CHAPTER THREE
TO THE FEATHER RIVER COUNTRY AND FREEDOM
In the chair car, where he plumped himself into a seat just as thetrain began to creep forward, Jack pulled his hat down over hiseyebrows and wondered if any one had recognized him while he wasgetting on the train. He could not tell, because he had not dared toseem anxious about it, and so had not looked around him. At any ratehe had not been stopped, though the police could wire ahead and havehim dragged off the train at any station they pleased. Panic once morecaught him and he did not dare look up when the conductor came for histicket, but held his breath until the gloomy, haggard-faced man hadtagged him and passed on. Until the train had passed Newhall and wasrattling across the flat country to the coast, he shivered when anyone passed down the aisle.
Beyond San Francisco lay the fog bank of the unknown. With his fishingoutfit he could pass unquestioned to any part of that mysterious,vague region known as Northern California. The Russian River country,Tahoe, Shasta Springs, Feather River--the names revolved teasinglythrough Jack's mind. He did not know anything about them, beyond thefact that they were places where fellows went for sport, and that hehoped people would think he went for sport also. His wading boots andhis rod and creel would, he hoped, account for any haste he mightbetray in losing himself somewhere.
Lose himself he must. If he did not, if his mother got the chance toput him through the tearful third-degree system that women employ withsuch deadly certainty of success, Jack knew that he would tell allthat he knew--perhaps more. The very least he could hope to reveal wasthe damning fact that he had not been to Mount Wilson that day. Afterthat the rest would not need to be told. They could patch up theevidence easily enough.
He tried to forget that man slipping down in the embrace of hisfriend. It was too horrible to be true. It must have been a trick justto scare the boys. The world was full of joshers--Jack knew half adozen men capable of playing that trick, just to turn the joke. For afew minutes he was optimistic, almost making himself believe that theman had not been shot, after all. The fading effect of the wines hehad drunk sent his mood swinging from the depths of panicky anguishover the horrible affair, to a senseless optimism that refused to seedisaster when it stood by his side.
He tried again to decide where he should go from San Francisco. Hetried to remember all that he had ever heard about the variousparadises for sportsmen, and he discovered that he could not rememberanything except that they were all in the mountains, and that Tahoewas a big lake, and lots of people went there in the summer. Hecrossed Tahoe off the list, because he did not want to land in somefashionable resort and bump into some one he knew. Besides, thirty-onedollars would not last long at a summer resort--and he remembered hewould not have thirty-one dollars when he landed; he would have whatwas left after he had paid his fare from San Francisco, and had eatenonce or twice.
Straightway he became hungry, perhaps because a porter came down theaisle announcing the interesting fact that breakfast was now beingserved in the diner--fourth car rear. Jack felt as though he couldeat about five dollars' worth of breakfast. He was only a month or sopast twenty-two, remember, and he himself had not committed any crimesave the crime of foolishness.
He slid farther down upon his spine, pulled his nice new sombrerolower on the bridge of his tanned nose, and tried to forget that backthere in the diner they would give him grapefruit on ice, and afterthat rolled oats with thick yellow cream, and after that ham and eggsor a tenderloin steak or broiled squab on toast; and tried to rememberonly that the check would make five dollars look sick. He wished heknew how much the fare would be to some of those places where he meantto lose himself. With all that classy-looking paraphernalia he wouldnot dare attempt to beat his way on a freight. He had a keen sense ofrelative values; dressed as he was he must keep "in the part." He mustbe able to show that he had money. He sighed heavily and turned hisback definitely upon a dining-car breakfast. After that he went tosleep.
At noon he was awake and too ravenous to worry so much over thepossibility of being arrested for complicity in a murder. He collidedviolently with the porter who came down the aisle announcing luncheon.He raced back through two chair cars and a tourist sleeper, and heentered the dining car with an emphasis that kept the screen doorswinging for a full half minute. He tipped the waiter who came to fillhis water glass, and told him to wake up and show some speed. Anywaiter will wake up for half a dollar, these hard times. This onestood looking down over Jack's shoulder while he wrote, so that he wasback with the boullion before Jack had reached the bottom of theorder blank--which is the reason why you have not read anything abouta certain young man dying of starvation while seated at table numberfive in a diner, somewhere in the neighborhood of Paso Robles.
When he returned to his place in the chair car he knew he must try tofind out what isolated fishing country was closest. So he fraternizedwith the "peanut butcher," if you know who he is: the fellow who isput on trains to pester passengers to death with all sorts of readableand eatable indigestibles.
He bought two packages of gum and thereby won favor. Then,nonchalantly picking up his wading boots and placing them in adifferent position, he casually asked the boy how the fishing was, upthis way. The peanut butcher balanced his tray of chewing gum andcandy on the arm of a vacant chair beside Jack, and observedtentatively that it was fine, and that Jack must be going fishing.Jack confessed that such was his intention, and the vender ofthings-you-never-want made a shrewd guess at his destination.
"Going up into the Feather River country, I bet. Fellow I know justcome back. Caught the limit, he claims. They say Lake Almanor has gotthe best fishing in the State, right now. Fellow I know seen aten-pounder pulled outa there. He brought back one himself that tippedthe scales at seven-and-a-half. He says a pound is about as small asthey run up there. I'm going to try to get on the W.P. that runs upthe canyon. Then some day I'll drop off and try my luck--"
"Don't run to Lake Almanor, does it? First I ever heard--"
"No, sure it don't! The lake's away off the railroad--thirty or fortymiles. I don't look for a chance to go _there_ fishing. I mean FeatherRiver--anywhere along up the canyon. They say it's great. You can surecatch fish! Lots of little creeks coming down outa the canyon, and allof them full of trout. You'll have all kinds of sport."
