Chapter 12
"Them Damn Snake"Three hundred yards up the river, in the shade of a huge
bowlder, round an end of which the water hurried in a green swirl
that it might the sooner lie quiet in the deep, dark pool below,
Good Indian, picking his solitary way over the loose rocks, came
unexpectedly upon Baumberger, his heavy pipe sagging a corner of
his flabby mouth, while he painstakingly detached a fly from his
leader, hooked it into the proper compartment of his fly-book, and
hesitated over his selection of another to take its place.
Absorption was writ deep on his gross countenance, and he
recognized the intruder by the briefest of flickering glances and
the slightest of nods.
"Keep back from that hole, will yuh?" he muttered, jerking his
head toward the still pool. "I ain't tri
