Call Sign: Blackjack

Sample Chapter

Chapter 1
Twenty Years Earlier

Spring Runoff
Flathead Valley, Montana—1938

The river made more noise than the truck.

Twelve-year-old Jake Caffey leaned toward the open passenger window, letting the cold mountain air rush across his face. The old Ford pickup bounced along the logging road, its tires slipping occasionally in the mud and loose gravel. Pine trees crowded both sides of the road, dark against the pale morning sky, while patches of old snow remained on the higher slopes.

Far below, the Flathead River thundered through John Stevens Canyon, swollen by spring runoff. Water filled channels that would be exposed later in the summer, rushing around black rocks and broken trees and carrying branches downstream in its relentless current.

Jake had seen the river many times—but never like this.

He leaned farther toward the window.

Behind him, Sam Hunter sat quietly with the tackle box across his knees. At eleven, he was only a year younger than Jake, but he had already developed a patience Jake didn't possess. Sam could sit still and watch something for a long time without seeming to need anything else.

Jake was always looking for what came next.

Sam was usually watching what was already there.

Carl Hunter drove with one hand on the wheel and his other arm resting against the open window. His canvas jacket had faded from years of sun and weather. Gray showed in his dark hair, although Jake knew his uncle was still a long way from being old.

Carl didn't talk much.

He didn't need to.

He was Sam's father and Jake's uncle, a Bitterroot Salish tribal elder who knew the country along the Middle Fork better than anyone Jake knew. Carl knew where the elk crossed the ridges, where the huckleberries grew thickest, and which trails disappeared beneath the winter snow. He could look at a patch of ground and notice things Jake walked past without seeing.

A broken stem.

A footprint.

A bent branch.

Things that told a story if you knew how to read them.

The truck rounded another bend.

The river opened below them.

Jake felt the familiar rush of excitement.

Carl eased off the gas and guided the Ford onto a dirt turnout overlooking the canyon. He shut off the engine and sat for a moment, looking through the windshield.

“We stop here.”

Jake glanced at Sam.

Neither boy moved at first.

Then Sam hopped out and picked up the tackle box from the cargo bed.

Jake followed and grabbed the fishing poles.

Carl grabbed the small Johnson Sea-Horse outboard motor.

The river filled the silence immediately.

Carl walked to the edge of the bluff and stood watching the water.

Jake followed him. Sam came behind.

Carl didn't look at them.

He watched the river.

Jake followed his gaze, trying to see what his uncle saw.

Down among the trees, partly hidden by branches, sat a wooden fishing boat.

Jake knew the boat. They had used it during the summer when the river ran lower and the channels were easier to read.

His eyes went to Sam.

Sam had seen it too.

Carl finally turned.

“Remember what you have been taught?”

Both boys nodded.

“Then watch.”

They watched.

At first, Jake saw only chaos—whitewater, foam, logs.

Then, little by little, he began noticing differences.

Some water moved faster than other water. A smooth patch near the bank folded into darker current. Behind a large rock, water curled back against itself.

Carl pointed.

“The river is like a woman. See how she moves?”

“That is where the river changes its mind.”

Jake nodded.

“And there,” he continued, his finger pointing farther downstream.

“Behind that rock, water turns back on itself. Looks quiet, but it has strength.”

Jake watched the dark water twisting behind the rock.

Carl was quiet for a moment.

“River has many faces. Sometimes she carries you. Sometimes she tests you. You must learn which one you are seeing.”

The boys continued watching.

“Spring water is strong. It comes down from the mountains carrying snow, stones, everything winter held onto. Don't make yourself stronger than river. You are not.”

Jake looked at the water again.

It seemed different now.

Not simply something moving downhill.

Something with its own direction.

Its own force.

Carl pointed toward the boat.

“You stay near shore. Don't cross main channel.”

Both boys nodded.

“If river takes the boat, let her have it. Keep the bow downstream and look for shallow water. Fight the river only when you have ground beneath your feet.”

