El Diablo
by Brayton Norton · English · Gutenberg #28022 · 487,746 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: El Diablo
Author: Brayton Norton
Illustrator: Dan Sayre Groesbeck
Release date: February 8, 2009 [eBook #28022]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28022
Credits: Produced by David Clarke, Erica Pfister-Altschul and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EL DIABLO ***
Produced by David Clarke, Erica Pfister-Altschul and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[Illustration: "May I come aboard your vessel?"]
EL DIABLO
_By_
BRAYTON NORTON
ILLUSTRATED BY
DAN SAYRE GROESBECK
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright 1921
SUNSET MAGAZINE, INC.
Copyright 1921
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
_Printed in the United States of America_
PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
BROOKLYN, N.Y.
_To_
MY WIFE
"STERLING"
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I FORBIDDEN WATERS 1
II JETSAM OF THE SEA 10
III TANGLED THREADS 18
IV THE WORK OF THEIR FATHERS 30
V THE WAY OF THE GULL 48
VI THE LAW OF THE FISHERMEN 63
VII YOU'LL HAVE TO SHOW ME 72
VIII A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE 77
IX DIABLO LUCK 83
X SALVAGE 93
XI REFUSING TO BE BLUFFED 105
XII A WARNING 118
XIII THE STRIKE 133
XIV THE MOTHER OF INVENTION 145
XV BUSINESS AND PLEASURE 160
XVI THE BAITED PAWN 169
XVII THE FANGS OF MASCOLA 180
XVIII THE COST OF DEFEAT 186
XIX ROCK FOLLOWS UP 196
XX PLANS FOR A SHOW-DOWN 211
XXI THE GRAY GHOST 222
XXII STRICTLY ON THE DEFENSIVE 237
XXIII BATTLE OF NORTHWEST HARBOR 245
XXIV A FIGHTING CHANCE 253
XXV THE BANKER AT THE HELM 264
XXVI THE VALUE OF PUBLICITY 280
XXVII TO SOLVE THE MYSTERY 291
XXVIII THE ISLAND'S PRISONER 304
XXIX UNDER ORDERS 315
XXX THE FIGHT IN THE CAVE 325
XXXI BENEATH THE WATERS 340
XXXII FOR ALL THE WORLD TO KNOW 352
EL DIABLO
CHAPTER I
FORBIDDEN WATERS
Richard Gregory stirred restlessly in his sleep vaguely aware of an
unfamiliar sound, a faint tapping, insistent, disturbing. He wakened
sharply and sat bolt upright, conscious of the fact that he was fully
dressed. Then he remembered.
"All right, Bill," he called softly. "Coming."
It took but a minute to shove his automatic into his pocket and secure
his rifle from the corner. Groping his way to the door he stood
shivering on the threshold, staring into the thick gray fog which
enveloped him.
A hand touched his shoulder. Strong fingers tightened on his arm.
"This way," a low voice directed. "Careful, don't scuff."
Gregory started to speak but a warning pressure of the big fingers
restrained him. His companion led the way. He followed in silence.
Through the winding streets of the little fishing village they went,
the familiar landmarks about them looming grotesque and mystical in the
low-hanging fog. At length the acrid air of the sea assailed their
nostrils and the silence of the night was broken by the noisy splashing
of a marsh-loon.
Bill Lang stopped suddenly. Faintly through the gray void came the
muffled gulping of an under-water exhaust. Huddled together they stood
listening. To Richard Gregory the sound indicated only the slow approach
of a motor-boat. To the trained ear of the fisherman it meant that
Mexican Joe was on time with the _Sea Gull_.
Lang led on down the loosely boarded wharf piled high with ill-smelling
fish-boxes and paused at the head of a narrow gangway, looking back,
listening. Close by the dock Gregory discerned the outline of a
fishing-boat, magnified by the fog into whimsical proportions.
Descending cautiously, he followed Lang aboard and groped his way into
the protecting shelter of the engine-house. The cold mist clung to his
flesh and he drew his coat closer about him. The soft breathing of the
heavy-duty motor became more pronounced, more labored. The clutch was
in. They were backing out into the stream. He glanced above him at the
stay where the starboard side-lamp hung. But the grayness was unbroken
by a single ray of green.
Lang was running dark.
It was taking a long chance on such a night as this, Gregory reflected.
But then the whole business was a long chance. And Lang knew his
business.
Imbued with a fisherman's sixth sense of feeling his way along familiar
channels rendered unfamiliar by fog, Bill Lang piloted his craft
skilfully down the silent bay in the direction of the open sea.
Crouching in the bow, Mexican Joe sought with cat-like eyes to pierce
the gray veil of blinding fog. Narrowly averting collision with
unlighted harbor-boats, bumping at times over sandy shoals, plowing
through grass-grown mud-flats and skirting dangerous reefs with only the
smallest margin of safety, they came at last to the jettied outlet of
Crescent Bay.
The roar of the breakers sounded ominously close through the gray canopy
of fog. The little craft rocked briskly in the trough of the swell as
Lang threw the wheel over and headed out to sea. Flashing a small light
over the compass, which served as an improvised binnacle, he peered
intently at the instrument. Then he spoke softly to the man forward.
"Take the wheel, Joe."
When the Mexican had relieved him Lang bent low over the compass and
examined his watch. Then he joined Gregory.
"Twelve o'clock," he announced. "We've got to make Diablo before
daybreak. Sixty-five miles in less than four hours. That means hurry in
weather like this."
He turned to the man at the wheel.
"Crowd her, Joe," he called. "We're taking chances to-night. If we hit
anybody we might as well hit hard."
"Do you think we got out without being seen?"
Lang shook his head sagely in the darkness.
"Not much of a chance," he answered after a moment. "Couldn't have had a
better night, though. But it's mighty hard to slip anything over on the
dago. If the fog would lift up it would be even shootin' you'd see one
of Mascola's outfit trailin' us astern. We've got him nervous, I tell
you."
"It's high time they were getting nervous," Gregory rejoined. "When they
try to browbeat American fishermen off the high seas and coastal waters
it's time somebody was getting nervous."
He was silent for a moment and Lang as usual only grunted his assent.
Then Gregory went on:
"But there's something else that's making them nervous, Lang. Something
they are doing around that devil-island. What kinds of laws they're
breaking out there nobody knows. They may be doing anything from
shooting fish to catching chicken-halibut or baby barracuda. We don't
know what. But we do know they're mighty touchy on who cruises round El
Diablo. When our boats get around that infernal island something always
happens. You know that."
Lang's grunt was emphatic and Gregory concluded:
"That's why it's up to us to find out what it is. It's hard enough to
get the fish as it is without Mascola staking out the water like he
owned it and telling us to keep out."
For some time the two men leaned together against the engine-house, each
keeping his own counsel, each busied with his own thoughts. Then Gregory
spoke:
"If anything happens to me to-night, Lang, keep all this business to
yourself until my son comes home. Tell him. No one else. We want to get
to the bottom of this thing ourselves without any one else butting in to
bungle the job. Do you understand?"
When Lang had gone to relieve the Mexican at the wheel Richard Gregory's
thoughts turned to his son overseas. Should he have waited until his
return? He wondered. It was a young man's work, such a job as this,--and
yet,--no, it was better to get to the bottom of the thing to-night. His
head sank lower on his breast. Perhaps he could snatch a few winks of
sleep. He might need it.
The muffled rattle of the anchor-chain caused him to waken sharply,
stiff with cold. The motor was silent. The launch rocked lazily. Through
a rift in the fog he saw a rocky beach only a stone's throw away. They
were anchored close by the shore.
"Hell-Hole," announced Lang in a whisper.
Gregory picked up his rifle.
For a moment the big fisherman by his side hesitated. Then he said: "Why
not stay on the _Gull_, Mr. Gregory? Let Joe go ashore with me."
"No."
The answer was decisive. There were no explanations. Lang knew it was
final. Assisted by the Mexican, he swung the dory free and lowered it
quietly into the water. Helping Gregory into the small boat he turned to
the Mexican and spoke rapidly in Spanish. Gregory could catch only the
substance of a few sentences. Lang was telling Joe to stand by for a
quick get-away. To watch the beach and start the anchor when he saw them
coming. And above all he was to keep quiet.
The bow of the dory grated on the beach. The two men stepped out and
without a backward glance slowly disappeared into the fog.
Huddled in the bow, Mexican Joe waited by the anchor-chain, his eyes
searching the little cove. For a long time he sat thus, not even daring
to light a cigarette. Once his straining ears caught the muffled exhaust
of a motor-launch. It came very close but the fog guarded him well and
he heard it pass on. What the two men were doing upon the island
concerned Mexican Joe not at all. The devil-isle was filled with
secrets. Why should he try to fathom them? He was paid to obey and Señor
Lang had twice saved his life.
A sound from the shore caused Joe to struggle to his feet and begin
hauling on the chain. Then he looked again, stopped and straightened up.
There were three men coming along the beach, four,--five.
Joe dropped behind the rail and watched them climb over the rocks and
halt by the empty dory. Then he heard the sound of low voices in a
foreign tongue, and shivered. The voices of the men on the beach grew
fainter. They were minutely examining the dory. One lifted his arm and
pointed seaward in the direction of the _Sea Gull_.
The Mexican crept to his sawed-off shotgun loaded with buck-shot.
Securing the weapon he made his way again to the bow and waited. The
rock-bound cove was silent. The dory was still on the beach. But the men
were gone.
At length came the rattle of loose stones mingled with the sound of
low-pitched voices. _Gracious a Dios_. It was Señor Lang and Señor
Gregory. Joe's hand leaped to the anchor-chain. There would be need to
hurry. He tugged hard at the heavy cable, then he stopped, straightened
and screamed a warning.
Gregory and Lang whirled about only a few feet from the dory. From the
shadowed crevices in the rocks, men leaped forward and hurled themselves
to the beach. About the skiff bright jets of flame cut the fog. Came the
sharp report of an automatic, twice,--three times.
Mexican Joe watched the unequal struggle, huddled against the rail. His
eyes brightened with fear. Twice he raised his gun, but his hand shook.
At the distance the shot would scatter. There would be no use. He saw
the two men fight their way to the dory. Saw Lang reach it, shove it
into the water. The Señor was safe. _Gracious a Dios_. But no, he was
going back for Señor Gregory. _Sangre de Christo_, they would all be
killed.
The fog thickened. The struggling forms merged, grotesquely intermingled
and became indistinct. From behind the gray curtain came the sound of
heavy blows, muttered imprecations, groans.
Joe waited for the veil to lift, staring with straining eyes, cursing
softly. _Los Señores_ were being murdered before his eyes and he could
do nothing. Through a rift in the fog he saw Gregory with his back to
the cliff fighting back the savage horde which were pressing hard upon
him. He was using his rifle as a club. The men were falling away from
him. Lang had cleared the way to the skiff; was almost at his
companion's side.
From the overhanging ledge above, two dark figures leaped suddenly upon
the man beneath, wrenching his gun from his hand, crushing him to the
sand. Lang fell upon the group of struggling figures, fighting like a
madman. Then he staggered, dropped to his knees and went down before the
onslaught.
Again the gray pall drifted down from the tall crags above and blotted
out the scene.
Joe staggered to his feet, grasping the wire-stays for support. Then he
stiffened and stood listening. The muffled purr of a high-powered motor
disturbed the silence. From out the gloom to starboard he saw the bow of
a big motor-boat cut the fog. The Mexican shrieked a warning and
tightened his clutch on the stays.
The strange craft veered, the sharp bow swung over. With wide-open
engines, she struck the _Sea Gull_ amidships, full on the beam. Hurled
to the deck by the impact the Mexican heard the snapping and grinding of
timbers. He was conscious of falling and the cool rush of waters about
his head. Then he remembered no more.
Wrapped in a clinging mantle of filmy fog, rock-bound, grim and
mysterious, the Island of El Diablo frowned at the sea from behind the
veil of silence. Brave men had sought to fathom her secret but she had
guarded it well.
CHAPTER II
JETSAM OF THE SEA
John Blair was worried. Every line of his face, every movement of his
nervous body showed it. He turned quickly to the bare-footed fisherman
who blocked the doorway.
"You combed the beach, you say? How far?"
"San Lucas to Port Angeles."
"No signs of wreckage; nothing?"
The fisherman shook his head.
Blair was silent for a moment. Then he asked: "How far out to sea did
you go?"
"About three miles, 'Dog-face' Jones's workin' out San Anselmo way. Big
Jack left last night for Diablo."
Blair started. "Diablo," he repeated. "They surely wouldn't have gone
out there."
Before the fisherman could reply there came an interruption. The door
opened quickly and a young man strode into the room.
"Mr. Gregory? Is he in?"
Blair looked up quickly at the sound of the voice and ran his eyes over
the clean-cut figure in the serge uniform. The impression, hastily
formed, of having met the man before, was strengthened by the roving
black eyes which were expectantly traveling about the room.
"This is the Legonia Fish Cannery, isn't it?"
Blair nodded. "Yes," he said. "But Mr. Gregory is not here at present."
"When will he be in?"
The words came eagerly with the brusk assurance of an immediate answer.
The crisp insistence had a decidedly familiar sound. Blair regarded the
clean-cut face of the young officer intently as he answered:
"I don't know. Will you call again or leave your name?"
"I am Mr. Gregory's son."
Blair came to meet him with outstretched hands.
"I might have known it," he said. "I am Mr. Blair, your father's
manager. I'm glad to meet you. Your father did not expect you so soon,
did he?"
The young man shook his head and smiled.
"No," he answered. "Dad thinks I'm still on the other side. I wanted to
surprise him. I wrote a letter saying I would be home as soon as
possible. I mailed the letter on the ship which brought me over." A
boyish look crept into his eyes. "Don't let on when dad comes back that
you've seen me, will you, Mr. Blair? I have to go back to camp to-night
and arrange about my discharge. It may be a week before I can be back."
The black eyes grew suddenly wistful.
"Say, Mr. Blair, don't you think there's a chance of my seeing dad
before I leave? I have until five o'clock to get my train."
