Free The Sky Fisherman by Craig Lesley Page B

twenty-six days now."
    Billyum sat down again and took out a small pocketknife. He began trimming his nails, picking each small sliver off his whipcord trousers and placing it in his olive shirt pocket. "His people want that boy back. Old Sylvester Silvertooth went down to the water and chanted. His grandmother threw in a medicine bundle."
    "You think he's about ready to pop up, then?" Jake asked.
    Billyum nodded. "Sure. After twenty-eight, twenty-nine days. He'll come up all right."
    "Medicine works every time, doesn't it?" Jake sipped his coffee. "Pretty darned slow though."
    Billyum shrugged. "Everybody's not in a hurry. But we need to start looking for that boy again, and I was hoping you could help."
    "I'm full up with guide trips," Jake said. "This is my peak season." He spread his hands and shrugged. "Sorry, I'd like to help..."
    "Suit yourself," Billyum said. He snapped the knife closed and put it in his pocket. "Did you know Kalim's aunt was Juniper Teewah? She might come back for his funeral, if we find him." He sipped his coffee and studied Jake.
    My uncle put down his cup. "I didn't know that. She still in New Mexico, or what?"
    "Albuquerque. Going on two years now. Hanging out with fancy artists. I hear she's part owner of a gallery." Billyum carried his cup to the sink and washed it out. "Well, I better go see about rounding up some more help."
    "Never mind." Jake pushed aside some broken reels and a couple of snapped fly rod tips. He spread a map of the Lost River Wilderness Area on the workbench. "Lots of water to search, but most of them get found eventually, once they float."
    Billyum traced a stretch of the river with his large finger. "I'll take some of the reservation boys and cover Whiskey Dick's down to Bakeoven. We got good access there from the reservation back roads."
    "All right," Jake said. "I'll cover the stretch between Bakeoven and the Bronco."
    "Think you can watch the rapids and the shore both?" Billyum asked.
    "I'll row. Shotgun here can keep his eyes peeled. We won't let him slip by."
    "No we won't," I said, excited about the prospect of a river trip with Jake.
    Billyum studied me. "Your father had great eyes. He could see a doe's ear flick in a juniper flat. You got good eyes?"
    "Pretty good." I was curious about this talk of my father and won
dered how Billyum had known him. And I was also curious about the woman Juniper.
    "You're both hired, then," Billyum said. "Double trouble."
    "It's a deal," Jake said. "How much you paying?"
    "Same as the last time. Next Ceremonial Days, you can eat all the salmon and elk you want."
    "I'm afraid I'll jump an income tax bracket," Jake said.
    "That's only a problem for you white guys." Billyum stood and put on his cap. "Well, better get back to the rez. Stop the damn crime wave." He touched my shoulder. "Good meeting you. I won't hold Jake against you. A man can choose his friends, but gets stuck with his relations."
    "We'll be on the river in two days," Jake said. "I've got to call old Jed to cover the store. He's a retired salesman, but he'll help us out."
    "I'm stopping by to tell the sheriff," Billyum said. "He should put a boat on the water."
    "Tell him if you want, but there's not much point," Jake said. "Grady couldn't find his butt in the bathtub."
    After Billyum left, Jake and I stayed at the back of the store and talked. No customers came in for over half an hour. I was so excited about going on the Lost with my uncle, I could barely keep quiet, but I did because I didn't want to seem like a dude. I knew my mother wouldn't approve, that she'd worry herself sick every minute if she knew, so I thought I'd have to think up some excuse.
    According to my uncle, the Lost claimed a lot of lives year round, but summers were the worst. Fishermen stepped in deep holes with the ankle straps of their waders tied too tightly to wriggle free; boaters failed to fasten the lower cinches of their life vests, so when they went into whitewater, the force ripped