One hot August day, Call sat on the stream bank fishing. He was doing nothing more than whiling away a fine afternoon. He was quite enjoying the solitude. Seemed like there was always someone yammering at him back in Curtis Wells -- Amanda scolding, Ike demanding money, Mattie nagging. It was good to get away like this, he thought, where no one could find him . . . no one. He was just settling back nice and comfy, when suddenly he heard a noise. Why, it sounded like voices! What did a man have to do to get peace in this town? Call was more than a little annoyed when he had to crawl through some very scratchy underbrush to investigate. Imagine his horror when what should he find, but Clay Mosby, not 10 yards downstream from HIS private fishing spot! Call was hot under the collar.
"Mosby, you bastard, what are you doin' here? Don't you know better than to barge in on a man's private fishin' hole? It's simply not done. Why, it goes against the code of the West."
Mosby merely smiled tolerantly at the younger man. "You forget yourself, Call. I'm not from the West. Why, I'm Southern."
"Cut the crap, Mosby. It's one thing to move in on a man's wife. It's quite another to try to steal his private fishin' spot. And another thing . . . "
"Yes, Call?" Mosby indulged the irate bounty hunter.
"You're gonna scare every fish in six counties with them flashy clothes. They'll see you comin' a mile away."
Mosby smiled down at his natty matching brocade vest and tie. He knew he looked stunning. He handed his fishing pole to Zeke who happened to be standing conveniently close by. Then he stepped carefully down the bank to avoid getting his fine leather boots muddy.
Mosby stopped next to a promising-looking bend in the stream. "Bait my hook, Zeke, why don't you," he directed the other man.
"Humph!" Call remarked. "I see you can't even go fishin' by yourself without bringin' one of your "ladies" along to do your dirty work for you."
But Clay Mosby was enjoying the fine day too much to let Call get under his skin. He took his pole back from Zeke and cast a long, lazy line expertly over the water, landing it next to a partially submerged log near the far bank.
Call frowned. "What're you doin' here, anyways? There's at least ten miles of good trout stream you could have chosen to inflict your presence on."
Mosby merely shrugged. "Why, look around you, Call," he said with a sweep of his hand. "This trout stream is mine now."
"Sure it is . . . now, after you stole all that land for the railroad."
But Mosby was not so easily baited. "Now, you know I paid each land owner a fair price for their land, Call."
Call merely snorted in disgust.
"What's this really about, Call? You have a prize trout you're tryin' to catch, and you're afraid I'm the better fisherman? Hmmmm?"
"Humph, that'll be the day, Mosby. I can fish circles around you."
"Then why not put your money where your mouth is, Call? What say we have a contest to see who can catch the biggest fish? I'll even find another place to throw a line in, leave you to your precious spot. How about it?"
Mosby suddenly jerked his line out of the water. A nice fat trout dangled from it. Call scowled. Mosby watched Zeke take the fish off the line before he continued.
"Tell you what, Call, if you win, I'll rescind that bench tax I levied on you last month."
Call considered this for a moment. It would be nice not to have to pay that pesky bench tax of Mosby's. That might be worth the wager. "And what if you win?"
"If I win, your bench of choice will change. I've grown a bit weary of your watchin' me all day from your vantage point outside Creel's store. If I win, you'll have to use the bench outside Twyla's. You'll be far less bother to me there."
Call didn't much like the thought of losing his favorite seat. His butt had finally worn a very comfortable groove in it. But he didn't think the chances of losing were that great. He'd seen Mosby's fishing pole and was quite sure that his was much bigger. "You got yourself a deal," he said finally.
"Splendid," Mosby remarked. "Shall we shake on it like gentlemen?"
"Hunh, you ain't no gentleman, Mosby," Call growled at him.
"Whatever you say, Call. In any case, I'll meet you at the Dove at precisely six o'clock, and we'll see who is the superior outdoorsman." Mosby wasn't worried either. He was quite sure that his was the largest fishing pole in town.
Call headed back to his previous spot. He frowned at the water and scratched his head. He figured it was time to try his secret weapon; he'd never known it to fail. Going over to the Hell Bitch, he reached into his saddlebag and brought out one of his famous biscuits. Breaking off a bit, he slid it over his fishhook and dropped it into the water. Call smiled to himself.
~~~
"Well, he certainly fell for that hook, line, and sinker," Mosby remarked to Zeke as soon as they were out of earshot.
"What do you mean?" Zeke asked him.
"Why, I have a secret weapon. Put one of those worms on the hook, and I'll show you. This is how we did it back in Virginia." Mosby took a small flask out of his vest pocket, opened it and took a swig. "Ahh, fine Kentucky Bourbon. I never met a fish that could resist it. Hold out your hands." Zeke did as Mosby directed, and Mosby poured a small amount of liquor into them. Then he dipped the worm in it and cast his hook far out into the stream.
~~~
Suffice it to say that BOTH men caught very large fish that day.
They arrived back at the Dove separately and left their catches with Amanda with strict instructions to put them on ice until the appointed time that evening. Being exhausted from the day's activities, Call headed to his bench for a snooze, while Mosby had some empire building to attend to. Amanda did as she was bid and then spent an hour or two in her office, interviewing maids for the hotel.
At 6 P.M.sharp, Call and Mosby arrived at the front door of the Dove. "After you, Call," Mosby said politely, holding the door open for him.
Call scowled at him. "I can open my own doors," he growled.
"Very well -- as you wish," Mosby said and preceded Call into the interior.
Once inside, Mosby removed his hat and regarded Call. "Time for the unveilin'. I do hope you have tried out your new bench and found it to your likin'."
Call snorted in response. "And I hope you weren't countin' on my tax money for any of your slimy schemes," he shot back.
The two of them headed into the kitchen. Amanda met them with a frown on her lips. "I'm afraid I have bad news. The contest has hit a snag. Your fish are gone."
"Gone, gone where?" Mosby asked her. "Whatever do you mean, Amanda?"
"Callie served them up for supper," Amanda answered him, pointing into the next room.
Both men peered into the dining room to where Luther Root sat leaning back in his chair, one hand resting contentedly on his full belly, the other wielding a toothpick.
"Let me understand this. You fed them to Luther?" Mosby asked incredulously. His mind reeled.
"I'm afraid so," Amanda answered him. "I had ordered some trout from Huey Long, and when Callie saw your fish, she thought . . . Well, you know what she thought. Then when Luther ordered trout for supper, she fried them up. I'm sorry, boys, I guess we'll never know which one of you is the better fisherman." Amanda shrugged and headed off to attend to her dinner guests.
Mosby and Call regarded each other blankly.
Mosby was the first to recover enough to speak. "Well, Call, let's let bygones be bygones, shall we? I'll let you off the hook and rescind that bench tax anyway. I'd really hate to deprive you of your favorite perch. Course, you WILL have to stop glarin' at me so much. How about it? Do we have a deal?"
Call cast about for a reason to trust his old nemesis. He was quite sure that Mosby was just feeding him a line, and he had just about reached his limit.
"Well, awright," he said finally, "long as you stay out of my private fishin' spot from now on."
Mosby smiled and held the door open for him. "Buy you a drink?" This time Call exited first.
"You know, Call," Mosby began as the two men sauntered down the boardwalk to the Ambrosia Club, "I really do believe mine was the larger fish."
"Quit carpin' on it, will ya, Mosby?"
"Flounderin' a bit, are you, Call?"
"Clam up, why doncha?"
"Now, stop bein' such a crab."
And so on, and so on, and SO ON . . .
The End
7/2002