Blair was unable to meet the steady gaze of his employer's son. Should
he tell the boy of his father's strange absence? Voice his own fears and
suspicions for the safety of Gregory, Sr.? By the time the young man
returned the mystery might be solved. At least they would know
something.
"What is wrong, Mr. Blair?"
The question was volleyed with quiet insistence. It demanded an answer.
The boy would not be put off. He was his father's son. Blair sought to
put the matter in as favorable a light as possible under the
circumstances. In a few words he told of the disappearance of Richard
Gregory.
Kenneth Gregory listened quietly, at times interrupting with rapid-fire
questions.
"When was he last seen?"
"Three days ago."
"You knew nothing of his plans?"
"Nothing definite," Blair evaded. "He might have gone out with the
fishermen scouting for albacore. One of Lang's boats turned up missing
the next morning. Lang himself is missing, too."
"Who is Lang?"
"Your father's fishing captain. He recently bought him a number of new
boats. They might have gone to try one of them out."
"Nothing has been heard of them since?"
"Not yet. You see it has been very foggy lately all along the coast.
That has handicapped our search."
"Where can I get a boat?"
Blair shook his head. Then he came closer and put his hand on Kenneth
Gregory's arm.
"All of the Lang boats are out now, Captain. Everything is being done, I
can assure you. It would be no use."
"Are there no other boats here than Lang's?"
"Only the alien fleet."
The man in uniform whirled about decisively.
"Then I'll get one of them. Will you show me where they are?"
"It would be no use. They wouldn't go. You see----"
"Let's try."
With some reluctance Blair consented.
"We haven't been getting along any too well with Mascola's outfit
lately," he explained as they walked along. "I'll stop at Lang's wharf
first. Maybe some of the boats are back."
Turning on to a small wharf they walked in silence over the loose boards
down the lane of ill-smelling fish-boxes. At the end of the dock a
narrow gangway led downward to a small float which rocked lazily in the
capping swells thrown up by a passing fishing-boat. Close by, another
wharf jutted out into the bay. Upon it were a number of swarthy
fishermen, piling nets. Blair stopped abruptly at the head of the
gangway, his eyes searching the water. The fishing-boat was swinging up
into the tide and edging closer.
"Is that one of the Lang boats?" he heard Gregory ask.
A paroxysm of coughing prevented Blair's immediate reply. The young
officer looked eagerly at the approaching craft, upon the bow of which a
dark-skinned man leaned carelessly against the wire-stays. He noticed
that the man was tall and straight. Upon his head a gaudy red cap rested
with a rakish air. His eyes were upon the Lang dock as he stood with
folded arms and waited for the boat to nose up to the near-by wharf.
Gregory admitted to himself that there was something masterful about the
red-capped stranger, at the same time, repellent. The crowd of aliens
moreover, he noticed, fell away respectfully. The newcomer was evidently
a personage in the community.
Gregory, watching him as he stepped from the launch, instinctively
disliked him.
"That's Mascola."
Blair bit the words savagely.
Gregory surveyed the newcomer with interest.
"He has a boat," he said. "Let's go over and get it."
Blair put out a restraining hand.
"There would be no use," he said. "Mascola wouldn't let us have that
boat to save our lives."
Gregory was already on his way to the Italian dock. Blair started to
overtake him. Then he glanced down the bay and his face brightened.
"Wait," he called. "Here comes one of Lang's boats now. Perhaps they
will know something."
With the approach of the second fishing-boat came a crowd of curious
fishing folk of all nationalities. Men, women and children clustered
about the dock, imbued with a lust for excitement and a morbid desire to
learn the worst from the latest mystery of the sea. All eyes were held
by the fishing-boat as it swung about and drew near the float.
Blair shoved his way through the crowd and led Gregory down the gangway.
Upon the covered hatch of the launch Blair's eye caught sight of two
rolls of canvas, fashioned bundle-like. Nets most likely. He looked
eagerly at the fishermen aboard the incoming craft. Their faces caused
him to look again at the canvas bundles. Then he turned quickly to the
man by his side.
"Why not wait on the wharf until they come up?" he asked in a low voice
in which he strove to conceal his agitation.
Kenneth Gregory shook his head. He too had noticed the bundles on the
hatch.
In silence the launch tied up to the fleet. In silence two bare-footed
fishermen lifted one of the bundles and carrying it carefully between
them, stepped out upon the gently rocking float. The salt-stiffened
canvas unrolled as the men laid their burden down, exposing the body of
a huge fisherman. His face was battered and bruised and Gregory noticed
that his hair was red.
Blair's hand on Gregory's arm tightened.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "It's Lang."
Kenneth Gregory looked down into the face of the big fisherman. Then he
remembered the other bundle. Blair sought to deter him. But he was too
late to check the onward rush of the young man across the float. Already
he was boarding the boat. Blair watched him raise the flap of canvas.
Saw his eyes searching the folds beneath. At length came voices. A man
was speaking.
"Found them off Diablo. Went on the rocks at Hell-Hole in the fog. Boat
was smashed. Bu'sted clean in two."
Gregory scarcely heard them as he knelt on the hatch looking down into
the face of the one he had traveled seven thousand miles to see.
Blair led him away. As the little procession moved silently down the
dock the crowd parted respectfully. Eyes that were hard, softened.
Fishermen took off their hats, holding them awkwardly in their red
hands. Fisherwomen looked down at the rough boards and crossed
themselves devoutly.
The cortège passed on. Turning from the dock they threaded their way
down the narrow street leading to the town. As they neared the alien
docks, the dusky fishermen uncovered and drew together, awed by the
presence of the great shadow.
Gregory's arm brushed against a man leaning carelessly against the
wharf-rail. Raising his eyes from the ground, he beheld the one man of
all the villagers who had remained unmoved, unsoftened by the spectacle.
With his red cap shoved back upon his shining black hair the insolent
stranger stood looking on with folded arms. Gregory noticed that Mascola
had not even taken the trouble to remove the cigarette which hung damply
from his lips.
For an instant the two men looked deep into each other's eyes. Then the
procession passed on.
CHAPTER III
TANGLED THREADS
The death of his father hurled Kenneth Gregory into a new world--a world
of unfamiliar faces, of strange standards of value, of vastly different
problems--the world of business.
Kenneth Gregory had taken this world as he found it. There had been no
time to moralize upon the situation into which the spinning of the wheel
had plunged him. There was work to do.
Securing his discharge from the army he had turned to the task of
settling up his father's estate. The fact that he was the sole heir and
legal executor simplified matters. But there were complications. These
he had unraveled with the aid of Farnsworth, the attorney for the
estate. Then he had come to Legonia and found plenty to do.
Blair, the former manager of the Legonia Fish Cannery, had suffered an
attack of pneumonia and was ill at a neighboring sanitarium. From him he
could therefore learn nothing. The books of the company told him but
little more. Now he was going over the private papers in his father's
office.
"Are you the boss?"
Kenneth Gregory turned from his perusal of a file of letters and faced a
young man standing in the doorway. Gregory nodded.
"I'm the owner," he replied pleasantly, noting the well-worn,
much-patched service uniform of the stranger. "And for the time being,
boss. My manager is sick. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes. You can give me a job."
Gregory smiled at the frankness of the answer.
"I might at that," he said. "Can you speak Russian or Italian?"
The ex-soldier shook his head as Gregory went on:
"What I need more than anything else just now is an interpreter. I have
a lot of foreigners working outside cleaning up. I've been having to
make signs to them all morning."
The soldier's brow wrinkled.
"That's what they told me of this place in Centerville," he said. "They
said I was only wasting shoe-leather to come down here. That it was no
place for an American."
"Maybe they're right," Gregory cut in. Then he added: "However, we may
be able to change things. What can you do?"
The youth's face assumed a more cheerful expression. "I'm a mechanic by
trade," he answered. "I'll do anything right now."
"Know anything about marine motors?"
"Two or four cycle?"
Gregory pondered. 'Twas best to be on the safe side. "Both," he
answered.
The soldier shook his head. "You'll have to count me out on the two
cycles," he said. "Those little peanut-roasters and coffee-grinders are
new to me. Never had any experience with anything much but Unions and
Standards. That's what most of the fishermen have in their boats."
Gregory's face cleared.
"I may be able to take you on. I have a lot of motors which will need
looking after before long. In the meantime if you want to go to work
cleaning up the house, you can start any time you're ready. What do you
say?"
"I'll say you've hired a man. My name's Barnes."
Gregory extended his hand. "And mine is Gregory. When do you want to go
to work?"
"Right away."
Together the two men went out into the fish-laden atmosphere of the
cannery. Walking down the aisles, flanked on both sides by huge vats and
silent conveyers, they came upon a number of dark-skinned laborers
whiling away the time with a scant pretense of work. Stung into a
semblance of action by the sudden appearance of the boss, the men
abruptly postponed their conversation and tardily plied their scrubbing
brooms, meanwhile eying the newcomer with frank disapproval.
Leaving Barnes with the injunction to keep an eye on the men and, if
possible, induce them to speed up, Gregory returned to his work.
Passing through the outer office where he had met Mr. Blair upon the day
of his arrival from overseas, he entered the little room which Richard
Gregory had used for a private office. Opening a small safe which stood
in a corner, he resumed his examination of his father's papers.
In a vague sort of way he regarded his legacy of the Legonia Fish
Cannery as a trust. In the atmosphere of this room this feeling was
always enhanced, the trust more sacred. Here Richard Gregory had worked,
planned, worried. Every detail of the room spoke eloquently from father
to son. Here was begun an unfinished work. Richard Gregory had believed
in it; had given his life to it.
Farnsworth had said that the business had never paid. That his client
had purchased it directly against his advice and had continued to throw
good money after bad ever since. The lawyer advised selling at the first
good opportunity.
Kenneth Gregory absolutely refused to believe that his father had
failed. The business had not prospered. That was true. But doubtless
there were good and sufficient reasons. He continued his examination of
the contents of the safe, methodically going through the various
compartments and making notes concerning the papers found therein. At
length he came to a memorandum which held his attention. It was the
agreement his father had made with Lang to purchase ten fully-equipped
fishing-boats for the fisherman.
Gregory studied the penciled notes. His father had reposed untold
confidence in Lang's integrity. So much was shown by the loose
phraseology of the document and the extreme latitude given the fisherman
in compliance with its terms. That this confidence had evidently not
been misplaced, was evidenced by the promptness with which Lang met the
payments as they fell due.
Farnsworth, Gregory remembered, had regarded the chattel mortgage on
Lang's boats and equipment as a most doubtful asset. If Lang had left a
son the old lawyer had maintained, who would be competent to go on with
his father's work, the situation would have appeared in a more favorable
light.
But Lang had left no son. Only a daughter. And, to quote the reputable
Farnsworth, what chance would any man stand of getting anything out of a
woman on a loosely drawn contract like that? Figure it profit and loss,
my boy, he had concluded bruskly.
Like Farnsworth, Gregory too wished that Lang had left a son. It would
be easier dealing with a man, competent or incompetent, than a woman.
Well, he would say nothing to the girl for the time being at least. She
had had enough to bear in the loss of her father. That much he could
swear to. When she had defaulted the next payment he would make her a
proposition to buy her boats. Fishing was no business for a girl anyway.
He glanced at the schedule of dates arranged by Lang and his father for
making the payments and turned to the calendar. One of them was already
past due. Five hundred dollars should have been paid the week before.
So intent was Gregory upon his study of the contract that he failed to
hear the opening of the outer office door. His first intimation of the
presence of a visitor came with a sharp knock upon his half-open door.
"Come in," he called.
A wind-bronzed fisherman stood upon the threshold, dangling a red cap in
his hand. He bowed gracefully and smiled.
"You are Mr. Gregory?"
Gregory nodded, trying to remember where he had seen the man before.
Suddenly he remembered. It was on the day his father's body had been
brought in. Near the alien wharf a man had jostled against him. A man
with a bright red cap, smoking a cigarette.
"I am Mascola."
The visitor spoke the words slowly as if anxious that none of the
importance of the introduction might be lost or passed over lightly.
Gregory looked Mascola over carefully. The man's carelessness and
seeming irreverence on that never-to-be-forgotten day might not have
been intentional. He must not allow his prejudice to interfere with his
judgment. That was not business. He resolved to hear what the man had to
say.
"What do you want?" he asked bluntly.
Mascola walked unbidden to a chair and seated himself before replying:
"You will want fish before long, Mr. Gregory. I would like to contract
for my men to get them for you."
Gregory was nettled by Mascola's calm assurance. He had a mind to send
him packing. Blair, he remembered, had evidently had but little use for
the Italian. But Blair too might have been prejudiced. It was business
perhaps to hear the man's proposal.
"What is your proposition?" he asked, hoping Mascola would be brief.
In this he was not disappointed. Mascola plunged his hand into the
pocket of his vest and drew forth a paper which he placed in Gregory's
hand.
Gregory ran his eye hastily over the typewritten sheet which contained
the memorandum of four numbered clauses. They were briefly worded and to
the point:
1. The fishermen to furnish albacore, tuna and sardines
at the same price paid by the Golden Rule Cannery.
2. The cannery to assume complete liability for all
boats and equipment used by the fishermen in providing
fish for it.
3. The cannery to agree to pay all fines, state and
federal, for any violation of fishing or navigation
laws.
4. The cannery to agree, under bonds, to hire no men who
are not members of the fishermen's union.
Gregory looked up to meet Mascola's dark eyes regarding him intently.
"That is all," said the Italian boss.
"It's enough," commented Gregory tersely, striving to hold his temper in
check at the impudence of Mascola's proposal. Any one of the four
clauses he realized would be amply sufficient to throw him into
bankruptcy. The first would place him in the hands of his local
competitor, a Slavonian. The last would deliver all that was left to the
fisherman's union, also foreigners. By the second clause his property
would be placed in jeopardy to protect the carelessness or incompetence
of others, aliens all. And the third, Gregory did not clearly
understand. To satisfy his curiosity he asked:
"What do you mean by the cannery agreeing to pay the fines?"
Mascola smiled pityingly, exposing a fine set of even teeth.
