People of the Owl(182)

Red Finger clicked a warning that brought Mud Stalker alert.

He heard the rasping of wings before he spotted the ducks—mallards all—flying up the main channel. Immediately Thumper began his quacking and chattering. Of all the hunters in Snapping Turtle Clan, none was as talented when it came to calling ducks.

To Mud Stalker’s delight, the flock turned, wheeled overhead, and came swooping in to land just past the decoys.

“Be ready!” Mud Stalker whispered as he loosened the cord that held their blind up. He would have to drop the blind, grab the knot of his bola, straighten, and cast as if in one motion.

“Ready!” Clay Fat said in a breathy exhale.

In heartbeats the ducks would detect the ruse. Mud Stalker, as hunt leader, watched the ducks as they splashed to a halt behind the decoys. Paddling, they turned to inspect the decoys. They couldn’t have been more perfectly placed in the trap.

Thumper was continuing his calling, making the sounds ducks made by blowing air past his cheeks, onto the back of his hand, and clicking his tongue.

“Now!” Mud Stalker called, letting the blind fall and sitting upright. As he rose he grasped the center of his bola, whirling it around his head. The taut thongs hissed as they tore through the air.

The ducks began to bolt, reaching out with their wings as they turned away from the falling blinds.

Mud Stalker made his cast. From long practice, the whirling stones, bound by their leather thongs, sailed out, neatly wrapping around the nearest mallard, fouling her wings.

Clay Fat, too, cast—then capsized their canoe as he floundered out into the knee-deep water.

Mud Stalker clawed for balance, then closed his eyes as cold murky water rolled over him. He thrashed, twisted his way upright, and managed to get his feet under him. As he shot up out of the water, he flipped his head to clear his vision.

Clay Fat was howling, sloshing like a giant buffalo through the water. Mud churned in his wake. Across from them, Red Finger and Thumper were likewise charging forward, waving their arms and howling.

Retreat cut off, the panicked ducks flapped and paddled, taking off straight into the overhanging nets. As they entangled themselves, the net was pulled loose, dropping down over the frightened birds.

“YoooYaaah!” Clay Fat yelled, splashing from foot to foot in the waist-deep water. Mud Stalker ran his hand over his wet face. Next time the big oaf could wait in a blind onshore. He looked back at the capsized canoe, the gunwales just breaking water, then waded over and grabbed up his bola-entangled duck. He grasped the duck by the head, whirling it around and around until he broke the bird’s neck. Then he unwound the leather thongs from the wings.

Ahead of them, the mallards thrashed in the net. In a line, the men waded forward, taking the ends of the netting and gathering it in.

“Where’s your canoe?” Thumper asked as he floated his up to the catch.

“Underwater.” Mud Stalker jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

“There’s a lot of me to get out of a canoe in a hurry,” Clay Fat said with a wide grin. “It was faster just to turn it over.”

“And drown me in the process,” Mud Stalker growled, but he could see Clay Fat’s delight. The Rattlesnake Clan Speaker was happy. Against that, a dunking in the water hardly mattered.

One by one they retrieved the terrified ducks from the netting, breaking their necks and tossing their spasming carcasses into Thumper’s canoe. In the end, they had trapped three tens and eight, a nice morning’s work. The feathered mound in the middle of Thumper’s canoe gleamed cream, brown, and greenish blue in the light. In the pile of ruffled wings he could see orange-webbed feet, yellow bills agape, and the green-headed males, their eyes dimming and half-lidded in death.

Feathers from the spring molt drifted in the calm air and dotted the roiled water.

“Come,” Clay Fat called to Mud Stalker as Thumper and Red Finger began drawing in the net, neatly folding it between them. “Let us right your canoe. They can take the catch, we’ll carry the net.”

“If you don’t sink us again.”

It took but a moment to lift one end, shipping the water out. The knuckle’s worth that sloshed in the bottom didn’t seem to bother Clay Fat as he carefully climbed aboard. Their paddles were recovered from where they floated under the crushed blind.

Slipping over the stern, Mud Stalker seated himself and tucked his paddle under his right arm, using his left awkwardly to maneuver the craft around. They paddled up to where Red Finger and Thumper waited. The two men carefully lifted the wet net and settled it amidships.

“Don’t lose Clay Fat’s ducks on the way back to Sun Town,” Mud Stalker warned. “The Speaker will sink your canoe next time.”