"Aw, Russian River's the place to go," Jack dissented craftily, andgot the reply that he was waiting for.
"Aw, what's the use of going away up there? And not get half the fish?Why, you can take the train at the ferry and in the morning you areright in the middle of the best fishing in the State. Buh-lieve _me_,it'll be Feather River for mine, if I can make the change I want to!Them that have got the money to travel on, can take the far-offplaces--me for the fish, bo, every day in the week." He took up histray and went down the car, offering his wares to the bored, frowsypassengers who wanted only to reach journey's end.
The next round he made, he stopped again beside Jack. They talked offishing--Jack saw to that!--and Jack learned that Lake Almanor wasnothing more nor less than an immense reservoir behind a great dam putin by a certain power company at a cost that seemed impossible. Thereservoir had been made by the simple process of backing up the waterover a large mountain valley. You could look across the lake and seeMount Lassen as plain as the nose on your face, the peanut butcherdeclared relishfully. And the trout in that artificial lake passed allbelief.
Every time the boy passed, he stopped for a few remarks. Pound bypound the trout in Lake Almanor grew larger. Sentence by sentence Jacklearned much that was useful, a little that was needful. There wereseveral routes to Lake Almanor, for instance. One could get in by wayof Chico, but the winter snow had not left the high summits, so thatroute was unfeasible for the time being. The best way just now was bythe way of Quincy, a little town up near the head of Feather RiverCanyon. The fare was only seven or eight dollars, and since the seasonhad opened one could get reduced rates for the round trip. That wasthe way the friend of the peanut butch
er had gone in--only he hadstopped off at Keddie and had gone up to the dam with a fellow he knewthat worked there. And he had brought back a trout that weighedpractically eight pounds, dressed. The peanut butcher knew; he hadseen it with his own eyes. They had it hanging in the window of theCalifornia Market, and there was a crowd around the window all thetime. He knew; he had seen the crowd, and he had seen the fish; and heknew the fellow who had caught it.
Unless he could go with a crowd, Jack did not care much about fishing.He liked the fun the gang could have together in the wilds, but thatwas all; like last summer when Hen had run into the hornet's nesthanging on a bush and thought it was an oriole's basket! Alone andweighed down with horror as he was, Jack could not stir up anyenthusiasm for the sport. But he found out that it would not cost muchto reach the little town called Quincy, of which he had never beforeheard.
No one, surely, would ever think of looking there for him. He couldtake the evening train out of San Francisco, and in the morning hewould be there. And if he were not sufficiently lost in Quincy, hecould take to the mountains all around. There were mountains, heguessed from what the boy had told him; and canyons and heavy timber.The thought of having some definite, attainable goal cheered him somuch that he went to sleep again, sitting hunched down in the seatwith his hat over his eyes, so that no one could see his face; andsince no one but the man who sold it had ever seen him in that sportsuit, he felt almost safe.
He left the train reluctantly at the big, new station in SanFrancisco, and took a street car to the ferry depot. There he kept outof sight behind a newspaper in the entrance to the waiting room untilhe was permitted to pass through the iron gate to the big, resoundingroom where passengers for the train ferry were herded together likecorralled sheep. It seemed very quiet there, to be the terminalstation in a large city.
Jack judged nervously that people did not flock to the best fishing inthe State, in spite of all the peanut butcher had told him. He wasglad of that, so long as he was not so alone as to be conspicuous.Aside from the thin sprinkling of passengers, everything was just asthe boy had told him. He was ferried in a big, empty boat across thedarkling bay to the train that stood backed down on the mole waitingfor him and the half dozen other passengers. He chose the rear seat inanother chair car very much like the one he had left, gave up histicket and was tagged, pulled his hat down over his nose and sleptagain, stirring now and then because of his cramped legs.
When he awoke finally it was daylight, and the train was puffing intoa tunnel. He could see the engine dive into the black hole, draggingthe coaches after it like the tail of a snake. When they emerged,Jack looked down upon a green-and-white-scurrying river; away down--sofar that it startled him a little. And he looked up steep pine-cladslopes to the rugged peaks of the mountains. He heaved a sigh ofrelief. Surely no one could possibly find him in a place like this.
After a while he was told to change for Quincy, and descended into afresh, green-and-blue world edged with white clouds. There was notown--nothing but green hills and a deep-set, unbelievable valleyfloor marked off with fences, and a little yellow station with a redroof, and a toy engine panting importantly in front of its one tinybaggage-and-passenger coach, with a freight car for ballast.
Jack threw back his shoulders and took a long, deep, satisfyingbreath. He looked around him gloatingly and climbed into the littlemake-believe train, and smiled as he settled back in a seat. There wasnot another soul going to Quincy that morning, save the conductor andengineer. The conductor looked at his passenger as boredly as the wifeof a professional humorist looks at her husband, took his ticket andleft him.
Jack lighted a cigarette and blew the smoke out of the open windowwhile the little train bore him down through the green forest into thevalley. He was in a new world. He was safe here--he was lost.