"You are a stranger here. I forgot. So you do not know that it is
necessary for fishermen to break the law sometimes to get fish. The
canneries must have them. They ask no questions. If we can get them
without breaking the laws it is so much the better. But sometimes when
you have steam up you want fish very bad. Then you say, Mascola, I must
have fish. Well, I get them for you. There are always fish to be caught
in some way or other. They are worth a good deal to you at such a time.
Why should you not pay for the extra risk we run in getting them?"
It was Gregory's turn to smile.
"Rather ingenious," he commented. "Do you find it necessary to go to
such extremes often?"
Mascola sensed the sarcasm. A faint flush crept to his dark cheeks. He
began to suspect that the young man was not taking either him or his
proposition seriously. Perhaps he had said too much. He answered the
question with one word.
"No."
Gregory studied Mascola's face and his smile faded. His irritation at
the Italian's entrance had at first given place to amusement at the
absurdity of the man's proposal. Now came again the feeling of dislike
which had assailed him on the occasion of his first meeting with
Mascola.
"Mascola," he said, "I'll keep your proposition in mind. That is just
about all I ever will do with it, I guess, though I'll talk it over with
Blair."
The Italian frowned at the mention of Blair. He had supposed Blair to be
gone. Had not Rossi reported the departure of the former manager more
than a month ago? Blair would be a stumbling-block to his scheme. Blair
knew too much. Mascola realized that he had been too confident. He felt,
moreover, that he had made a fool of himself. Had not the young man
smiled? His anger mounted at the recollection. He rose quickly, fighting
it down.
"All right, Mr. Gregory," he said smoothly. "I make my proposition. I
come to you this time. You do not accept. It is all right. Next time you
come to me."
Bowing slightly and smiling to hide his anger, he went out.
Gregory turned again to his work, but found it hard to keep his mind
from the Italian's veiled threat. It angered him. Mascola had appeared
so sure of his ground. His irritation grew as his eye fell again on the
Lang contract. If he only had some one with whom he could talk. Some one
who knew something about fishing or running a cannery. Some one who
would understand what he was up against. His father evidently had few if
any confidants. If he had only left some written word.
From the cannery came the sound of excited voices, a jargon of
unintelligible words. Gregory sprang to his feet and hurried out. He met
Mascola coming to meet him. Behind him trooped the alien laborers.
The Italian stopped abruptly and threw out his arm with a dramatic
gesture. Pointing in the direction of the solitary soldier who stood
staring with open mouth, he said: "My men, they do not work with scabs,
Mr. Gregory. You let that man go, or they quit."
"Let them quit."
Gregory spoke quickly and tried to smile. Losing his temper would not
help matters. That wasn't business.
Mascola spoke rapidly to the men in their own tongue, waving his arms
and rolling his eyes. Gregory noticed that every one seemed to be
getting excited. With scowling faces, the alien laborers grouped
themselves about their leader and glared at the offending soldier and
his boss.
Gregory checked a quick impulse forcibly to show Mascola the door. It
was the right of every man to refuse to work if the job was not to his
liking. There was, however, nothing to get excited over. He turned to
Mascola.
"Tell your men to come into the office and get their money," he said.
His quiet manner disappointed the Italian boss. He had hoped for a
scene. An argument at least. His men expected more of him than this.
Gregory had calmly turned his back upon him and was walking away.
Mascola could stand no more.
"All right, Gregory," he called. "You go ahead and hire a scab crew.
Then you'll find out you're the same damn fool as your father."
Gregory whirled. Mascola's hand leaped to his side, burying itself in
the folds of his shirt. Before he could bring it out, Kenneth Gregory
was upon him.
His fist caught Mascola full on the chin. The Italian's head snapped
backward. His feet shot forward. He clutched at the air for support and
strove to regain his balance. Then he fell to the floor, rolled over
like a cat, and rebounded to his feet, snarling.
Gregory heard a warning cry from Barnes: "Look out! He's got a knife."
Barnes looked vainly about for a weapon as he ran to his employer's
assistance.
The laborers pressed closer, their brown hands fingering their belts,
their faces dark with passion. Hemmed in on every side by the scowling
aliens, Gregory took a step forward and stood waiting.
Mascola advanced warily with peculiar sideling steps. His face was a
mottled gray save in one place where his chin was flecked with blood.
His left arm was extended guard-wise. His right was crooked loosely to
his side, fingers covered. He crouched low and gathered.
Gregory measured the distance which separated him from the advancing
Italian. Faintly to his ears came the sound of creaking boards behind
him. Perhaps Mascola's men were pressing in from the rear. He dared not
look to see. His eyes were held by Mascola's crooked arm. That was what
he must grab and break.
Mascola's dark eyes, shining with anger, flashed over Gregory's shoulder
to the door beyond. Then they widened with surprise. He stopped
suddenly. His extended arm drooped. For an instant he stood hesitating,
wavering. He took a step backward. His crooked arm unbent, dropped
slowly to his side.
His eyes were held by the open door.
CHAPTER IV
THE WORK OF THEIR FATHERS
"Drop it, Mascola."
The sharp command drew the eyes of the laborers to the door and they
stopped fingering their knives. Shuffling closer together they looked to
their leader for guidance.
Mascola's eyes darted about the floor, coming to rest upon a big vat
only a few feet away. For an instant he hesitated. A faint metallic
click from the doorway caused him to make up his mind. His body
straightened as his hands traveled upward to the level of his shoulders.
The palm of his right hand opened and a thin two-edged blade rattled to
the floor.
Gregory took a step forward and shoved the knife away with his foot.
Keeping one eye fixed warily upon Mascola, he shot a glance over his
shoulder to determine the author of the interruption.
He turned to see a trim little figure in loosely-fitting outing clothes
striding across the floor. Facing the light which streamed in from the
open door, he could not distinguish the newcomer's face. He only noted
the ease of the stranger's movements, the poise of the uptilted head and
the nervous manner with which the Italians fell away before the
advancing figure.
"What's the trouble?"
Gregory stared. It was a girl. She had turned into the light and was
facing him. As he formed an answer to her question he saw that her
sun-bronzed cheeks were flushed with red and her clear brown eyes were
looking into his inquiringly. In her hand she held an automatic
revolver.
Gregory strove to make his explanation brief.
"These men refused to work. I told them to go. Mascola and I had some
trouble. He drew his knife. Then you came."
The girl nodded, dislodging a lock of red-gold hair from under her
knitted cap. Turning quickly to Mascola, she commanded: "Get out."
Mascola made no sign that he intended to comply with the order. With
folded arms he looked insolently at the speaker.
"When my men are paid, I will go. But first, I must have my knife."
His eyes roved longingly in the direction of the dagger.
The girl took a quick step backward and covered Mascola's waist-line
with the automatic.
"You'll go now," she said. Turning to Gregory she added: "Tell him
you'll pay him down-town."
Gregory picked up the Italian's knife before replying:
"I'll be at the bank at two," he said, making no move to comply with
Mascola's request for his weapon.
Mascola clenched his hands. His face grew red with passion. For an
instant he glared from Gregory to the girl. Then the color faded.
Turning to his men he spoke rapidly to them in their own tongue. The
workmen retired sullenly and picking up their coats followed their
leader to the door. Mascola hesitated for a moment on the threshold.
Then, checking the angry threat which rose to his lips, he went out.
Gregory watched him go in silence. Then he turned to the girl.
"My name is Gregory," he said. "You happened along just about right for
me."
The tense lines about the girl's mouth disappeared slowly as she passed
a small brown hand across her forehead and replaced a truant lock.
"I am Dickie Lang," she announced simply. Shoving the automatic into her
coat pocket, she extended her hand. "I knew your father well. I am glad
to meet you."
The frankness of the words was strengthened by the look of sincerity in
the brown eyes as she stood calmly looking him over.
Gregory curbed his surprise with an effort which left him staring at the
girl in awkward silence. When he had thought of Lang's daughter at all,
it had been only in the most abstract way. He had regarded her only a
possible and very probable source of trouble, scarcely as a flesh and
blood woman at all. Never a girl like this.
He wakened to the fact that he was a very stupid host. Barnes, after
staring at Dickie Lang for a moment, had retired to his work, leaving
Gregory alone with his guest in the middle of the receiving floor.
"Won't you come into the office?"
The words came hesitatingly. He nodded in the direction of the
screen-door.
"Yes. I would like to talk with you."
Again the direct straightforward manner of speaking. Dickie Lang started
at once for the office, walking across the floor with quick impatient
steps. Gregory held the door open and as the girl brushed by him, he saw
her flash a glance to the door of his father's office beyond. He led the
way in silence to the room where he had been working and waited for his
visitor to be seated.
Dickie Lang's eyes roved swiftly about the room, taking in the familiar
details. Nothing had been changed. She could see her father leaning
against the desk, his great shoulders hunched forward, his big hands
nervously toying with the glass paper-weight, his blue eyes fixed upon
the silent figure in the swivel-chair. Again she could hear the voice of
Richard Gregory:
"All right, Bill. I'll see you through. Go ahead and get the boats."
Dickie realized with a start that the square-jawed, black-eyed young man
before her was Richard Gregory's son. The past faded away. With simple
directness she plunged into the object of her visit.
"I've brought the money due on the boats. Got into a squabble with the
markets and they tied me up for a few days. Otherwise I would have been
here sooner."
Thrusting her hand into her pocket, she drew out a roll of bills and
began to count them.
Gregory watched her as she thumbed the bank-notes. The dark brown
corduroy was simply, if mannishly cut, and in a way it became her. Her
small feet and rounded ankles would have appeared to better advantage in
high-heeled shoes and silk stockings than those blunt-nosed boots and
canvas leggings. And why in the name of common sense would any woman
with hair like that want to keep it tucked away under a close-fitting
cap? She would have been beautiful in---- He roused himself from his
examination of the girl's attire and strove to fix his mind on the
object of her visit. He reached for the receipt-book as she finished
counting the money.
"Tenth payment," she exclaimed. "Five hundred. Makes twelve thousand
even. That right?"
Gregory ran over the money, consulting his notebook to verify the
figures.
"Right," he answered.
While he wrote the receipt she studied him. So this was the man whom
Richard Gregory had designated as a red-blooded American. The father's
praise of his absent son, she was forced to admit, had slightly
prejudiced her against the young man. No single individual could possess
all the sterling traits of character attributed to him by the late
cannery owner. That was impossible. He would fall down somewhere.
Gregory handed the girl her receipt.
"And now," he began, somewhat uncertain as to just how to proceed, "what
do you intend to do about the boats?"
Dickie Lang paused in the act of folding the paper and looked up
quickly. For some reason she felt herself irritated by the question. Her
irritation crept into her voice as she answered:
"I'm going to run them, of course."
Gregory straightened in his chair and faced about.
"You're going to run them?" he repeated. "You don't mean yourself?"
"Sure. What else would I do with them?" she asked coldly.
The man was caught for the moment unawares by the suddenness of the
question.
"I thought perhaps you would want to sell them," he answered bluntly.
"Why?" Her voice had a belligerent ring and he noticed that her eyes
were snapping. As he did not immediately reply, she flashed: "I know
why. It's because I'm a woman. You think I can't make good. Isn't that
it?"
Gregory felt his cheeks burn at the feeling she threw into her words.
He hadn't meant to make it quite so plain but if she insisted on the
truth, why not? Perhaps it was the best way.
"You've guessed it," he answered slowly. "You may call it prejudice if
you like, but that is just the way I feel."
Tapping the floor angrily with her foot, she interrupted:
"It's worse than prejudice. It's just plain damn-foolishness. Honestly,
after all I've heard of you, I gave you credit for having more sense.
Your father wouldn't have said that. He believed there wasn't a thing in
the world a man or woman couldn't do, if they tried hard enough. And he
gave them the chance to make good. But I'll tell you right now, you've
got a lot to learn before you'll be able to wear his hat."
Gregory sank deeper into his chair as Dickie Lang proceeded with his
arraignment. Nothing could be said until she was through. His silence
gave the girl a free rein to express her feelings.
"You think I don't know my game because I'm a woman. Why, I've been on
the sea since I was a kid. If my father hadn't made me go to school, I
would have lived with him on the water. And don't you suppose in fishing
with a man like Bill Lang, a person learns something? Doesn't that more
than make up for the handicap of being a woman?"
The young man waited for a chance to put in a word but none came.
Becoming angrier each minute, she hurried on:
"There isn't a man in Legonia but you who would have said that. Not even
Mascola. He hates me only because I do know my business. And you, a
stranger, come down here and tell me----"
"I didn't say you didn't know your business," Gregory interjected as she
drew a long breath.
"No, but you thought it just the same. And what right have you to think
things like that? What do you know about things here? You never saw the
place until just a few weeks ago. And you've been gone ever since. I'll
bet you were never in a fish cannery before in your life. I'll bet right
now you don't know what you're going to do next. You're waiting for
Blair to get well and tell you. Suppose he doesn't. He's a mighty sick
man and it's a cinch if he does come back it won't be for a long time.
What are you going to do in the meantime besides tell me I don't----"
Gregory held up his hand to check a further outburst.
"Listen," he said. "There is no use going on like this. Our fathers were
the best of friends. Why can't we be the same? I'm willing to admit
there is a lot of truth in what you say about my not knowing just what
I'm going to do right now. I didn't select the position I'm in, but I'm
going to make the best of things as they are and finish up the work
which was begun by my father. And I want to say right now that I'm going
to finish it.
"In a way," he went on slowly, "our positions are somewhat similar. We
each have a job to finish. I didn't think yours meant as much to you as
mine does to me, though of course I might have, if I hadn't been
thinking so much of myself. Our fathers worked together and got along
fine. It may be that we can do the same thing."
The fire died slowly from the girl's eyes. In its place there came an
expression, more wistful perhaps than anything else. When she spoke
again the irritation was gone from her voice.
"No," she answered. "There isn't any reason why we can't be friends. And
there are a lot of reasons why we should be. I'm willing to do my part
and I'll show you, Mr. Gregory, that I do know my business. It always
makes me mad when any one thinks I don't know the sea. When dad wanted
to tease me he always called me a 'land-lubber.' And even when a kid I
would always fight at that."
