Beardance by Will Hobbs

Author:Will Hobbs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers

Lost Lake deserved its name. Most summers, no hikers visited Lost Lake. No human beings saw the deer and the elk come up out of the forest on the shadowy mountainside to graze the short grass around the lake, and no one saw the occasional mountain goats on the slides of scree rock across the canyon of Roell Creek. No one saw the black bears, frequent visitors to this wild basin where they could feast on the berries that grew thick along the lush and narrow canyon bottom.

No one saw a Ute boy proceeding slowly down Roell Creek from above, from somewhere high above. No one saw how often he stopped to search with his dark eyes or to sniff the wind. No one heard how silently he moved as he picked his way through tangles of deadfall timber up to Lost Lake, and no one heard the splash of his lure again and again on the surface of the lake, or the splashing of trout as he brought them to shore.

He gave no shout of excitement, but his heart was singing. These cutthroats were larger and fatter than any he’d caught before. They were all in a frenzy for his little metal spinner on the dome of their world. It was for a good reason they were dying, Cloyd thought, as he was cutting their heads open across their spinal cords to stop their thrashing in the grass. The meat was bright red, and it was firm. These fish were giving up their lives to keep two grizzly cubs and the hope of grizzlies alive.

Were those cubs near enough still to smell these trout? Had they left; this basin? Were they even still alive?

On the slope below the lake, in the trees, Cloyd left four fish each at two places a mile from one another. He could only hope that the strong scent of the fish would bring in those bears. The sun had set behind the Needles. He hurried back to his camp at the lake to fix the trout he had saved for himself.

Late the next morning he checked where he had left the fish. At the first place, the trout were gone. He was hopeful, though he couldn’t make out tracks. Here he left three more fish.

Still at a distance from the second site, he could hear the magpies squawking. Then he could see those black-and-white pirates at the foot of the boulder field that spilled from the peaks separating Lost Lake and Hidden Lake. He sneaked closer and closer until he had a good view. His four trout were gone. Had the magpies flown off with the fish? It didn’t seem likely. Had the cubs come as well? Coyotes maybe? Raccoons?

Next time he wanted to see who was taking his cut-throats. He planted more fish in the dark, then went to see what he could see at first light. He hoped he wasn’t too late.

Once again, the first batch was gone.

The magpies were just descending on the second site, the one where the boulder field met the woods.

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