In Darkest Depths by David Thompson Page B

prompted.
    â€œIt will do,” was the best Nate could come up with.
    â€œI think of everything, if I do say so myself,” Shakespeare crowed. He indicated the net piled between them. “We should practice, so when the moment of truth comes we will be ready.”
    â€œYou really expect to catch the thing with that?”
    â€œWhy else are we doing this if not to catch it and kill it?” Shakespeare responded.

    Nate slowed in his stroking. “I thought you just wanted to learn what it is. What is this talk of killing?”
    â€œSince when do you mind getting rid of an animal that could prove a menace?” Shakespeare rejoined. “You killed that grizzly, remember? And we had to make worm food of those wolverines.”
    â€œThe griz tried to break into our cabin, and those wolverines were out for our blood,” Nate noted. “I have no quarrel with this water devil, or whatever it is.”
    â€œYou will change your mind. Wait and see.” Shakespeare scanned the lake. They were drawing near where the mallard and the teal had been taken.
    â€œI had no idea you were so bloodthirsty,” Nate teased. Only, now that he thought about it, he recalled that McNair had urged him to slay the grizzly the day they arrived in the valley. Other instances came to mind, leading him to say, “You like to nip danger in the bud, is that it?”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking,” Shakespeare admitted. He knew of too many men and women, red and white, who had lost their lives because they did not take a threat seriously enough.
    â€œThe water devil does not need nipping,” Nate said. “The thing never comes up on land. We have nothing to worry about.”
    â€œWe don’t know that it always stays in the water,” Shakespeare pointed out. “We assume it does.”
    â€œIf it’s a fish, we leave it alone.”
    Shakespeare twisted to look at him. “Where is your sense of adventure? Of sport?”
    â€œI only kill when I have to,” Nate said. “To feed my family or protect them, or to defend myself.”
    â€œYou have never hunted for hunting’s sake?”

    Nate answered honestly. “When I was younger, yes, but only a few times.” He was well aware that most men did not share his view. Most liked to hunt and fish for the challenge and the thrill. He suspected he had his mother to thank for his outlook; she would never harm so much as a fly.
    â€œWhat do these feathered yacks think they are doing?” Shakespeare wondered.
    A dozen buffleheads had swum into their path. Shakespeare applied his paddle to veer the dugout around them, but it was slow to respond. Fortunately, the nervous buffleheads swam faster. He waited until the canoe was clear to say, “I have hunted since I was old enough to hold a gun and fished since I was old enough to swing a pole. To me this critter is no different than any other. I aim to catch it, come what may.”
    â€œIf you ask me—” Nate began, and stopped. To their north, perhaps forty feet away and just under the surface, something was moving. Something big. He pointed and exclaimed, “Do you see what I see?”
    â€œBy my troth!” Shakespeare blurted. Thanks to the play of the bright sunlight on the surface and the dark murk below, he could not be entirely sure of what he was seeing.
    â€œIs that the thing we are after?”
    â€œThere is only one way to find out,” Shakespeare said, and sheared his paddle so the canoe swung toward it. He had brought the spyglass, but it was under his buckskin shirt, and anyway, another half dozen strokes and they would be near enough to have a good look. “Faster!” he urged, stroking harder.
    â€œMaybe we shouldn’t get too close,” Nate cautioned.
    â€œNonsense.” Shakespeare leaned forward, eager for a better look. But the creature was no longerthere. He stopped paddling and looked on both sides of