She paused a moment. Then went on:
"I'd like to do what I can for you for two reasons. Your father did a
lot for mine. He was one of my few friends. I'd like to give his son a
hand if it would help. In the second place, it is to my interest in a
business way to see your cannery succeed. It is a market for my fish. I
won't sell to the Golden Rule and the dealers won't pay the express on
canning fish. The sooner you start up the better it will be for me. I
can tell you right now you have a lot to do."
Again she paused and looked down at her feet. When she spoke again it
was with some hesitation.
"If I were you I'd get hold of Jack McCoy. He can do more for you than
any one else. I wouldn't count too much on Blair. I heard from him this
morning and they didn't hold out much hope. He's completely run down and
that's the kind pneumonia hits hard."
Gregory nodded.
"I know," he said. Then he asked: "McCoy was the foreman, wasn't he?"
"Yes. He's still in town. Blair gave him a letter of recommendation but
Jack won't look for another job until he knows what Blair is going to
do. He says Blair taught him all he knows and he's going to stick to him
because he always treated him white."
Gregory wrote McCoy's address which the girl supplied and she continued:
"One of the first things to be done, of course, will be to go all over
the machinery. That won't take long. Then the supplies and material will
have to be checked over and the new stuff ordered. That will take a week
for two men."
Gregory looked at the girl with more respect. Apparently she knew
something of his business as well as her own. Doubtless her association
with her father had brought her into close touch with the cannery. As
she went on, Dickie Lang divulged the source of her information.
"Jack and I have talked you over a lot," she said soberly. "We are both
anxious to see you get going."
While she talked on concerning the re-opening of the cannery, Gregory
wondered to what extent her opinion of McCoy's ability was based by
personal prejudice. Of course it was nothing to him what Dickie Lang
thought of McCoy or of himself either, for that matter. He decided to
look McCoy up at once.
"Then you have to get your labor," she went on. "And that isn't as easy,
I have found, as it seems. You see Mascola has the bulge on the labor
situation around here. He has the riff-raff of the world on his
pay-roll. They speak in a dozen different languages. Everything
almost--but English. They are practically all aliens and there is
nothing they won't do to keep a decent man out. Blair had hard work to
get a crew, I know, and harder work to keep it. He was always hiring and
firing. Things would go all right for a while. Then there would come a
row with Mascola's outfit and a lot of the boys would get disgusted and
leave."
Gregory interrupted:
"I understand from my father's attorney, that one of the biggest things
he had to contend with was the matter of getting fish."
"I'm coming to that in a minute. Let's finish up the labor question
while we're on it. You've got to get a certain number of skilled men who
can handle the machines. With a few others who have worked in a fish
cannery you can go ahead, for the biggest percentage of your labor is
unskilled anyway and has to be broken in. Men like that are the hardest
to get," she concluded, "they are mostly tramps. Here to-day and gone
to-morrow. You can't depend on them. If you can get a bunch to stick,
you're mighty lucky."
She paused and moved her chair nearer. Then she broached the important
subject.
"About the fish, you can do one of three things. Or rather two things,"
she corrected, "for I hardly think you'll tie up with Mascola. You can
fix up your own boats, try to man them and get your own fish. You have
twenty-five boats. That's not enough even if they were all in good
shape, which they're not."
"What do you mean by trying to man my boats?"
The girl smiled.
"Just what I say," she answered. "Fishermen are scarce. My father was in
business here for twenty years and most of the time he was running
short-handed. You can get plenty of men to ride on your boats but they
are not fishermen."
Noting the direction in which the conversation was drifting, Gregory
resolved to hasten the climax.
"Do you think you could furnish me with enough fish?" he asked bluntly.
"I don't think anything about it. I know I could."
"How do you know it?"
She hesitated as she cast about in her active brain for a tangible
argument to convince the obstinate, square-jawed man before her. Of
course she could get him the fish. But how could she make him believe
it?
"My fishermen know the coast for one thing," she began. "That's a whole
lot around here. It's a treacherous shore-line and a man who doesn't
know it can lose a boat mighty easy. Then, I have ten new boats, just
the kind you have to have for albacore and tuna. As a general rule
you've got to go way out to sea to get them. Sometimes as far as Diablo.
And that means trouble. If you've ever been out to that God-forsaken
island you'll understand that it takes real men and boats. I have both."
Gregory said nothing, but waited for the girl to finish:
"I know my game," she concluded, with no spirit of bravado, but merely
as if it was only a plain statement of fact. "My men are used to holding
their own against Mascola. And I can tell you that is worth a lot."
Gregory nodded. Then he said quietly:
"Your father was never able to supply mine with enough fish to keep this
cannery going. Isn't that right?"
Dickie Lang was forced to admit the truth of the statement. Then she
qualified: "He hadn't had the big boats but a few months and they had a
run of bad luck from the start."
Gregory considered her words carefully.
"Would you be willing to enter into a contract with me to keep the
cannery supplied with fish?" he asked, watching her closely. For the
first time he saw her show signs of receding from her original position.
Dickie Lang hesitated. Her fear of legal entanglements was hereditary.
Bill Lang had settled his differences out of court and had warned his
daughter on more than one occasion of the dangers which lurked in a
contract. She shook her head. What did she know of this man, save the
fact that he bore his father's name?
"No," she answered, feeling, however, that she had weakened her previous
statement by refusing to make it legally binding.
"Why not?"
The girl realized that their positions were becoming reversed. It was
she now who was on the defensive.
"Because," she answered slowly, "I wouldn't." Ashamed that she had given
the proverbial reason for feminine change of mind, she added quickly:
"You see you may be all right. And then again you may not. I'd like a
chance to size you up first."
Gregory smiled. "That was what I thought about you at the beginning of
our talk," he said. His face became instantly serious. "We'll just have
to size each other up before we can actually get down to cases. Isn't
that the truth?"
She nodded. "Yes. You think I can't make good."
"And you just don't know about me," Gregory finished for her. Then he
added: "How are we going to find out about each other?"
Dickie regarded him gravely.
"The ocean is the best test for a man or a woman that I know. It doesn't
play any favorites. When a girl goes out there all 'dolled-up' it washes
off the paint and powder and shows her up for just what she is. And it
shows a man up too. It's always waiting for him to make some mistake.
When he does, he has to think and act at the same time. He can't hedge
or make excuses. He's got to pay or play. A quitter has no chance with
the sea."
Observing him closely, she concluded: "I could tell more about you on
the sea in a minute than I could find out in here in a month."
"And I could find out whether or not I thought you knew your business."
They laughed together.
"I'll be ready any time."
Dickie was on her feet at his words.
"To-morrow morning then, at four o'clock. Meet me at our dock and I'll
show you I know what I'm talking about."
Gregory promised and the girl hurried out.
For some time the young cannery owner scratched busily at the pad of
paper before him, jotting down the substance of his interview with
Dickie Lang. Passing through the cannery he came upon the solitary
remnant of his floor force whom he had forgotten for the time being.
"I'm going down-town for a few minutes, Barnes. If anybody asks for me,
tell them I'll be back in half an hour."
The ex-soldier's eyes brightened at the sight of his employer.
"Say, Mr. Gregory, you took me on quick and stayed by me, and I don't
want you to think I don't appreciate it, for I do. Now that you've
canned the other gang, I wonder if there'd be any chance for a couple of
my pals. We've been drifting around together and their shoes is worn out
same as mine."
"What can they do?"
"One of them's a chauffeur. He ain't afraid of nothin'. And he can drive
anything on wheels. The other one's a steam-fitter by trade, but he'll
be glad to nurse a broom or anything else right now."
Gregory was on the point of telling Barnes to wait until he had
conferred with McCoy when he noticed the peculiar manner with which his
employee held his broom.
"What's the matter with your arm?" he asked quietly.
Barnes tapped the member in question and regarded him somewhat
doubtfully.
"Nothin'," he said.
Gregory stepped nearer and examined the shoulder carefully.
"Why didn't you tell me your arm had been hurt?" he asked in a low
voice.
Barnes met his eyes squarely.
"Because I was afraid it would queer me for a job," he said. "You see,
Gregory, when a man hires a fellow he figures he's all there. He kind of
rents him all over and when he's shy on somethin', he kind of figures
the fellow's holding back on him. I didn't want to slip anything over on
you. Because you were white to me from the start. But I was afraid when
you saw my pin was faked you might change your mind."
Gregory's eyes were fixed intently on the soldier as he went on:
"You see I got my insurance. But that ain't enough. My old man died
while I was away. And my mother ain't any too well. So I just lets her
have the money. But that ain't all there is to it. You see when a
fellow's worked and hit the ball, he don't want to lay round and loaf."
Still Gregory said nothing, and Barnes, misconstruing his silence,
continued:
"It's wonderful what a fellow can do with what the doctors leave him
when they get through cuttin'. You ought to go up to Port Angeles and
see what the Bureau's teaching the poor blind devils. It kind of seems
like their eyes goes into their arms and legs, for they can do more with
them now than they ever thought of doing before they lost their lamps."
He extended his good arm and flexed the muscles until they stood out
like lumps of whip-cord. "Look at that," he exclaimed. "They's twice the
pep in that one since they hacked up the other one. You don't need to be
afraid of me not doing a day's work. I----"
"Are there many of the boys out of work?" Gregory found his voice at
last.
Barnes nodded.
"Scads of 'em. Some of them went back to their old jobs. Some of them
found 'em gone and they was others that couldn't cut it like they used
to. The government's tryin' to land 'em all jobs. But it's slow."
Gregory turned slowly about and retraced his steps in the direction of
the office. Then he remembered Barnes's request.
"You can tell your friends to come along," he said.
Barnes ran after him.
"Say," he exclaimed, "I forgot to tell you. One of 'em's leg's a little
stiff and the other one's shy an eye."
Gregory whirled about.
"They've got brains and hearts left, haven't they?" he challenged. "Tell
them to come along."
Walking rapidly to the office he entered and closed the door. When
Barnes came in at quitting time the room was thick with smoke. In the
center of the smoke-screen Gregory sat at a small table, hammering away
at a typewriter. On a near-by chair, the ex-soldier caught a glimpse of
a colored poster, glaringly captioned:
JOBS FOR SOLDIERS
Shutting the door softly behind him he withdrew, smiling to himself.
CHAPTER V
THE WAY OF THE GULL
Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.
The alarm-clock announced the hour imperiously, triumphantly, the
importance of the day being manifest in its resonant warning.
Kenneth Gregory leaped from his bed and hastily donned a brand-new suit
of overalls. A young man's first business engagement was not lightly to
be passed over. Particularly when it promised a chance for excitement
and new adventure. He dressed quickly and hurried out into the street.
With difficulty he stumbled through the dark streets and groped his way
along the water-front to the Lang wharf. All about him was darkness,
opaque and impenetrable.
"You're early."
Gregory found himself blinking into the white light of an electric
torch. By his side stood Dickie Lang.
"Yes," he answered. "Wasn't sure whether my clock was right so I set it
half an hour ahead."
Still holding him in the rays of the light, the girl examined him
critically.
"All right but your shoes," she announced. "You'll break your neck in
those leather soles. I'll see if I can rustle a pair of tennis-shoes."
She vanished suddenly and a moment later he saw her light fall upon the
burly figures of three bare-footed fishermen shuffling along the dock.
She greeted the men familiarly.
"Got that coil for you, Tom. Cache it this time where those thieving
devils won't beat you to it. Coils are hard to get right now. Bill,
you'd better run down Lucas way and scout around for barracuda. They
were beginning to hit in there strong this time last year. How's the
baby? I phoned to town last night for that medicine I told you about.
They said they'd shoot it out on the first mail."
As she spoke Gregory saw other shadows draw near and hover for a moment
in the circle of light. From the hillside above the town lights gleamed
from the windows of the fishing colony, the intervening spaces of
darkness narrowing second by second until the village stood out like a
great checker-board of lights and shadows. Against the background of
lights he could see the slender figure of the girl passing among the
huge fishermen who towered like giants above her. Radiating energy
wherever she went, criticizing some, commending others and joking away
the early-morning grouch, she directed the movements of the constantly
increasing stream of men who thronged the dock and despatched the boats
one by one into the darkness.
When she returned to Gregory's side for a moment she held in her hand a
tattered pair of rubber-soled shoes. "They're better than nothing," she
explained. "When you are a full-fledged fisherman you won't need shoes.
You'll get so you can use your toes like fingers and----"
The rays of her flash-light, which swept the wharf as she spoke,
suddenly brought into view the figure of a man lunging unsteadily along
the dock. Leaving her sentence unfinished, she was by his side in an
instant.
"Nothing doing, Jack. Go home and go to bed. I know all about your
wife's sick aunt. No time to listen now. If you're sober by afternoon
you can go out with the boys drifting."
The fisherman started to expostulate but she had already left him.
Mumbling that she didn't know what sickness was, he stumbled obediently
away in the direction of the shore.
"He's been drunk since Tuesday," she announced as she rejoined Gregory.
"Too bad, too. Best man I've got in shallow water. You ought to see him
handle a dory in the surf."
Again the light picked out a newcomer who stood hesitating a few feet
away. "What's the trouble, Pete? Why aren't you on the job?"
"I've got to have more money." The words were spoken boldly and in a
tone which drew the attention of all about. A number of fishermen
shuffled nearer the speaker and ranged themselves beyond the circle of
light within easy hearing distance.
"You want more money," Dickie Lang repeated slowly. "Well about the only
reason I could ever think of for paying you any more would be for your
nerve in asking for it. Why, I've lost more through your carelessness
since you've been on the job than I could make on you in six months. The
first shot out of the box you let a piece of barracuda-webbing go adrift
and Mascola's gang picked it up right before your eyes and you never
cheeped. Then you put one of my motors on the blink because you were too
lazy to watch the oil-feed. Where do you think I get off? How long could
I run this outfit if all my men were like you? Take a brace and come
alive, Pete. That's the way to get more money out of me or any one else.
