually, he put his coffee cup down on the workbench and examined the Snap-On Tool calendar hanging above the bench. Miss June was holding a crescent wrench and wearing an orange bikini. Billyum pointed to the calendar's words. "Make your tool a Snap-On," he said.
    "I'm always afraid mine's going to snap off," Jake said. "I'm way past the warranty"—and we all grinned.
    Then Billyum got down to business. "Twenty-eight days is what I'm thinking. Kalim Kania's been in the river