and hooked a couple of quarter-pounders.
The sun was up now and warm on his back. He let out another couple of yards of line, lifted his tip and cast and, out by the end of the sandbank, a triangular black fin sliced through the water.
Two pounds if it was an ounce. His cast, when it came, was the most accurate he had ever made in his life, the fly skimming the surface no more than a couple of feet in front of that black fin. The tail flicked out of the water, the tip of the rod bent over and his line went taut.
His reel whined as the hooked fish made for deep water and he stumbled along the sandbank, playing it carefully. Suddenly, the line went slack and he thought he had lost it, but it was only resting and a moment later, the reel spun again.
He played it for all of ten minutes, moving up and down the sand bar, and in spite of the fact that he wasn't wearing waders, stumbled knee-deep into the water at the end to bring his fish to the landing net.
He turned to wade back on shore, an involuntary smile on his face and a harsh voice said, 'Well and good, me bucko, and a fine dinner we'll make of that.'
The man who had spoken was old--at least seventy, but he stood there in the heather like a rock, a shotgun crooked in his left arm. He wore an old tweed suit, patched many times and white hair showed beneath the dark green glengarry bonnet. His face was the colour of oak, seamed with a thousand wrinkles and covered with an ugly stubble of grey beard.
Behind him, the heather stirred and two men rose to stand at his shoulder. One of them was a tall, well-built lad with ragged black hair and a wild reckless face, his mouth twisted in a perpetual smile. The other was Fergus Munro, still clearly recognisable in spite of the livid bruise down one side of his face, the smashed and swollen mouth.
'That's him, Da, that's him!' he cried, his eyes wild, raising his shotgun waist-high.
'Easy now, Fergus. Easy,' Hector Munro said and moved down the bank to the shore. He paused a couple of feet away from Chavasse and looked him up and down. 'He doesn't look much to me, Fergus,' he said calmly and his right fist swung suddenly.
Chavasse was already turning and it connected in a glancing blow, high on his left cheekbone, the force half spent, but still sufficient to send him flat on his back into the shallows.
He came up on his feet with a rush and the old man's shotgun lifted menacingly. 'Not now, my brave wee mannie. Ye'll get your chance, but not here. Just walk slow and easy before me and mind how ye go or this thing might go off.'
Chavasse held his gaze calmly for a moment, then he shrugged and moved up out of the water and across the beach. 'Have you ever seen the like of that now?' Rory Munro demanded and burst into a gale of laughter.
'Nothing to how he'll look when I've done with him,' Fergus said and as Chavasse passed him, he gave a violent shove that sent him staggering along the path through the heather.
As they topped the hill, Chavasse saw smoke rising on the far side of the trees and heard the voices of children calling to one another at play. So--they weren't taking him to Donner, so much was evident and he realised that he had made a grave miscalculation. At the very least he could expect a bad beating and from the looks of them, neither Rory nor Fergus Munro was the type who knew when to stop.
They skirted the trees and moved down into the hollow containing the camp. The three wagons were old and battered with patched canvas tilts and a depressing air of poverty hung over everything, from the ragged clothes worn by the four women who squatted round the fire drinking tea from old cans, to the bare feet of the half dozen children who played in the far meadow where three bony horses grazed.
Fergus gave Chavasse a push that sent him staggering down the hill into the hollow and the women scattered quickly. Chavasse came to his feet and turned to meet the three men as they followed him.
Hector Munro sat himself on
The sun was up now and warm on his back. He let out another couple of yards of line, lifted his tip and cast and, out by the end of the sandbank, a triangular black fin sliced through the water.
Two pounds if it was an ounce. His cast, when it came, was the most accurate he had ever made in his life, the fly skimming the surface no more than a couple of feet in front of that black fin. The tail flicked out of the water, the tip of the rod bent over and his line went taut.
His reel whined as the hooked fish made for deep water and he stumbled along the sandbank, playing it carefully. Suddenly, the line went slack and he thought he had lost it, but it was only resting and a moment later, the reel spun again.
He played it for all of ten minutes, moving up and down the sand bar, and in spite of the fact that he wasn't wearing waders, stumbled knee-deep into the water at the end to bring his fish to the landing net.
He turned to wade back on shore, an involuntary smile on his face and a harsh voice said, 'Well and good, me bucko, and a fine dinner we'll make of that.'
The man who had spoken was old--at least seventy, but he stood there in the heather like a rock, a shotgun crooked in his left arm. He wore an old tweed suit, patched many times and white hair showed beneath the dark green glengarry bonnet. His face was the colour of oak, seamed with a thousand wrinkles and covered with an ugly stubble of grey beard.
Behind him, the heather stirred and two men rose to stand at his shoulder. One of them was a tall, well-built lad with ragged black hair and a wild reckless face, his mouth twisted in a perpetual smile. The other was Fergus Munro, still clearly recognisable in spite of the livid bruise down one side of his face, the smashed and swollen mouth.
'That's him, Da, that's him!' he cried, his eyes wild, raising his shotgun waist-high.
'Easy now, Fergus. Easy,' Hector Munro said and moved down the bank to the shore. He paused a couple of feet away from Chavasse and looked him up and down. 'He doesn't look much to me, Fergus,' he said calmly and his right fist swung suddenly.
Chavasse was already turning and it connected in a glancing blow, high on his left cheekbone, the force half spent, but still sufficient to send him flat on his back into the shallows.
He came up on his feet with a rush and the old man's shotgun lifted menacingly. 'Not now, my brave wee mannie. Ye'll get your chance, but not here. Just walk slow and easy before me and mind how ye go or this thing might go off.'
Chavasse held his gaze calmly for a moment, then he shrugged and moved up out of the water and across the beach. 'Have you ever seen the like of that now?' Rory Munro demanded and burst into a gale of laughter.
'Nothing to how he'll look when I've done with him,' Fergus said and as Chavasse passed him, he gave a violent shove that sent him staggering along the path through the heather.
As they topped the hill, Chavasse saw smoke rising on the far side of the trees and heard the voices of children calling to one another at play. So--they weren't taking him to Donner, so much was evident and he realised that he had made a grave miscalculation. At the very least he could expect a bad beating and from the looks of them, neither Rory nor Fergus Munro was the type who knew when to stop.
They skirted the trees and moved down into the hollow containing the camp. The three wagons were old and battered with patched canvas tilts and a depressing air of poverty hung over everything, from the ragged clothes worn by the four women who squatted round the fire drinking tea from old cans, to the bare feet of the half dozen children who played in the far meadow where three bony horses grazed.
Fergus gave Chavasse a push that sent him staggering down the hill into the hollow and the women scattered quickly. Chavasse came to his feet and turned to meet the three men as they followed him.
Hector Munro sat himself on
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