The harder you hit the ball the more you'll get. I don't want to hog it
all. The boys will tell you I shoot square."
The fisherman slunk sullenly away and joined his companions. Dickie Lang
turned again to Gregory.
"That's one of the things I'm up against," she exclaimed in a low voice.
"That fellow is a regular agitator. Talking is his long suit. Why, he
didn't even know how to throw a bowline when he hit in here, flat broke
and down on his uppers. I've taught him all he knows. And now he's
trying to start something. If men weren't so scarce I'd can him in a
minute."
Gregory watched the fleet embark, marveling at the manner in which the
burly fishermen took orders from a mere slip of a girl. How it must go
against their grain, he thought, to be bossed about by a woman. The
last of the boats had cleared before the youthful commodore prepared to
follow.
"Let's go," she exclaimed impatiently. "We're late now. Mascola's outfit
cleared two hours ago."
Leading the way she took Gregory aboard a small fishing vessel which
waited at the float below. The motor started the instant their feet
touched the deck and a gruff voice growled:
"We've got to go some to make the point by daybreak."
The girl nodded to the dark form at the wheel.
"You said it, Tom. Mascola's gang are mighty near down there by now."
She cast off the lines and jumped again to the boat as the little craft
backed from the slip and headed down the bay. While the boat gained
headway under the rapid pulse of the powerful motor, she explained:
"Got a string of nets off Long Point. Just put them out yesterday. But
I've a pretty good idea we'll load up. That is unless Mascola tries to
sew us up. One of his fishing captains was cruising round last night
when I left the set."
"But if you had your nets out first," Gregory began.
A low laugh from the girl interrupted him. "You don't know how Mascola
does business," she said. "Listen, I'll tell you. Did you ever notice
them throw garbage overboard from the deck of a steamer and see one lone
gull flying in her wake? The minute he squawks and swoops down to pick
it up there's a hundred of them come from all points of the compass to
fight it out with him for the spoils. Well, Mascola's men are just like
that. We may spot the fish first. We generally do. But that doesn't make
the slightest bit of difference to Mascola. It only saves him the
trouble. When our nets are out and he sees we're getting a good haul, he
lays around us and cuts us off. Do you get the idea?"
Gregory nodded vaguely.
"But can't you do something?" he asked. "I should think----"
Again the girl laughed. "You bet I can do something," she snapped. "You
just watch me. That's what I brought you out here for this morning. If
those devils try to lay around me, I'll show them a thing or two. I wish
we had an earlier start though," she concluded. "They've got the best of
it by a couple of hours."
Through the darkness they raced to the open sea. The cool morning breeze
blew briskly in their faces and Gregory noticed they were overhauling a
few of the stragglers.
"It oughtn't to take you long to catch up with them at this clip," he
said admiringly. "Are all of your boats as fast as this one?"
"If they were it would break me up," the girl answered. "The _Petrel's_
my flag ship. She's a gas-hog, but she can travel. She has fifty horse,
and built on the lines she is, there aren't many of them around here
that can make her run in their wake. Only two in fact," she added.
"Mascola's speed-boat and Rossi's fleet-tender."
"Who is Rossi?"
"Mascola's fishing captain. Next to his boss and old Rock, one of the
biggest crooks in town. He knows his business though," she supplemented
half-admiringly, "and is a good man for Mascola."
"Who's Rock?" asked Gregory.
The girl faced about suddenly.
"Rock's the big man of a little town. He's in everything. The further
you go without meeting with him the better off you'll be. He's president
of the bank, the Rock Commercial Company and several other concerns. He
owns the controlling interest in the Golden Rule Cannery besides. He has
a finger in everything. He's a mighty busy man. But he's never too busy
to meddle with other people's business. At least he tried to in mine."
Her teeth snapped in a vicious click.
A number of questions crowded to Gregory's mind, as they crossed the
jettied inlet and headed down the coast. He asked them in rapid-fire
order.
"How many boats have you?"
"Twenty-five. Using sixteen to-day."
"Why don't you run them all?"
"Can't get the men. That is, good ones. I'm hiring and firing all the
time. Paying thirty-eight now and that leaves me short-handed even with
the boats I'm working."
"How many boats has Mascola?"
The girl was silent for a moment. Then she answered:
"Can't say. Somewhere about fifty, maybe more. It's hard to check him
up. His boats cruise a long way out and some of them don't put in to
Legonia at all."
"What kind of fish are you catching now?"
"Halibut mostly, some barracuda. Haven't tried for sardines or albacore
since your cannery shut down."
The _Petrel_ rolled lazily in the trough of the swell as she sped down
the coast. Suddenly the darkness ahead was blurred by an indistinct
shape and the man at the wheel put the vessel over sharply. As he did so
he narrowly escaped a collision with an unlighted boat which loomed
directly across their bow.
"Trawler fishing within the three-mile limit without lights," the girl
explained to her passenger.
Gregory remembered Dickie Lang's words concerning alien interference. He
knew that running without lights was illegal. Why was the law not
enforced?
In answer to his question, the girl burst out: "You just wait. I
couldn't take the time now to tell you of all the laws Mascola breaks
and if I did you wouldn't believe me."
"How can he get by with it?" Gregory asked.
Dickie Lang walked to the rail and searched the dark water in the
direction of the shore before she replied: "There are three different
kinds of laws out here. The navigation laws are made by the government,
the fishing laws by the state, and the law of the sea is made by the
fishermen. If you break the pilot-rules they'll haul you up before the
local inspector at Port Angeles and fine you, take away your license or
put you in jail. But they've got to have the proof and that is hard to
get. If you break the state's laws you run up against the fish
commissioner. His deputies do their best to protect the fish and see
that the fishermen use the right kind of gear. If they catch an outfit
with the goods, they put them over. But it's hard to do."
She stared away into the faintly graying darkness.
"Cut through the kelp, Tom. It will save us a little and we're going to
need it."
"And the fisherman's law you spoke about. What is that?" Gregory
queried.
She faced him suddenly. "I don't know how to explain it," she said.
"Every one has to learn it for himself. It's the law of the biggest and
fastest boat. The law of the longest and strongest arm. The law of sand
and a quick trigger."
Gregory felt his pulse quicken as she went on:
"You see we have to depend on ourselves out here to settle our troubles.
Whatever happens, happens quick. Generally there are not many witnesses.
If you knew trouble was coming, you might get a deputy to come out, but
the chances are ten to one they wouldn't. They would say it was only a
fisherman's row and tell you to swear out a warrant. And if you go to
law, Mascola will bring five witnesses for each of yours and they'll
outswear you every time for they can lie faster than a man can write it
down."
Again she paused and searched the gray border of the receding curtain of
night. Far away Gregory could hear the roar of the breakers. From out
the gray dusk ahead appeared the shadowy outline of a rugged promontory
jutting far out into the sea.
"Keep close in, Tom. Our last string's dead ahead, off Peeble Beach.
When you get around the point swing on the outside of Coward Rocks and
give her all she'll stand."
She walked slowly about the deck with her eyes fixed on the wave-washed
shore-line.
"So you see each outfit makes its own laws and it's up to them to
enforce them. Our law is to mind our own business and get the fish. The
only law we break is Mascola's. He tries to tell us where to fish. He
bullies the ones he can and fights the ones he can't in any way that is
easiest and safest. He's a thief and a crook and he'd commit murder in a
minute if he thought he could get by with it."
The idea lodged in her brain. She leaned closer and exclaimed in a low
voice: "And how do we know he doesn't get by with murder the way he does
with everything else? There's many a man picked up along the coast as a
'floater' that nobody knows how he drowned."
Daybreak was upon them as they hugged the shore-line and slipped into
the protecting shadow of Long Point. Dickie Lang's words sank deep into
Gregory's consciousness. A half-formed question found its way at last
to his lips.
"Do you think," he began, but was interrupted by the man at the wheel.
"Can't make the inside channel. Have to go round."
He altered the helm as he spoke. Dickie Lang jumped to his side.
"We've got to run the short-cut, Tom. No use going round. They'd spot us
a mile away in this light. If they're laying round my nets I want to
surprise them. I'll take the boat."
The fisherman surrendered the wheel and sidled out of the way.
"She's your boat," he said with blunt emphasis. "But don't forget it's
my license. I wouldn't take the chance."
The girl nodded. "My license is hanging up in the engine-room," she
retorted. "If anything happens, it's me that is responsible. I won't
forget."
She spun the wheel over as she spoke and the _Petrel_ swerved like a
gull and headed straight for the rugged cliff which towered high above
the foaming water, bold and defiant of the angry waves which dashed
relentlessly at its base.
Off the port bow Gregory saw a narrow pathway of quiet water fringed on
one side by white-toothed swells, on the other by the barnacled feet of
the point itself. He leaned over the rail and followed the course of the
ribbon-like path which wound like a snake among the curling waves and
jagged rocks. Could that be the channel the girl meant to take?
Dickie Lang's eyes were fixed with his upon the devious waterway. The
hand which held the wheel was steady and the _Petrel_ plunged boldly on
as if bent upon flinging its fragile shell upon the time-defying rocks
of Long Point.
Gregory measured the distance to the overhanging ledge. What was the use
of taking such a chance as this? It looked like one in a million. In
another minute they would pile up. They were almost abreast of the
thread-like channel when he saw the fingers on the wheel tighten. The
steering gear whirred and the _Petrel_ leaped forward to answer the
master-hand at the helm.
Then came the miracle.
The slim bow of the little craft swung about. For a second she wallowed
in the trough of the ground-swell, rose high on its foaming crest and
nestled slowly down in the quiet water of the rock-bound channel. And
the distance to safety had been gained by the scant margin of only a few
inches. A sharper or blunter turn would have ripped the vessel from bow
to stern. Was it luck? He shook his head slowly. Then he began to
understand why the fishermen took orders from Dickie Lang. He was
recalled to himself by a laughing voice and he saw that the girl's eyes
were sparkling, as she said without turning her head:
"Did you think you were going to have to swim ashore?"
Gregory laughed. "I could feel the water about my ears," he said. Then
he added: "Do you do stunts like that often?"
She shook her head. "Sometimes it is necessary to take a chance," she
answered. "You've got to catch Mascola's bunch red-handed. When we round
the 'bull-nose' we'll be right on top of our nets."
Her lips were firmly compressed and the little lines which suddenly
appeared about her mouth were hard. With her eyes still held by the
barnacled rocks, she snapped: "Then you may see something."
They were nearing the end of Long Point. Throttling the throbbing motor
until its soft breathing could be heard only a few boat-lengths, she
nodded to the fisherman:
"All right, Tom. She's yours. Plenty of water from here on. When you
round 'bull-nose' head for the cove with all you've got."
Relieved from the wheel she dodged into the engine-room and returned
with two rifles. Flashing a glance shoreward to determine the _Petrel's_
position she rejoined Gregory and handed him one of the guns. Gregory
reached eagerly for the weapon. For the past hour he had been forced to
sit by a spectator. Now was a chance to do something. To play a game he
knew. His fingers caressed the stock of the Winchester as the girl
exclaimed:
"Don't suppose there is any use telling you how to shoot. Only at sea
things are a little different. You have to count on the roll. Sight full
until you get on the range. Distances are deceiving on the water. Pull
on the slow rise if you can. That's when she's steadiest."
He noted her quiet manner of speaking and the businesslike way with
which she handled her gun. What she meant for him to do he did not
clearly understand. Whatever it was, she would find him ready. He
slipped a shell into the barrel from the magazine, and waited. He
noticed that the girl was watching him closely as they came to the end
of the winding channel. Then she gave him brief instructions.
"When we pass that big rock ahead we'll head in. Then you will see a
string of nets. You may see two strings, one laid around the other. If
any of Mascola's gang are hanging around I'm going to try to persuade
them to give me sea-way."
She set her lips grimly and tapped the rifle. Drawing a pair of
binocular-glasses from her pocket she focused them carefully.
"Don't shoot until I do. If they are trying to lay around I'll open up
on them and start them moving. Aim at the water-line and pump away as
fast as you like. All right, Tom. Give her the gun."
The _Petrel_ leaped under the advancing throttle and raced for the
curiously fashioned nub at the cliff's end.
Gregory crowded forward, striving to catch a glimpse of the water
beyond. As they flashed by the "bull-nose" she saw silhouetted against
the brightening light which streamed across the water from the beach,
the sharp outline of a fishing-boat. Then he heard a low exclamation
from the girl.
"He's laid around my string," she gritted, and again the glasses flashed
to her eyes. She whirled on the fisherman. "Look at that, Tom! He's
stripping my nets. I've got him with the goods this time and, so help me
God, I'm going to make him pay. Don't shoot," she cautioned Gregory.
"Wait till we get closer. I want to get him with the deadwood. Wide
open, Tom, we'll run him off his legs. I'll----"
A puff of white smoke drifted upward from the deck of the launch ahead
and floated lazily above the rigging. Some fifty feet beyond the port
bow of the _Petrel_ the water leaped upward in a tiny spout. Dickie's
rifle sounded in Gregory's ear and the report of his own prolonged the
echoes. As he pumped in another cartridge he noted that the girl's eyes
were shining and her red lips were parted in a smile. Between shots he
heard her mutter:
"Can you beat that? The dirty robbers are going to stay and fight?"
CHAPTER VI
THE LAW OF THE FISHERMEN
Her decks spouting flame, the _Petrel_ raced on to meet the enemy.
Gregory crowded close to the rail and dropped to his knee. The girl was
right about the roll. He shoved the rifle through a cross-stay, sighted
carefully and pulled the trigger.
"I have the system now," he called.
She nodded. "That's the stuff. Aim for the engine-house. They're
shooting from the ports."
[Illustration: "Aim for the engine-house!"]
The bullets from the alien craft were flying wide. The fusillade from
the _Petrel_ was evidently interfering with the enemy's marksmanship.
"No expert riflemen there," Gregory commented.
Dickie shook her head. "A knife's their long suit," she answered. "I
never saw them shoot much before. Don't believe they----"
A jingle of breaking glass interrupted her and the starboard side-lamp
toppled from the bracket and crashed to the deck.
