Free Light the Hidden Things by Don McQuinn

man’s a good man. St. Francis or Frankie DeAssisi, it’s all the same.”
    “Just surprised me, is all.”
    “Secret of being a good preacher. If you can’t dazzle them with discourse, mesmerize ‘em with malarkey.”
    “You cleaned that up a lot.”
    For the second time, Crow saw the Pastor glow with innocence. “Really? I was sure that’s how it went.”
    Crow snorted. “I’m beginning to get a handle on you. You’re one of those sneaky preachers. Bring a man to Jesus talking forgiveness, good times, milk and honey. Forget to mention the fire and brimstone. Tricky.”
    Pastor Richard’s bland sincerity never wavered. “Whatever it takes, son. A properly cast fly or a good sermon: I bring my catch to the net any way I can. So are we ready to stalk the wary steelhead in his watery lair? Just leave your truck. We have cops but they won’t pay any attention to how long you’re parked unless the machine actually rusts so badly it stains the street.”
    “We can just walk? To good fishing?”
    “Yep. People come from everywhere to fish the Fortymile. They figure when they get here they ought to suffer some to make it worthwhile. The local guides oblige them, take them way upriver.”
    Shrugging into his vest, Crow gathered his gear, rolled up the windows, and got out. Major shivered and whined eagerness until Crow commanded, “Come.”
    The dog leaped to the ground and coursed ahead of them, ecstatic. Within a few hundred yards and across two barbed wire fences they were in forest.
    An hour later, Major was still romping in all directions. Crow was less vigorous.
    Peculiarities of terrain and haphazard boundary-setting in the past created an unusual upper Fortymile valley. The eastern side of the river scoured very rugged ground - sheer vertical cliffs in some places - throughout its length. The western bank was also too steep and irregular for any sort of serious farming for quite a distance. Beyond that, however, ancient lava flow had formed a relatively flat valley floor. Timber companies had clearcut that long ago. Soon after, however, a great swath became protected and the earliest replacement growth was approaching its first century.
    It was a place that would normally bring out Crow’s best. At that moment, however, his scowl spoke of something less than delight.
    Pastor Richards scaled rock walls like a goat late for lunch. Now he was crossing a fallen log over a deep draw and its rushing stream without altering manner or pace. Crow exercised considerably more deliberation. Major considered the log briefly, raced down the slope, jumped the creek, and scrambled up the far side. He sat and waited for Crow.
    Muttering about muscle-headed beasts with no loyalty or appreciation, Crow marched on.
    Eventually the Pastor led the way down a nearly invisible trail to a sandy bank. Stopping, holding up a hand, he grinned at Crow and whispered, “Hear them? The fish, talking? They’re telling each other how easily they’ll frustrate us. Little do the poor things suspect the skill, the artistry, of their adversaries.”
    Setting down his gear, Crow checked his watch. For an hour and a half they’d held to a near-running pace. He calculated at least three miles, probably more, all of it wicked terrain.
    Pastor Richards said, “Sorry it took so long. Not as agile as I used to be. Still, it gave you time to appreciate what we’ve got. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
    “Lovely.” Crow squelched most of the sarcasm in the answer.
    “It’s an old preacher’s cliché, I know, but I always feel closer to God in a place like this.”
    Under his breath, Crow muttered, “If God were anywhere in these woods today, you’d have run over Him, you old race horse.”
    “Beg pardon? Couldn’t quite hear that.”
    “Just thinking out loud. How old are you?”
    “Seventy-two. Sometimes it startles me. Been here more than forty years. Wasn’t quite thirty when I got here.”
    Crow said, “If you don’t mind me saying,