In Darkest Depths

First Incident

To the bald eagle flying high in the Rocky Mountain sky, the lake was a great blue egg in the center of the lush green nest of the valley floor.

To the girl standing on the lake’s western shore, it was a constant source of entertainment and wonderment. She loved to gaze out over its watery expanse and watch the ducks and geese swim and dive for fish. She fished herself, now and then, and this was one of those occasions.

Evelyn King had not yet seen her seventeenth birthday. The daughter of mountain man Nate King and Nate’s Shoshone wife, Winona, Evelyn had more of her father in her than her mother. Sparkling green eyes and lustrous black hair testified to her blossoming beauty, of which she was wholly unconscious. She still thought of herself as a girl, not a woman. She still liked to take her father’s fishing pole and spend an idle hour fishing and thinking.

On this particular bright sunny day, Evelyn was perched on a small boulder, humming to herself as she watched the bald eagle soar with outstretched pinions. She wore a beige dress she had sewn herself, patterning it after the latest St. Louis fashion.

Evelyn was watching the eagle, but she was thinking of Degamawaku. She thought of him a lot. He and his family were Nansusequa, a tribe from east of the Mississippi River. Forced to flee when whites wiped out their village, the family had settled in King Valley, as it was called, with her father’s consent. She had been spending a lot of time in Dega’s company of late. He was her age and fun to be with and strikingly handsome.

As Evelyn sat humming and wondering about the intent looks Dega gave her from time to time, she heard the tread of approaching footsteps. Thinking he was coming to pay her another visit, she swiveled and smiled her warmest smile, only to have it die stillborn and be replaced by a frown. “Oh. It is only you.”

The white-haired man in buckskins, a Hawken rifle cradled in the crook of his left elbow, blinked eyes the same color as the lake and puffed out his full cheeks. “I dare say, that was as warm a greeting as I have ever received. How now, girl? Dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?” he said.

“Hello, Uncle Shakespeare,” Evelyn said. “I am glad to see you.”

“So you claim,” Shakespeare McNair responded. “But I was not born yesterday. Nor ten thousand yesterdays ago.” Again he quoted his namesake, “Let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp.”

Evelyn grinned and asked, “What does that mean, exactly? Or is my pa right in saying that when you quote the Bard, you have no notion of what the Bard is saying?”

A pink tinge of indignation spread from Shakespeare’s neck to his brow. He was sensitive about his namesake. “Horatio said that?” he sputtered. “Why,

he hath more hair than wit and more faults than hair.”

Laughing, Evelyn lowered the pole to her lap. “I love it when you talk like that. You are just like an old billy goat.”

Shakespeare’s indignation increased. “And to think, I used to bounce you on my knee and make funny faces so you would grin and giggle.”

Evelyn adored McNair. He was not really her uncle. He was her father’s best friend and mentor, and as much a part of their family as any blood relation. More so, since he had many times shown his love for them by risking life and limb in their defense. “What brings you out and about on this fine summer morning?”

McNair hunkered next to the boulder. In addition to his rifle, he was armed with a brace of pistols and a bone-handled hunting knife. An ammo pouch, powder-horn, and a possibles bag were slanted crosswise over his chest. “That wretch I share my cabin with kicked me out. She was cleaning and said I was underfoot.”

“Oh, Uncle Shakespeare,” Evelyn said. “That’s no way to talk about the woman you love.”

“Says who?” McNair rejoined. “A pox on all females! As for my wife, we cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears. They are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report.” Teasing women was one of his favorite pastimes.

“You know,” Evelyn said. “I like how you always quote from that big book you have on the real Shakespeare. But half the time I have no idea what you are saying.”

“My apologies, child. I just said my wife is a moody wench.”

“Blue Water Woman is one of the sweetest people I know,” Evelyn remarked. “She adores you and you adore her, and don’t pretend you don’t.”

“Adore!” Shakespeare snorted. “I will praise an eel with the same praise as I do that—” He abruptly stopped.

The pole had given a jerk. Evelyn gripped it firmly and saw the line go taut. “I have a bite!” she said in delight. She hoped it was a big one. She and her brother, Zach, had an ongoing contest to see who could catch the biggest fish, and a couple of months ago he had landed one that weighed close to five pounds.

Shakespeare shot to his feet. His entire life he had been an avid fisherman, as much for the sport as the eating. “Careful now,” he cautioned. “Let it have some line if it wants it.”

“I know.”

“The trick is to tire it out. Then you can bring it in nice and easy,” Shakespeare went on.

“I know that, too,” Evelyn said. “My pa taught me all about how to fish.”

“I am only trying to help. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop?”

“What?” Evelyn said, and nearly lost the pole when it tried to leap out of her hands. Holding fast, she stood and braced her legs. “Did you see that?” she exclaimed in amazement.

“You have caught a whale,” Shakespeare said.

Evelyn strained to hold on to the pole. “It must be huge! Wait until Zach sees what I’ve caught.”

“There are two things in life we should never do, child,” Shakespeare said. “One is to put the horse before the cart, and the other is to put the fish before the frying pan.”

The line went slack, but Evelyn was sure the fish was still on the hook. “What is he up to?”

“He?” Shakespeare repeated. “How do you know it is not a she? If it is contrary, it must be female.”

“To hear you talk, a body would think you do not cuddle with your wife three times a week.”

Shakespeare imitated a riled chipmunk. “Why, Evelyn King! Wait until I tell your mother what you just said. She will brand you a wanton.”

“For talking about cuddling?” Evelyn was about to tell him she once overheard Blue Water Woman mention to her mother how frisky he was, but the line went taut, and the end of the pole curled toward the water. It was all she could do to hold on. “Dear Lord.”

“A by-God whopper, girl!” Shakespeare exclaimed. “Whatever you do, don’t lose him.”

“Him? I thought you just told me it has to be female—” Evelyn got no further. The pole jumped toward the lake, and she went with it, digging in her heels to keep from falling on her face. “Help me!”

In a bound Shakespeare reached her side. He grabbed the pole with his free hand and was amazed when it bent even more.

“What do we do?” Evelyn asked.

Before Shakespeare could answer, the line broke with a loud snap. He lunged but missed, and the line disappeared into the water, leaving tiny swirls in its wake.

“Drat,” Evelyn said in disgust. “It got away.”

“Fish do that,” Shakespeare philosophized. Secretly, though, he could not help but be astounded.

“You don’t suppose…?” Evelyn let her question trail off.

“No, I don’t.”

They looked at each other and then at the lake, and Evelyn said softly, as if afraid to be heard, “You’re probably right. Why would it go after a measly worm? It was a fish, nothing more.”

“It was a fish,” Shakespeare said.

But neither believed it.