It didn’t.
They added fifty feet, then fifty more, and when that was still not enough, Nate went to Bent’s Fort for the express purpose of buying a hundred more. Surely, they had reasoned, three hundred feet would suffice.
It didn’t.
The lake was more than three hundred feet deep. Shakespeare did not know how that compared to other mountain lakes, but three hundred feet was damn deep, deeper than most fish ever went. The thing he was up against was extraordinary if, in fact, it normally dwelled at the bottom.
To the best of Shakespeare’s logic, there were three possibilities. Either the fish was an oversized member of a known species, it was of a species yet to be officially discovered, or it was a holdover from an earlier era, a relict from the time when, according to many Indians, the land and the water were overrun by huge animals of all kinds.
Shakespeare could not say what the fish was, but he hoped to have an answer by the rising of the sun.
Time passed. The swaying of the canoe lulled Shakespeare into lowering his chin to his chest and closing his eyes. He had no intention of drifting off, but before he could stop himself, he did.
Suddenly Shakespeare’s head snapped up and his eyes opened. He tried to figure out what had woken him. The lake was as still and dark as it had been before, save for the splash of a fish.
Shakespeare started to succumb to drowsiness again. Another splash, louder than the first, brought him out of it. Acting on the assumption that the bigger the fish, the bigger the splash, he gazed about for the source.
The rope had not moved. The chicken still dangled in the depths. Leaning back, Shakespeare sighed. He had forgotten how much waiting there was with fishing, whether the fisherman was after bass or sunfish or catfish—or monster fish.
Shakespeare wondered if the monster might not be a catfish. They sometimes grew to exceptional lengths. He was not sure exactly how big they could get, but he seemed to recollect hearing that twelve feet was not out of the question.
The dugout swayed slightly.
Stiffening, Shakespeare raised the lantern. The wind was not strong enough to account for the movement. He peered over the side, but it was like gazing into a black well. “Was it you?” he asked the water.
As if in answer, the dugout abruptly rose half an inch, then settled back down again. In reflex, Shakespeare grabbed the gunwales. He waited for another bump or the rising of a swell, but nothing happened.
Not so much as a twitch from the rope.
Shakespeare picked up a harpoon, then put it down again. The cocoon of water the fish displaced when it moved at high speed had deflected Zach’s cast. What made him think he would fare any better? He drew a pistol instead.
The lake was still again. Above him a multitude of stars sparkled. More wind renewed his concern about an incoming front. Once again he debated heading for shore and safety.
Then the rope moved. Not much, no more than a shake, but something was interested in the bait.
Scarcely breathing, Shakespeare glued his eyes to it. It moved again and his heart jumped. It occurred to him that maybe a smaller fish was nipping at the chicken, and his elation vanished. It surged again when he realized a small fish could not move the rope like that. It would take a fish of considerable size. It would take his fish.
Shakespeare smiled at this thought. His fish? It was not a pet. It was his adversary, his enemy, his personal dragon.
Another jerk on the rope prompted Shakespeare to lightly wrap his hand around it. He felt an ever-so-slight vibration. “What are you doing, fish?” he wondered.
The vibration stopped.
Once more Shakespeare waited with bated breath, but the rope stayed still. He feared the fish had lost interest, that a chicken was no substitute for a duck.
That was when the rope jumped taut. Shakespeare started to whoop in triumph, but the shout died in his throat as the paddle he had tied the end of the rope to started to slide out from under him. Setting down his pistol, he gripped the paddle with both hands and shifted so all his weight was on it. It worked. The paddle stopped moving.
The canoe moved instead.
The rope began cleaving the water, pulling the canoe after it. Shakespeare chuckled, pleased that his ploy had worked. The fish had taken the bait and swallowed the chicken. Now it was only a matter of time before the fish tired and he could haul it up out of the benighted depths and dispatch it.
The canoe was gaining speed. Apparently the dugout was no more of a hindrance to the fish than a leaf would be.
Shakespeare tugged on the rope, but he could not draw it up. The fish was too strong or too heavy, or both.
The canoe went faster, knifing the water more swiftly than Shakespeare could ever hope to paddle. More swiftly, even, than two men could. The sheer brute strength the fish possessed was a wonderment.
A sliver of doubt pricked Shakespeare, but he cast it aside. His plan would work. It might take longer to tire the fish, was all.
The bow began rising and falling, rising and falling, slapping down with enough force to rattle Shakespeare’s teeth and spray water all over him. He hunched his shoulders, determined to ride it out.
Suddenly the rope changed direction. Shakespeare clung on, his hair and shirt soaked. Cold drops trickled down his chest and back, raising yet more goose flesh. “Damn you, fish,” he growled. He had not counted on anything like this. He had not counted on anything like this at all.
Incredibly, the dugout went faster. The bow was smacking the surface in violent cadence, the harpoons and his rifle and pistol clattering and bouncing madly about. He worried the Hawken would go over the side. He could always get another rifle, but it would mean riding all the way to St. Louis, and Lord, he did not want to do that.
The rope was a rigid bar. Try as he might, Shakespeare could not budge it. He was at the mercy of the fish. His wife’s warnings came back to him, and he was almost sorry he had not heeded her. Almost.
To complicate matters, either the canoe was moving so fast it was whipping his beard and hair, or the wind from the west was gusting relentlessly, which did not bode well.
“Damn,” Shakespeare said again. Too many things were going wrong. In frustration he wrenched on the rope, but all he succeeded in doing was to give his palms rope burn.
The lantern tilted. Another hard jostle and it would fall.
Shakespeare had forgotten about it. He would be in total darkness if it went out, an unappealing prospect. Lunging, he set it back up and slid it flush against the inner curve of the bow so it would not tip.
A loud hissing arose. Shakespeare marveled anew at the prodigious might the fish displayed.
Again the dugout changed direction. By now Shakespeare had lost all sense of where he was. He might be out in the middle, he might be close to shore. All he could say for certain was that he did not like the predicament his stubbornness had placed him in.
The canoe smacked down so hard, Shakespeare nearly tumbled. He had to grip the sides to stay on his knees. The next instant the whole canoe commenced shimmying, shaking him to his marrow.
Shakespeare had a terrible thought: What if the canoe collided with something? Drifting logs were not uncommon. Deer and elk sometimes went for a swim. Once, years ago, he had caught sight of a black bear splashing about.
Once more the dugout changed direction. Seconds later, yet again. A few more seconds, and a third time. It suggested the fish was growing frantic.
Shakespeare took that as a good sign and clung on. He wished he knew where he was. He sought a glimpse of a cabin but could not even see the shore. The bow abruptly dipped, almost spilling him, but the dugout righted itself and he was safe.