"Get down," Gregory commanded. "They're getting the range."
The girl smiled and wiped away the blood which spurted from a small cut
in her cheek. "Just fool luck," she answered, leaning coolly against
the stays and reloading her rifle. "That was only an accident."
Gregory was by her side in an instant. Grasping her roughly by the arm
he said harshly: "Get down, I tell you."
She jerked away her arm and started to speak. Then she dropped to the
deck.
"Maybe you're right at that," she admitted, a smile playing about her
lips.
The firing became brisker as the distance lessened between the two
boats, while the enemy bullets became wilder and more desultory. Dickie
ceased firing and turned to the man at the wheel.
"It's Rossi with the _Roma_. He's getting under way."
She flung out an arm pointing in the direction of the stubby-nosed point
which lay across the little bay. "Head for the arch, Tom. We'll cut him
off." Pointing to the fleeing boat she explained to Gregory: "He's
almost in shoal water right now. To get out he's got to follow the
channel. It's dead low tide and he'll have to make a big bend to get
out. We'll cut across and head him off. He has the speed of us and a
quarter of a mile lead. But he has farther to go. If he opens up he's
liable to pile up on the rocks. It's about an even bet he'll make it for
he's clever. But if he does we'll be right on top of him when he comes
out. Then I'll teach him a lesson he won't forget in a hurry."
The _Petrel_ altered her course while she was speaking and sped off at
a tangent. The _Roma_, dashing shoreward, turned and angled sharply,
running parallel to her pursuer.
"He's sure pounding her," the girl observed as she noted the increasing
distance which separated the two boats. "If he holds that clip when he
comes to that figure S channel, he'll never make the turns." She shut
her jaw tighter. "Cut in a little closer, Tom," she ordered. "We'll make
him take all the chances there are."
Gregory climbed to the top of the engine-house and watched the _Roma_
dodging among the rocks like a frightened rabbit. Dickie Lang was poised
in the bow like a figurehead, one foot resting on the rail. Her hair,
jerked from her cap by the fingers of the dawn-wind, streamed out behind
her in a shower of dull red gold. Her eyes were shining with the joy of
the chase.
"He's almost at the turn," she called back. "He'll never make it on an
outgoing tide. He's got to slow up. If he does, we've got him. If he
doesn't----"
She was interrupted by a muffled exclamation from the man at the wheel.
The _Roma's_ bow was rising from the water. For an instant she planed
like a high-powered racing-boat. Then, as if exhausted by the chase, she
settled slowly to rest in the white water, her masts angling sharply
toward the beach.
"High and dry on mussel rocks," Dickie Lang announced. "It's a flood
tide to-day and with the big ground swell she hasn't a chance."
As they neared the wreck they saw the crew of the stranded vessel
huddled together on the sloping deck.
"Don't go in any closer, Tom," cautioned the girl. "The tide's turning.
They can wade ashore and watch her break up."
As they circled closer to make the turn, Gregory noticed a red-shirted
giant leap from the wreck of the fishing-boat into the shallow water,
waving his arms wildly about his head. But the noise of the _Petrel's_
motor drowned the voice of the infuriated fishing captain and his
threats and curses were heard only by his own crew.
"It isn't Rossi, after all," Dickie observed as she caught sight of the
red-shirted figure. "It's Boris, the crazy Russian. I never knew Mascola
to trust him with a boat like the _Roma_ before."
The _Petrel_ turned about and, burying her nose in the big swells, made
haste to leave the dangerous water.
"Head for the nets," the girl ordered. "I'm not through with Mascola
yet. He has my fish on the _Roma_. If I had a dory I'd go in there and
get them. But it isn't good enough to risk the _Petrel_."
As they came nearer the two strings of nets, Dickie explained: "I'm
going to work the same game on Mascola that the fish commissioner does
when he catches them trawling within the three-mile limit. I'm going to
salvage his nets and make him pay for his crooked work to get his
property. Lay to, Tom, and we'll pull them aboard with mine."
The fisherman drew alongside the row of bobbing corks with a grim smile
playing about his lips.
"Have to rustle," he observed. "You know how Mascola's boats follow up."
The girl tossed her head.
"I don't care if his whole fleet comes along. And him with them. I'm
going to make him pay me for those fish Boris stole from my nets. I
can't take it into court but----"
She paused in the middle of her sentence as her eyes swept the sea.
Focusing the binoculars on a small speck on the horizon, she announced:
"Here comes Mascola now in his speed-boat. We'll haul them aboard, boys.
Then I'll talk business with the dago. Get his nets first."
Falling to eagerly, Gregory received his first lesson in pulling the
nets. With straining back and smarting fingers he worked by the
fisherman's side hauling the heavy webbing to the deck. As they reached
the middle of the string the weight of the sagging nets increased and a
number of glistening barracuda floundered from the water, gilled by the
strong mesh. The girl observed the fish with darkening brow.
"The dirty robbers," she exclaimed wrathfully. "Look what they have
already. I'll bet I'd have had a good haul if they had let me alone."
Gregory noticed as he straightened up that the distant speck on the
water was fast assuming the proportions of a motor-launch. He noticed
too that the approaching craft was coming at a high rate of speed and
was swerving shoreward. Tugging harder at the nets, he worked doggedly
on, listening to the staccato bark of the speed-craft as Mascola drew
close. They were hauling at the last string when he came within hailing
distance.
"What's the matter?" he called. "You're pulling my nets."
"Don't pay any attention to him," admonished Dickie Lang. "I'm not going
to hollow my head off. Keep working and wait until he comes alongside."
With his motor purring like an angry cat, Mascola whirled his craft
about in a wave-washed circle and drew abreast of the _Petrel_. At the
same instant Gregory and the fisherman lifted the last piece of the
Italian's nets to the deck. Gregory straightened his aching back and
looked toward the early morning visitor, but his eyes did not get as far
as Mascola. They remained riveted on the launch.
Never had he seen such a boat. She poised on the waves like a gull,
quivering with potential energy, ready for instant flight. From her
sharply V-ed bow to her delicately molded stern, every line of the trim
craft spoke eloquently of the plan of a master-designer who fashioned
her with a single purpose--speed.
"What's the matter I say? You're pulling my nets."
Gregory freed his eyes with an effort from the launch to survey its
owner. Mascola turned angrily on the leather cushion and glared at the
_Petrel's_ deck.
Dickie Lang walked coolly to the rail. "Sure I'm pulling your nets,"
she said. "I've got them all aboard. And that's where they're going to
stay until you pay me for the fish your outfit took from my nets."
"I never take your fish. I don't know----"
"Oh, yes you do, Mascola. Boris laid around me and robbed my nets.
There's my webbing lying right where I put it out. I caught that crazy
Russian of yours with the goods and he lost his head and your boat. He's
piled up over there on the beach."
Mascola rose hastily and followed the direction of her arm. In his anger
at beholding Dickie taking his nets from the water he had not noticed
the wreck of the _Roma_. A torrent of Italian words burst from his lips.
His cheeks purpled and his eyes grew hot with passion. When he
controlled himself to speak in English he cried:
"I'll have you arrested for stealing my nets. I'll get a warrant and
search your wharf and your house."
"But you won't find your nets." Dickie Lang supplied the words and went
on: "Listen, you crook, if you and I don't settle this thing up right
now you won't find a piece of your nets big enough to swear what it is.
I'm not trying to rob you like you robbed me. I just want what's coming
to me. Not a cent more. If you give me that I'll throw your webbing
over. If you don't I'll trail them every inch of the way to Legonia and
cut them into ribbons with the propeller. It's up to you, Mascola."
The Italian flashed a glance to the cove where the _Roma's_ angling
mast appeared against the beach. Then he looked out to sea and his eyes
brightened as the mast of a fishing-boat rounded the point and turned
shoreward. It was Ankovitch with the _Lura_.
His launch rode high on a capping swell and a puff of wind caused him to
look anxiously at the beach. The tide was beginning to set in strong and
the breeze was freshening. He snapped out his watch and scowled.
Whatever was done for the _Roma_ must be done at once.
"What do you want?" he flashed.
"Pay for the fish you stole from my nets. From what I saw in your nets I
figure I had all of a ton." She glanced at the fish lying on the deck.
"You've got about five hundred here. I'll allow you for that. You pay me
the difference at three cents. That will be forty-five dollars."
Mascola glared. His hand crept slowly to his pocket.
"None of that."
The girl's words cut like a knife. The hand which lay in her pocket
turned and the coat bulged outward.
"I was getting my money," Mascola growled.
"All right. Face about the other way when you get it."
As the Italian turned, Dickie Lang caught up a rifle and threw it
loosely over her shoulder. Mascola turned to look straight into the
muzzle and drew back sharply. Then he flourished a roll of bills.
"Quick," he said. "You have me at a disadvantage this time. I will pay.
Here is the money."
He tossed the bills to the deck.
"All right, Mascola. That squares us for to-day. I'll dump your nets
over right where they are as soon as I check up the money. And the next
time you try to lay around me I'm going to run through your nets and cut
them to pieces."
Mascola dropped to the cushioned seat and whirled half about.
"I will not forget," he said. "To-day you win. Next time----"
His words were lost in the roar of his motor. The speed-boat shot
forward like a horse at the touch of a spur. In a whirl of white water
Mascola sped away for the beach.
CHAPTER VII
YOU'LL HAVE TO SHOW ME
The sky was reddening in the east when the last of the nets were pulled
aboard. Rounding Long Point, the _Petrel_ took up the homeward track as
the sun peeped over the low brown hills and caressed the sea. Dickie
Lang looked back at the wreck of the _Roma_ and the light of victory
died slowly from her eyes.
"I'm not sorry for Mascola," she exclaimed. "He got only what was coming
to him. But I am sorry for the little boat. She was a good little scout
and she was game to the end. You'll find that boats are a good deal like
people," she went on, "when you know them as well as I do. Some of them
are cranky and have to be coaxed along. Others are just plain lazy and
must be pounded on the back. And there are some that are treacherous and
the minute they get you in a tight place, they will lay down cold."
Her last words gave her the cue to continue: "And the ocean is full of
tight places. Mascola found himself in one this morning. He had the
sense to realize it and act before it was too late. It went against his
grain to be beaten by a girl. But by cashing in when he did, he saved a
boat perhaps. So he put his pride in his pocket. Sometimes you've got
to do that," she concluded seriously. "It hurts. But it's business."
Gregory's face showed his surprise at her annunciation of the business
principle and, sensing that her admission might become embarrassing at
some future time, the girl changed the subject abruptly.
"Did you see McCoy yesterday?" she asked.
"Yes. We had a long talk last night. He's coming to work for me as
house-foreman."
"That's fine," Dickie commended. "You'll like him. He'll be just the man
for you."
Gregory nodded. "Yes," he answered. "I think we'll get on fine when we
understand each other better."
"What do you mean? You haven't had a row with Jack already, have you?"
"Not exactly. Just a difference of opinion. I had an idea I worked out
yesterday. McCoy couldn't see it."
"What was the idea?"
"It was a plan I had for getting labor. I wanted to hire a certain class
of men. McCoy didn't."
"How did it come out?"
"I'm going to hire them, of course. I told McCoy if he didn't like it,
he could take the job or leave it. He decided to take it."
"It's the foreman's job to hire the help," the girl observed. "What was
your plan?"
Gregory looked the girl full in the eyes for a moment. Then he began:
"I'm going to organize my business on a cooperative basis, make my
employees partners, pay them a graduated minimum wage and a share in the
profits which will be held back as a bonus to make it worth their while
to stick with me during the season."
"And McCoy thought it wouldn't work?"
"Yes."
"Neither do I."
"Why not?"
Dickie knew the question was coming and was already prepared to give her
reasons.
"When a man works for you," she explained, "he wants his money every
Saturday night. He's earned it and he should have it. He may leave the
minute it's in his fingers and hit the grit again. But he's worked a
week at least and that's something. If he thinks you're holding out on
him to get him to stick, he wouldn't even start."
"That is what McCoy said. But you are both wrong. The men I am figuring
on hiring will stick. That is why I am hiring them."
"Don't think much of a bunch like that," Dickie commented. "A man that
can't get a job to-day is a bum. And the fellow doesn't live that ever
gets through knocking around. That is if he's a real man."
"You're wrong again," Gregory contradicted. "They are eighteen-carat
men. I've tried them out already. I know."
"Where?"
"In France."
"You mean soldiers?"
"Yes. I called up a friend of mine last night in Port Angeles. He used
to be first lieutenant in my company. He's a reporter on _The Times_
now. Hawkins told me a lot of the boys were out of work and he promised
to look up a number of addresses of men in my old outfit. To-morrow I'm
going to the city to round them up. They've stood by me before in many a
tight place. It cost them a lot sometimes. But they stuck just the same.
Now I've got a chance to stick by them. And I'm going to do it because I
know they'll come up to the scratch."
The girl was impressed by the earnestness of his words. He meant well of
course. It was a splendid idea but----
She voiced her objections. "You'll find business is a different game
from war."
"Perhaps. But in both there is hard fighting. And when you are going
into a scrap with all you've got, you want men behind you you can bank
on."
"I wouldn't bank on them too strong. A lot of the ones I've seen think
they're too good to work at an ordinary job. They have an idea the war
has made them worth a lot more money than they really are. They like to
tell what great things they've done. But when it comes to----"
"I've seen that kind, too. On both sides of the water. Over there no one
depended on them. They were shunted from pillar to post until they hit a
place where they couldn't even hear the guns. When the war was over
they came back. They were whole. And they talked."
He paused for a moment and looked down at the deck. Then he went on in a
low voice: "The kind I'm figuring on are not whole. And they don't
talk."
Dickie Lang said no more. When a man spoke with such depth of feeling,
what was the use of trying to talk him out of it. Of course he was
wrong. But he'd just have to find it out for himself. In silence they
neared the entrance to the bay and threaded their way among the
fishing-boats as they drew up to the Lang wharf. Gregory roused himself
at the sight of the Lang dock and turned to the girl.
