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Updated: June 1, 2025
They were friends until Peter got married, and then the trouble began, because they both wanted the same klootchman. They had been fishing for some time for the same fish, in the same pool in the Thompson river, and had each been favored with very encouraging nibbles. One day, however, Peter felt the tugging at his bait somewhat stronger than usual and with one jerk he pulled out his fish.
His son, a grown man, no longer young, who introduced himself to us as "Mr. Yeomans's son," and who appears to have no other designation, is much more of a wild Indian than the old man. Sometimes I see him at night, going out with his klootchman in their little canoe; she, crouched in her scarlet blanket at one end, holding the dark sail, and the great yellow moon shining on them.
Unless it be that the more voluptuous Indian works every day of his weary, aimless life, spends nothing, and hoards the residual balance like a miser, lives on the old man before marriage, and on his klootchman after, we are unable to arrive at a solution. No one knew by what means Johnny had acquired all his wealth.
Two minutes later they came in sight of the dam and in the same moment the Indian turned the canoe towards a soft bar of sand. A few seconds later, having landed, he pointed to the sand. A canoe had been beached there, and plain as the footprints which startled Crusoe, were the marks of moccasined feet going from and returning to the sand bar. "White Klootchman been here!" said the Indian.
The klootchman lifted her arms from her paddle as she concluded; her eyes left the irregular outline of the violet mountains. She had come back to this year of grace her Legend Land had vanished. "So," she added, "you see now, maybe, why I glad my grandchild is girl; it means big salmon run next year."
"Before you born, or I, or" pointing across the park to the distant city of Vancouver that breathed its wealth and beauty across the September afternoon "before that place born, before white man came here oh! long before." Dear old klootchman! I knew by the dusk in her eyes that she was back in her Land of Legends, and that soon I would be the richer in my hoard of Indian lore.
"Him stop along gal tenas klootchman, you savvy. Go walkee along gal. P'laps, bimeby, two, tlee hou', him come back." Simon grunted gutturally. "Ya-as," he drawled. "Hiyu lich gal," Feng proceeded. "Have hiyu dolla'. You bet. She one hiyu dam' plitty gal, savvy?" "Hush!" Clyde whispered, as Casey would have put an end to this risky eavesdropping. "I didn't think that Feng had such good taste.
"I will wait me. I just come to fetch Maarda; she been city; she soon come now." But she left her "working" attitude and curled like a school-girl in the bow of the canoe, her elbows resting on her paddle which she had flung across the gunwales. "I have missed you, klootchman; you have not been to see me for three moons, and you have not fished or been at the canneries," I remarked.
Great had been the "run," and the sockeye season was almost over. For that reason I wondered many times why my old friend, the klootchman, had failed to make one of the fishing fleet. She was an indefatigable work-woman, rivalling her husband as an expert catcher, and all the year through she talked of little else but the coming run.
So, for weeks, for even months, the little Tenas Klootchman laughed and smiled, waked and slept, dreamed and dimpled in her pretty playhouse. Then one day, in the hot, dry summer, there was no smile. The dimples did not play.
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