“With that hay hook tied to you it looks like you’re the bait,” Creech joked.
“If I gaff that thing it’s not going to get free of me,” Rudisell vowed.
The snake was past the deepest part of the pool now, making steady progress toward the far bank. It struggled to the surface briefly, the weight of the sinkers pulling it back down. The line remained motionless for a few moments, then began a slow movement back toward the heart of the pool.
“Why you figure it to turn around?” Campbell asked as Creech took a first step farther up the bank.
“I don’t know,” Rudisell said. “Why don’t you tighten your line a bit.”
Campbell turned the handle twice and the monofilament grew taut and the rod tip bent. “Damn snake’s got hung up.”
“Give it a good jerk and it’ll come free,” Creech said. “Probably just tangled in some brush.”
Campbell yanked upward, and the rod bowed. The line began moving upstream, not fast but steady, the reel chattering as the monofilament stripped off.
“It’s on,” Campbell said softly, as if afraid to startle the fish.
The line did not pause until it was thirty yards upstream and in the shadow of the bridge.
“You got to turn it,” Rudisell shouted, “or it’ll wrap that line around one of them pillars.”
“Turn it,” Campbell replied. “I can’t even slow it down.”
But the fish turned of its own volition, headed back into the deeper water. For fifteen minutes the creature sulked on the pool’s bottom. Campbell kept the rod bowed, breathing hard as he strained against the immense weight on the other end. Finally, the fish began moving again, over to the far bank and then upstream. Campbell’s arms trembled violently.
“My arms is give out,” he said and handed the rod to Creech. Campbell sprawled out on the bank, his chest heaving rapidly, limbs shaking as if palsied. The fish swam back into the pool’s heart and another ten minutes passed. Rudisell looked up at the bridge. Cars and trucks continued to rumble across. Several vehicles paused a few moments but no faces appeared at the railing.
Creech tightened the drag and the rod bent double.
“Easy,” Rudisell said. “You don’t want him breaking off.”
“The way it’s going, it’ll kill us all before it gets tired,” Creech gasped.
The additional pressure worked. The fish moved again, this time allowing the line in its mouth to lead it into the tailrace. For the first time they saw the behemoth.
“Lord amercy,” Campbell exclaimed, for what they saw was over six feet long and enclosed in a brown suit of prehistoric armor, the immense tail curved like a scythe. When the fish saw the old men it surged away, the drag chattering again as the creature moved back into the deeper water.
Rudisell sat down beside the book and rapidly turned pages of color photos until he saw it.
“It’s a sturgeon,” he shouted, then turned to where the printed information was and began to call out bursts of information. “Can grow over seven feet long and three hundred pounds. That stuff that looks like armor is called scutes. They’s even got a Latin name here. Says it was once in near every river, but now endangered. Can live a hundred and fifty years.”
“I ain’t going to live another hundred and fifty seconds if I don’t get some relief,” Creech said and handed the rod back to Campbell.
Campbell took over as Creech collapsed on the bank. The sturgeon began to give ground, the reel handle making slow, clockwise revolutions.
Rudisell closed the book and stepped into the shallows of the pool’s tailrace. A sandbar formed a few yards out and that was what he moved toward, the hay hook raised like a metal question mark. Once he’d secured himself on the sandbar, Rudisell turned to Campbell.
“Lead him over here. There’s no way we can lift him up the bank.”
“You gonna try to gill that thing?” Creech asked incredulously.
Rudisell shook his head.
“I ain’t gonna gill it, I’m going to stab this hay hook in so deep it’ll have to drag me back into that pool as well to get away.”
The reel handle turned quicker now, and soon the sturgeon came out of the depths, emerging like a submarine. Campbell moved farther down the bank, only three or four yards from the sandbar. Creech got up and stood beside Campbell. The fish swam straight toward them, face-first, as if led on a leash. They could see the head clearly now, the cone-shaped snout, barbels hanging beneath the snout like whiskers. As it came closer Rudisell creakily kneeled down on the sandbar’s edge. As he swung the hay hook the sturgeon made a last surge toward deeper water. The bright metal raked across the scaly back but did not penetrate.
“Damn,” Rudisell swore.
“You got to beach it,” Creech shouted at Campbell, who began reeling again, not pausing until the immense head was half out of the water, snout touching the sandbar. The sturgeon’s wide mouth opened, revealing an array of rusting hooks and lures that hung from the lips like medals.
“Gaff it now,” Creech shouted.
“Hurry,” Campbell huffed, the rod in his hands doubled like a bow. “I’m herniating myself.”
But Rudisell appeared not to hear them. He stared intently at the fish, the hay hook held overhead as if it were a torch allowing him to see the sturgeon more clearly.
Rudisell’s blue eyes brightened for a moment, and an enigmatic smile creased his face. The hay hook’s sharpened point flashed, aimed not at the fish but at the monofilament. A loud twang like a broken guitar string sounded across the water. The rod whipped back and Campbell stumbled backward, but Creech caught him before he fell. The sturgeon was motionless for a few moments, then slowly curved back toward the pool’s heart. As it disappeared, Rudisell remained kneeling on the sandbar, his eyes gazing into the pool. Campbell and Creech staggered over to the bank and sat down.
“They’ll never believe us,” Creech said, “not in a million years, especially that smart-ass game warden.”
“We had it good as caught,” Campbell muttered. “We had it caught.”
None of them spoke further for a long while, all exhausted by the battle. But their silence had more to do with each man’s reflection on what he had just witnessed than with weariness. A yellow mayfly rose like a watery spark in the tailrace, hung in the air a few moments before it fell and was swept away by the current. As time passed crickets announced their presence on the bank, and downriver a whippoorwill called. More mayflies rose in the tailrace. The air became chilly as the sheltering trees closed more tightly around them, absorbed the waning sun’s light, a preamble to another overdue darkness.
“It’s okay,” Campbell finally said.
Creech looked at Rudisell, who was still on the sandbar.
“You done the right thing. I didn’t see that at first, but I see it now.”
Rudisell finally stood up, wiped the wet sand from the knees of his pants. As he stepped into the shallows he saw something in the water. He picked it up and put it in his pocket.
“Find you a fleck of gold?” Campbell asked.