"You took me out this morning," he said, "to show me you knew your
business. Now it's up to me to show you I know mine. I'm going right to
work. I expect a hard fight, but I'll tell you right now this idea of
mine is going to win out."
Dickie smiled as they drew alongside the dock.
"Go to it," she said. "I won't say you're wrong. But you'll certainly
have to show me."
CHAPTER VIII
A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
"What do you expect me to do with a bunch of cripples like that?"
Jack McCoy burst into the office of the Legonia Fish Cannery and hurled
the question angrily at his young employer.
Gregory looked hard at McCoy's flushed face and snapping gray eyes. Then
he said quietly: "I expect you to train them."
"My God!" McCoy came a step closer. Then he burst out: "Don't you know
it's hard enough to run a cannery with real men without----"
Gregory was on his feet in an instant.
"Don't say it," he gritted. "Unless you want to hook up with me right
now."
McCoy sought to explain.
"I'm not saying anything against them," he said. "But you don't
understand. I wonder if you have any idea what it means to break in a
bunch like that."
"Yes. That is why I hired you. I believed you could do it. If you can't,
I'll find some one else who will."
Gregory leaned against the desk.
"Listen, McCoy," he said. "You and I have to get down to cases right
now. There's no use flying off the handle. If you have anything to say,
I'll hear it. Anything except a word against those men out there.
They've had enough already. You told me the other day," he went on, "you
could break in anybody who'd stick. You showed me just the kind of work
there is to do. These men I'll guarantee will stick and I think you'll
get quite a jolt when you see what they've been taught to do. They're
not all cripples. I've got some huskies for the strong-arm stuff. And
there is a lot the other fellows can do. I want you to show them how.
You are not taking much of a chance that I can see. You'll get your
money the same as you always have, more if you stick through. And every
dollar we make, you'll have a few cents of it at least. Can you see
anything wrong with that?"
"I don't see where you're going to get off. You seem to think there is a
fortune in this business. I'll tell you there isn't. It's hard sledding
to make both ends meet as it is."
"I know it. Last night I sat up half the night going over the books. I
found my father lost more money on account of labor trouble than from
any other cause."
"Except not being able to get fish," corrected McCoy.
"Exactly. That's labor just the same. Since this idea came to me it's
getting bigger all the time. I'm going to extend it to the boats as well
as the inside. I've got a plan to have Miss Lang take charge of the
fishing end, train my men and run her boats for me on a flat rental and
salary."
McCoy began to show more interest. "Is she in on the deal?" he asked.
"I haven't had a chance to talk with her yet. I'm going to see her
to-day."
McCoy smiled. "I'd like to see Dick's face when you spring the
proposition of having her work for you," he said.
"Suppose she turns me down. Has that anything to do with your working
for me?"
McCoy's face flushed. "Don't know that it has," he admitted, "but----"
The telephone interrupted further conversation and Gregory turned to the
instrument.
"Yes--Mr. Gregory at the phone. All right."
McCoy watched the silent figure as he listened to the message; saw his
jaws set tighter as he replaced the receiver and faced about.
"I'd kind of like to talk this thing over with Blair," McCoy began. "You
see----"
"I just received a telegram from the sanitarium. Mr. Blair died this
morning at nine o'clock."
McCoy crumpled in his chair and rested his head in his hands. "Poor old
John," he muttered brokenly, "I ought to have gone up last night when
they phoned me he was so much worse." He raised his head and there were
tears shining in his eyes. "They didn't make them any whiter than John
Blair," he said.
Gregory agreed.
"I knew him only slightly," he said. "But I surely counted on him. His
loss means a lot to me. I'll go up there right away and see if there is
anything I can do. Would you like to go with me?"
McCoy could only nod and the two men left the building together.
The hearts of men are tested in various crucibles. In a smoothly-moving
world human paths diverge and the grooves are often widened by
indifference. In times of stress, the diverse threads of commonplace
existence may merge into a single strand. Then it is that casual
acquaintances become friends, when man rubs elbow with man and hearts
beat together in mutual sympathy and understanding.
Jack McCoy returned to Legonia saddened by the loss of an old friend;
gladdened by the belief that he had found a new one. It was not what
Gregory had done that made the difference to McCoy; simply the way he
had done it. Any man with money could have defrayed the expenses of
Blair's sickness and funeral. But it took a real man to make the
gratuity appear as a favor to the donor.
When he met Gregory at the cannery the morning after their return to
Legonia, McCoy was not slow in admitting that he was strong for the
boss.
"If we had time, Jack," Gregory was saying, "there is nothing I'd rather
do right now than give you a week off on full pay. But you know what
that would mean to us at this time. Before we start in I want to make
you another proposition."
As the foreman said nothing, he asked bluntly: "How would you like the
job as house manager?"
"Fine," McCoy answered. "Do you think I could cut it?"
"Do you?"
"Yes," McCoy answered with no hesitation.
"All right then," Gregory answered in the same manner. "So do I. You've
got a real job ahead of you. Minutes are going to count in the next few
days. The next batch of my service men are due to-morrow."
McCoy jumped up. "That means a day's work for me," he exclaimed, and
hurried out.
Gregory glanced at his watch. The next thing to be done was to see
Dickie Lang. The matter of securing fish was of cardinal importance. The
girl would be at the dock about this time. It would afford him a good
chance to make his proposal while she was getting the fish ready for
shipment.
Some time after Gregory had left the cannery, Barnes reported he was out
of carborundum and McCoy set out at once for Legonia.
"They'd be all day sending it up," he said. "I've got to go down anyway
and check over some stuff for us at the freight-house so it might as
well be now."
On nearing the Lang dock he heard Dickie's voice issuing from a pile of
fish-boxes at the shore end. McCoy checked his steps involuntarily at
the girl's words, and without meaning to--listened.
"So you want to pay me a flat rate for my boats and hire me to train
your men with my fishermen?"
"Yes. With a share in the profits."
It was Gregory's voice. McCoy noted the quiet tone used by the girl. He
felt ashamed to eavesdrop. But he was torn with curiosity to hear Dick's
answer.
"Well, you've got your nerve, I'd say. And then some. Do you think you
can run my business better than I can myself?"
"If I did, I'd try to buy you out. I'm asking you to run my boats as
well as your own and----"
"Be your hired girl."
Dickie supplied the words and went on angrily: "Say, the Lang boats were
here a long time before you came. And they'll be here as long after you
go. They have gone on their own hook ever since they went into the
water. And that's the way they are going to stay. My dad never took
orders from anybody. He ran his boats the way he pleased. He was
independent. I'm the same way. And I want to tell you right now, I
wouldn't sell out my independence to you or any other man."
McCoy crept back into the shadow of the fishing-boxes and making a wide
detour went on into town. He was sorry he had listened. It wasn't a
white thing to do. He liked Gregory. He was his friend. Then why, he
asked himself, was he kind of glad that Dick had turned down his
proposition?
CHAPTER IX
DIABLO LUCK
Busy days followed for Kenneth Gregory, and with the loyal support of
Jack McCoy, much was accomplished.
The Legonia Fish Cannery wakened from its long sleep and took on new
life. From the receiving floor to the warehouse everything had been
carefully overhauled and put into first-class shape. Necessary repairs
and alterations had been made. Supplies and material were on hand. A
nucleus of skilled labor had been carefully selected by McCoy and
brought to train the service men who came to Legonia on every incoming
train.
The sleepy little fishing village viewed the vanguard of the ex-soldiers
with sullen indifference. Silvanus Rock had told them not to worry their
heads over the "efforts of an impractical dreamer to turn the town
upside down." And who knew, if Rock didn't? As the days went by,
however, and the invasion became more noticeable, the alien element of
the fishing colony began to experience a feeling of sharp resentment
against the new owner of the Legonia cannery and his wild scheme. But
again the foremost citizen had come to the fore and quieted their
fears, turning them into open contempt and ridicule by his words:
"What can he do with a bunch of crippled rag-a-muffins? Look at them for
yourselves. There's hardly a whole man among them. I give him a month to
go to the wall. It's the old saying of a 'fool and his money.'"
The opening of the new cannery presented every appearance of proving the
truth of Rock's prophecy and caused the aliens to laugh openly.
"How can they run without fish?" sneered Mascola as he checked the catch
of the incoming boats. "They haven't had enough in a week to pay them to
keep up steam."
Ten days after the opening Gregory was asking Jack McCoy the same
question.
"I tell you, Mac, something has to be done. The Lang boats are falling
down on the job. You'll admit we haven't had a paying run since we
started and expenses are climbing."
McCoy nodded. "I know it," he agreed. "But Dick has had hard luck. None
of the boats have brought in much lately. The fish have taken out to
sea. Then Mascola's men have been causing a lot of trouble."
"That's just it," Gregory interrupted. "The girl's tackled too big a
job. I was afraid of it all the time. She's all right, Jack. I'm not
saying a word against her. But she was foolish to get on her
'high-horse' and turn down my proposition. It's a man's job to get all
the fish we're going to need. Not a woman's. Of course I know she's
doing her best," he went on. "But we can't go on this way. If she can't
make good on her contract we'll have to take it out of her hands. I'm
only going to give her a few more days."
"Then what?" McCoy questioned.
"Then we'll run things ourselves. I've been figuring on it for three or
four days. That's why I'm having all our boats put in shape."
"How will you man them?" asked McCoy quickly.
"I've arranged for that too. The last time I was in the city I lined up
a bunch of ex-navy men. They are fair sailors and have had some
experience in handling launches and small boats. I'm going to bring them
down here the same as I figured at first. If the girl wants to help me
with her men, all right. If not, we'll go it alone. It's a ground-hog
case. We've got to get the fish."
"I wish Dick wasn't so darned independent," observed McCoy. "If it was
anybody else, they'd jump at your offer."
"That's the trouble," Gregory admitted. "She's a woman and she's mighty
hard to talk out of an idea she sets her mind on. If I was dealing with
a man I'd have come to a show-down long before this. As it is, I'm going
to see her this afternoon and try to get down to brass tacks."
A screech of the steam whistle interrupted further speech and the two
men jumped to their feet and hurried out on the floor of the cannery at
the signal to resume work.
"Only have enough to run about an hour," McCoy answered in response to
Gregory's question concerning the supply of fish on hand. And as he
noticed the frown on his employer's face, he supplemented: "We've had
enough the last few days to break the crew in anyway."
"That's something, but it isn't good enough," Gregory answered. "You're
fixed right now to handle three times what we're getting. And I'm paying
for it. I'm not worrying about things in here, Mac. Everything is going
fine."
He paused suddenly and his face glowed with enthusiasm as he walked
nearer the cutting-bench.
"Look at the way those poor blind fellows are taking to their job, Mac,"
he whispered. "They can't tell black from white but watch them work.
They'll be doing as much in a week as a man with two good eyes. How are
you coming, Dorgan?"
He addressed a cutter working at the nearest bench. The blind man turned
quickly.
"Fine, Capt. It's getting easier all the time. 'Twon't be long before
I'll be making real wages at this job."
They passed from the blind cutters and came to the capping machine where
a man with an artificial leg was being instructed in soldering the cans.
Again Gregory's eyes expressed his satisfaction.
"That's fine, Carlson," he commended. "You're getting on fine."
The man at the machine nodded. "Nothing much to it," he answered
cheerfully. "Got kind of tired standing at first. But I don't notice it
much now."
Kenneth Gregory strove to express his appreciation of McCoy's work as
they came to one of the empty warehouses, but the manager refused to
take the credit.
"It was your idea," he said, "you paid me to carry it out. At first I
didn't think much of it. But now I believe it's going to work. The men
are tickled to death. I never had a crew that tried so hard to learn or
picked it up so quickly. I can handle an average run with them right now
and they've only been working broken hours for a week."
Gregory turned quickly to McCoy and said earnestly: "It's a big idea,
Mac. It will work. It's got to work. It's getting bigger all the time.
And I'll be damned if I'm going to have a girl hang me up by falling
down on her job."
He shut his lips tight as he drew a blue-print from his pocket and
spread it out on an empty case.
"Now I want to go over these plans for making a bunk-house out of this
building. The boys can't get a decent place to stay in the town. The
contractor will be here in half an hour. After I've closed with him I'm
going down to the Lang dock and see the girl."
* * * * *
Dickie Lang paced the docks in nervous expectancy while she checked in
her returning fleet and conferred with one of her fishing captains.
"I'll tell you, Tom, we've got to get them. I'm under contract to supply
Mr. Gregory with fish and I can't fall down like this. Look here."
Shoving a tally-sheet before his eyes, she pointed to the totals. "Not
enough there to last him half a day. He's beginning to eat them up.
We've got to get more."
"But if they ain't runnin', what you going to do?"
"Go after them," she snapped. "Mascola's getting fish. He's going out to
sea for them. He brought in a good haul yesterday from Diablo. That's
why I sent the big boats over there with the _Petrel_ scouting ahead."
The fisherman shook his head dubiously.
"You're takin' a tall chance," he said slowly. "Things happen out Diablo
way. Your dad never could make it stick out there. He lost a heap around
that devil-island. That's why he give up fishin' out there."
"He didn't give it up," the girl flashed, "any more than I'm going to
give it up. Diablo's got your goats, and you know it. There's always
fish around the island and I'll bet you two to one when the fleet comes
back they'll have them to burn."
Turning with disgust, Dickie walked to the end of the dock and sought to
pierce the shifting curtain of mist which hung about the inlet. It came
to her suddenly that in her anger at Gregory's proposal, she had made a
big promise. Moreover she had entered into a contract which she was
finding more difficult to fulfill than she had imagined. Perhaps she was
a fool not to have taken up the cannery-owner's proposition. At least it
was worth considering. By accepting his terms all the worry would have
been shifted to him and she would have been able to play safe. In a year
she would have been out of debt. With her boats paid for, she could
afford to be independent. Now, she was going further behind each day.
Worse than that, she was falling down on her contract.
* * * * *
Finishing his business with the contractor a half-hour before closing
time, Gregory hurried down to the Lang wharf.