He looked at the boat again.

“A boat can be replaced. Fishing pole can be replaced.”

His eyes settled on the boys.

“You t_tt_m̓aye (young boys) cannot.”

Jake said nothing.

Neither did Sam.

Carl picked up the fishing poles and tackle box and started back toward the truck.

Jake watched him go.

Then he looked at Sam.

Sam was still watching the river.

Ten minutes later, after mounting the motor, they pushed the wooden boat into the water.

The current took it immediately.

Jake climbed into the stern and settled behind the tiller. Sam stepped aboard and sat forward, keeping one hand against the side of the boat as Jake pulled the starter cord.

Nothing.

He pulled again.

The engine coughed.

The third pull brought it to life.

The little motor's roar bounced between the canyon walls.

Jake eased the throttle forward.

The boat moved.

Cold spray struck his face.

The shoreline began sliding past.

For the first few minutes, the river seemed almost tame.

Jake relaxed.

He pushed the throttle a little farther.

Sam shifted his weight and looked toward the water.

Jake noticed.

He eased back.

Neither boy spoke.

The river widened ahead.

Sunlight flashed across the surface. The wooden hull groaned as it skipped over small waves, and Jake felt the excitement building again.

Then the river narrowed.

The sound changed.

The smooth rush became a deeper roar.

Jake saw whitewater ahead.

The channel squeezed between rock walls, and the current boiled through the gap. Half-submerged logs rolled in the water. A tree trunk appeared around the bend, turned sideways by the current, then disappeared beneath a standing wave.

Jake eased off the throttle.

Too late.

The current caught the boat.

The stern swung.

The bow turned toward the rocks.

Jake pulled the tiller.

Nothing.

He pulled harder.

The boat kept sliding sideways.

Sam grabbed the gunwale.

Jake remembered Carl's voice.

The river has many faces.

He turned the tiller again.

The current shoved harder.

Don't make yourself stronger than river.

The propeller broke free of the water.

The engine screamed.

Then died.

The sudden silence seemed louder than the engine had been.

The boat spun broadside.

Jake felt the bottom of his stomach drop.

The hull struck something beneath the surface.

The impact threw both boys sideways.

The boat rolled.

Cold water closed over Jake's head.

For several seconds there was no river, no sky, no boat—only darkness and the roar of water filling his ears.

He kicked.

His shoulder struck something hard.

Pain flashed down his arm.

He kicked again.

His head broke the surface.

He sucked in air.

The overturned boat was already drifting away.

Jake twisted around.

Sam.

He saw him clinging to the hull several yards upstream.

Jake started toward him.

The river caught his legs and pulled.

He fought to stay upright.

Sam slipped.

His hands lost the boat.

He disappeared into the whitewater.

Jake's heart seemed to stop.

Then Sam surfaced.

His face appeared for an instant.

Then disappeared again.

Jake fought the current.

He swallowed water.

The river dragged him downstream.

His boots struck gravel.

He stumbled.

The water was shallower here.

He could stand.

The bank was only a few yards away.

Jake took another step.

Then looked upstream.

Sam was gone.

The river rolled past him, carrying branches, foam, and pieces of the overturned boat.

Jake waited.

Nothing.

He looked toward the shore.

He could get out.

He could climb the bank.

He could run for help.

Carl's voice came back to him.

If river takes the boat, let her have it.

Jake looked at the water.

Fight the river only when you have ground beneath your feet.

He had ground now.

He could leave.

Then he remembered the last thing Carl had said.

A boat can be replaced.

Jake looked toward the bank.

A fishing pole can be replaced.

The river carried another piece of the boat past him.

You t_tt_m̓aye cannot.

Jake turned toward the current.

The river was already carrying Sam away.

He took one step into deeper water.

Then another.

The current reached his knees.

He leaned forward.

For a moment, he hesitated.

Then he dove.