The game warden, slid off his mule in the shade of the old elm tree that stood at the edge of the Big Sandy River near Pikeville. He didn't think it would take long to find the old fellow, and he was right. He had walked only about 75 yards down the rocky bank when he spotted him. "Hello, Bill," greeted the game warden. "Hear you been doing some mighty good fishin' lately! Catchin' a lot, are you?" "Well sir, I'll tell you," answered Bill. "A body's gotta eat, and in these bad times you gotta get your food the best way you can. That's all any folk can do. If that means a little huntin' and fishin', then I guess that's what you gotta do." Bill was sitting on a big rock, his legs dangling over the side toward the river. There was no fishing pole in sight, just a beat-up metal box, which Bill was using as a back rest. "You know," Bill went on, "it's a funny thing the law says you got to buy a license to hunt and fish. That's the same as saying you can't eat. Don't the law in this here county know that if a body had money enough for buying a huntin' and fishin' license, that he wouldn't have to worry so much 'bout huntin' and fishin' and eatin' and such?" The game warden knew in his heart that what Bill said was true. As he eyed Bill, the warden wondered how to stand there and tell the old fellow that he couldn't feed his family because he didn't have the money for a license. What does that little piece of paper mean to a man like Bill, especially when his belly is rumbling as loudly as his children's cries? The government, thought the warden, has no heart. Seeing Bill's plight, however, suddenly made the game warden feel blessed that he himself had a job. With regret, he decided that he no choice but to defend that job, despite his secret admiration for Bill. The game warden was not the only one who admired old Bill. Bill was well loved in the mining camps by most of the mining folk. He had an earthy, funny personality that mimicked his jolly one-legged limp. Folks just naturally took to Bill. He was not a knowledgeable man in book learning, but there were some things he could do better than most anybody else, and one of them was fishin'. Bill was also, of sorts, the Robin Hood of the eastern Kentucky coal camp region. Bill never called it chicken thieving, although some folks might. He just did some folks a favor, in his eyes. The way Bill saw it, if a clan had a large number of chickens, he's see to it that they got thinned out good and proper. "No use to let all them there poor chickens starve when a few, well fed, would get fat and dumplin' good," explained Bill. In the coal camps, most people who kept chickens let them run loose and roost in the trees. Old Bill would wait until after dark. He would than find a smooth beech branch, about half as big as his arm. He would cut it according to the length between him and the roostin' pole, where the chickens would be sleeping, head under wing. After warming the end of the pole against his body, he would ease it ever so gently under the chicken's breast, give it a nudge, and the chickens would step silently onto the warm stick. Bill always said, "A chicken is like a woman. You nudge 'em in the direction you want 'em to go and treat 'em gentle, and they'll follow you 'bout anywhere." He would lift the obedient hens down the pole and slip them into his burlap feed sack, slicker than a cat could shimmy down a tree. When Bill was finished thinning out the overstock, he would journey on his way, happy in the thought that he had dome that overpopulated clan a favor. Always, those chickens which he "took" were given to the people in the coal camps. Always, Bill was invited for supper. And in Bill's eyes, the only natural and hospitable thing to do was to oblige them by settin' a spell, maybe even staying the night. Nobody in all the county could beat Bill at chicken thieving. At "chicken thinnin', he was the best. Yes, the warden knew all about Bill's good and bad methods of survival, depending on how you looked at it. However, he wasn't there to talk about chicken thinnin'. He was there to check up on Bill's fishing methods. "Well," said the game warden, clearing his throat and turning his head to the side to spit. "I see what you're saying. A depression does make a lot of folks hungry, but I'm not here to talk about them. I'm here to talk about fishing." "Why, yes sir, George, you come to the right man to talk 'bout fishin'," said Bill. "I guess some folks 'round and 'bout say that they ain't nobody better than me when it comes to catching a passel of fish. Nothin' no better either, than a big pan of fried 'tatters and fish, no matter what time of day it is. But I reckon I can show your better than I can tell you." "Now Bill," warned the warden, "you know you've been told time and again that fishing without a license is against the law." "I know, but I done thought that's why you come to find me, for old Bill to show you the how-to's of fishin'. I been hankering to go, and I guess now's as good a time as any to show you a thing or two." "Well, I don't see any fishin' supplies," the warden informed Bill. "Nope," answered Bill, "I got all I need right here in this box." The warden followed Bill out onto a narrow ledge that overlooked the Big Sandy. He wondered when and how Bill would make his move, knowing that Bill did not intend to get caught. The warden decided to play along with Bill until the time was right for an arrest. "Let's get to it. Show me what you do first when you want to catch a bundle of fish," declared the warden. "It' called blastin'," said Bill. "That' the only way you can catch a bunch of fish." He took a stick of dynamite and a fuse from the box. "It's kindly hard to hold and work with at the same time on this ledge. I'll need you to help me," instructed Bill, as he went about embedding the fuse slowly into the dynamite. "The secret is to get the fuse just right so it won't fall out. Here, hold this, warden, while I fetch the matches." The warden obliged Bill, knowing that an arrest could not be made until a crime was committed. Bill found the matches and lit the short fuse. The warden held the lit dynamite out for Bill to grasp. Bill looked at the warden, "No sir, can't touch the dynamite. Blastin's against the law, you know. But seein' that the fuse is wasted away, you'd better do something mighty fast." The warden had no choice but to throw the dynamite stick into the air. The blast was perfect. It blew up as soon as it hit the water. "Couldn't a timed it better if I'd a blasted that river myself!" exclaimed Bill. The warden, red-faced, was at a loss for words. Bell grinned. "It's a mighty hot day out. That water would feel mighty good. And while we're swimmin', we can pick up all them fish that's come floatin' to the top of the water. You know, it'd be a shame to waste all them fish." The warden shook his head, lifted his cap, and wiped the sweat from his brow onto his shirtsleeve as he looked up at the sun. "you know, Bill, you�re right. It's a mighty hot day. I don't see the harm in a working man taking a quick dip in the river. And I guess those fish need to be cleaned up before they stink up the whole river. Have you got a bucket handy?" |