He found the girl busied with her tally-sheets and stepped behind a row
of fish-boxes and waited. From his position he could see the neighboring
dock where a number of alien fishermen were at work mending nets. Apart
from the others was the huge figure of a red-shirted man standing
motionless, scowling in the direction of the Lang wharf. As he looked
closer, he became conscious of the fact that he had seen the red-shirted
giant before.
Boisterous laughter floated across the intervening strip of water and a
scarlet sleeve flashed as the big man shook his fist threateningly at
the rival dock.
"They are kidding the Russian about losing the _Roma_ and getting canned
by the boss," explained a fisherman who was passing by. "Boris is sorer
than a boiled owl at being run on the rocks by a girl."
Gregory watched the excited foreigner in silence. A man like that could
cause a lot of trouble. Suddenly he heard the sound of low voices on the
other side of the lane of fish-boxes.
"What's that got to do with it? We've got to live as well as she has. We
ain't gettin' enough I tell you, and you know it. What's the use of
bein' a damn fool?"
The words died away in a low mumble as the men passed on. Gregory
emerged from his cover and looked after the two fishermen. Then he
noticed the girl had finished her calculations and hurried toward her.
"I suppose you want to know what I have," she anticipated. "Well, I
haven't much yet. If you stay round a little while though I'll show you
a real haul. I'm expecting my boats back at any minute from El Diablo."
Gregory scarcely knew how to begin the interview. The girl was clearly
unreasonable and flared up at the slightest intimation that she was
unable to manage her own business. And yet it was perfectly clear that
she could not.
"Fish is what we're needing right now," he said with blunt emphasis.
"We're ready to go. McCoy has a good crew and he can handle them fast. A
whole lot faster than we've been getting them," he added.
She interrupted as he knew she would.
"Well, I'm doing my level darnedest," she retorted. "If I wasn't I guess
I wouldn't have risked my best boats at Diablo in a fog." As Gregory
said nothing in the way of argument, she challenged: "Do you think you
could do any better?"
"Yes," he answered without any hesitation, "I think I could. That is if
you would help me. I think if we would pull together on this proposition
we could do a whole lot. Right now you are threatened with labor
trouble."
"You don't know what you're talking about. My men are loyal to me and
always have been. They'll stick from start to finish."
Gregory related the conversation he had overheard a few minutes before.
As he finished, he noted that a worried expression crept to the girl's
eyes, though she said:
"What's that amount to? There are always some who are dissatisfied and
try to cause trouble. I'm well rid of a bunch like that anyway. There
are not many of them."
It was on Gregory's tongue to broach his proposal when he saw the girl
looking eagerly past him into the wall of fog. Through the veil he
caught the dim outline of an approaching fishing-boat.
"Here comes the _Curlew_ back from Diablo. Before you say anything more
wait until you see what luck they've had. If I don't miss my guess we'll
have fish enough for you now all right."
Together they walked down the steep gangway to the swaying float.
"If I can't get them at Diablo, I can't get them anywhere," exclaimed
Dickie Lang. Then she shouted to the captain of the _Curlew_: "What
luck, Jones?"
From the gray void of fog a deep voice floated back:
"Diablo luck. Never got nothin' and the _Petrel_ was smashed to hell."
CHAPTER X
SALVAGE
Dickie Lang was nonplussed. Her best bet was thrown into the discard.
Her pride and independence had been at stake. For her most valued
possessions, she had risked her all, and "stood pat" on the turn-up at
the devil-island. Her cards were all on the table. Now she had lost.
Leaning against the sagging rail she watched the _Curlew_ draw alongside
the float. Her slender fingers gripped the hand-rail and the sharp
splinters bit into her hands. But what was that to the pain which gnawed
at her heart? She hadn't made good. The taste of failure was a new and
strange sensation. She had made her fight, done her best. But it wasn't
good enough. But why was it necessary to take the little _Petrel_? Was
Diablo to beat her as it had beaten others? No, she must buck up. She
was Bill Lang's daughter.
"It's all in the game," she exclaimed to Gregory. "As I told you, the
sea plays no favorites."
Before the young man could answer, she had turned from him to meet the
men who were climbing from the incoming vessel.
"Hello, boys. Tough luck. But we can't help it. Tell me what happened.
Make it short. I've got a lot to do."
The fishermen grouped themselves about her as the quivering figure of a
little Mexican lunged through the circle and began to speak:
"_Dios, Señorita_, it was very bad," he quavered. "We were lying close
to shore. The fog was everywhere. We could not see. And the anchor, it
would not hold. I was at the chain as you say I must when I hear a boat
coming. _Jesus de mi alma_, but she is coming fast. I can not leave as
we are drifting and I say to Pedro that he make a noise with the
whistle. But he does not get a chance. As he jumped for the engine-house
a big boat she come right out of the fog and before we can move, she
smash us all to hell. I fall into the water with Pedro and loose the
dory. For a time we drift. Then we are picked up by _Señor_ Jones."
"Did the _Petrel_ sink right away?" Dickie interrupted.
Another man crowded forward and answered the question.
"She didn't sink at all, miss. She wasn't far from the shore and she
drifted in with the tide that was settin' in strong. Then she piled up
on the rocks. She's layin' there now, high and dry on the beach."
"Didn't the boat that smashed them, lay to?" volleyed the girl.
Again the Mexican began to speak excitedly: "_Sangre de Christo_, no,"
he chattered, "The boat, she was very big, _Señorita_, and she did not
stop."
"Nonsense, Manuel. You were crazy with fright. Don't talk like a fool.
Go home and go to bed. When you've had a good sleep, I'll talk with you
again."
Stung into action by Jones's statement that the hull of the _Petrel_ was
still on the beach, she turned suddenly to the wharf.
"Tom Howard," she called sharply. When a voice answered, she ordered:
"Fill up the _Pelican_ with oil and stock her with grub. You can get it
from Swanson. Throw in a couple of deep-sea hooks and a lot of good
hauser. Mind it's new. Be ready to pull out in an hour." She turned
again to the men before her. "Jones, I want you to get the _Curlew_
ready. We may need two boats to pull her off. You know where they went
ashore. Take Johnson and Rasmussen with you. We've got to move lively. A
boat won't hang together long out there."
"Rasmussen's sick. How about Pete Carlin? He was with me coming over."
"Don't want him, Jones. Got to have men who know the game round Diablo
in a fog. Take Sorenson."
The fisherman nodded and lumbered up the gangway followed by others.
Dickie Lang jammed her hands deep down into her pockets and shrugged her
shoulders as she turned to Gregory.
"If it isn't one thing, it's another," she said quietly. "Can you beat
it? Manuel saying he was run down? He was scared to death. I don't
believe a thing touched him. He just went to sleep and drifted in on the
rocks and made up that story to save his job. Well, we'll know when I
see the hull."
Gregory listened, scarcely hearing the girl's words. At her announcement
of going to the island he began to make tentative plans to accompany
her. There might be a lot he could do. And she sure needed help. He
wondered if he could offer his assistance without again antagonizing
her.
"I'd like to go with you," he said bluntly. "I don't know much about the
sea yet, but maybe I can do some of the strong-arm stuff and learn
something. Besides, I want to have a look at Diablo."
Dickie regarded him approvingly.
"How about the cannery?" she asked. "My boats will go on fishing just
the same."
"McCoy can take care of things all right until I get back. I'll learn a
lot more over there than sticking around here."
"You're the boss of that," she replied. Then she added as an
afterthought. "I'd be glad to have you."
As they walked to the wharf Gregory encountered McCoy and explained the
situation.
"So I'm going out there," he concluded. "While I'm away it's up to you."
McCoy, he noticed, did not enthuse over the idea.
"Diablo's a dangerous place to be fooling around at this time of the
year," he said.
"If she can take the risk, I surely can," Gregory answered promptly.
"You're needed here," objected McCoy. "Everything's new and there's
liable to be something come up I don't know about."
"Then do the best you can. I'll back you up. You know a lot more about
it anyway than I do."
McCoy lapsed into silence while Gregory hurried away to make ready for
the trip. When they were ready to shove off, McCoy watched the two boats
slide out into the fog with conflicting emotions. Dick knew how to take
care of herself all right. She could handle a boat in bad weather with
the best of them. But, was that good enough? He reflected suddenly that
Bill Lang _had_ been the best of them. And it was on just such a day as
this that Bill Lang had met his death on Diablo with Gregory's father.
Leaning against the dripping rail, he cursed the circumstances which
prevented his being at the girl's side if anything went wrong. He liked
the boss or he would have told him to look for another man. And
Gregory's banking on him, tied him up. His inability to join the
expedition gave to another the chance which should have been his. Torn
by anxiety for the girl's welfare and another emotion he was slower in
analyzing, he listened to the faint gulping of the _Pelican's_ exhaust
until it was no longer audible.
* * * * *
The sun rose sullenly from a fog-spotted sea and glared wrathfully at
the wreaths of low-lying mist which obscured his vision of the
saw-toothed peaks of El Diablo. Under the warmth of his gaze, the
white-fleeced clouds wavered, shifting about uncertainly. As if loath to
leave the devil-island they had guarded throughout the long night, they
contracted slowly, niggardly exposing a line of rugged cliffs which
shone bleak and gray in the strengthening light of early morning.
"It's breaking up at last. Look!"
Dickie Lang pointed to the dark blot on the horizon.
"Can't. If I take my eyes from this needle for a second the boat'll run
all over the ocean."
Gregory continued to stare at the compass while the girl smiled at his
earnestness.
"Tom will take her now," she said, nodding to Howard to relieve him at
the wheel. Then she added: "You've done fine. We've been going all night
on dead reckoning and we're not far off."
Gregory surrendered the wheel with a sigh of relief and followed the
direction of the girl's extended arm.
"That's Diablo," she announced. "I'm mighty glad the fog is shifting.
Wouldn't have needed to have started so early if we had known. But
that's the fun of the sea. You never know. There is no use trying to
make it in there in a fog," she added. "It is bad enough when you can
see."
While she talked with Johnson concerning the location of the wreck,
Gregory found time to note the towering cliffs which rose precipitously
from the blue-green sea. Somewhere along that rock-crusted coast, he
reflected bitterly, Diablo had claimed another of the Lang boats only a
few months ago. Somewhere among the white-crested rocks his father and
Bill Lang had met their death. He wondered where, but did not ask.
Perhaps the girl would speak of it.
For some time he watched the mist-clouds flee before the brightening
rays of the rising sun. Then he noticed that Dickie was standing by his
side. Her eyes too were held by the rugged coast.
"The devil dumped it there," he heard her say in a low voice. "And when
he saw what a hellish coast it was, he named it for himself. That's what
dad used to say." She flung out her arm in the direction of a towering
peak. "At the base of that highest cliff was where the _Gull_ went on
the rocks. They call it 'Hell-Hole.'"
Staring in silence at the saddle-backed mountain, their minds traveled
into the past. Then Gregory asked: "Does any one live on the island?"
"It's a sheep-ranch. A man by the name of Bandrist has it leased on long
time from the government. He's Swiss, I think. He farms a little of the
land that isn't too rocky and runs his sheep over the rest. The island
is about twenty miles long and over ten in the widest place."
"Is fishing good out here?"
"Fine," the girl answered. "Only it's dangerous. Fogs in spring and
summer, and storms the rest of the time. Lots of albacore and tuna. But
it costs boats and sometimes men to get them. Dad used to fish out here,
but something was always sure to happen about the time he got well
started. Just like yesterday. Diablo's a place," she said slowly, "where
a man just can't make a mistake. If he does, he never lives to tell what
happened." She pointed to the frowning cliffs which guarded the shore
and extended far out into the water in a series of white-capped reefs.
"No anchorage," she explained. "And a strong inshore current. When you
get weather out here, it's nasty, and it hits you all in a bunch."
As they neared the island the _Pelican_ slowed down to wait for the
_Curlew_ which had been lagging astern.
"Jones must be having engine-trouble," commented Dickie Lang. "Or else
Diablo's got him buffaloed too."
"What do you mean?" Gregory asked.
Lowering her voice so that it would not reach the two fishermen on the
_Pelican_, she said: "They all give Diablo a wide berth. The fishermen
are scared to death of the island. If you want to hear a lot of wild
tales, just talk to some of my men at Legonia. Look at Manuel. Went
clean out of his head and the funny part of it is the others all
believed him. What's the matter, Jones? Having trouble?"
She addressed the skipper of the _Curlew_ as he brought his craft
alongside.
"Been havin' it all the way over," the man replied. "Compression's
gettin' worse all the time." He drew a grimy hand across his blackened
forehead and squinted in the direction of the island. "No place to be
foolin' round with a cripple either, I can tell you," he growled.
"Reckon I'd better lay to until I can get patched up."
The girl's brow wrinkled.
"All right, Jones. I'll go on. Follow when you can. We'll be around that
next point. Can you beat that?" she exclaimed in a low voice to Gregory.
"His feet are getting cold too, and he's one of the best men I have."
Keeping well off the headland they rounded the point and turned
shoreward.
"In there."
Johnson jerked his head in the direction of a small cove which lay
almost hidden beneath the brow of an overhanging cliff.
"She lays just beyond that arch."
Dickie ordered a halt.
"Can't chance it in there with the big boat. Throw out the hook and keep
your motor warm, Johnson. We may have to get out of here in a hurry.
Keep a good eye on the chain for if she starts to drift you'll be on the
rocks before you can snub her up. Put the dory over, Tom, and we'll go
ashore and take a look."
Under the powerful sweep of Tom Howard's oars, the small boat darted
from the shadow of the launch and sped away toward the cove. Rounding
the natural arch by which the point projected itself into the sea, they
entered the little cove which nestled at the base of the overhanging
cliff. Bisecting the cove, a rugged ledge of rock jutted out into the
sea. Dickie shaded her eyes with her hand and half rose from her seat.
Cradled between two jagged rocks at the extreme end of the ledge, her
bow angling sharply, her stern washed by the lapping waves, bruised and
broken, lay all that was left of her favorite vessel. Only the girl's
eyes mirrored her emotion as she stared at the wreck.
"Looks as if they made a clean job of it," she observed quietly. "Land
right in here, Tom. We'll climb up on the ledge and walk over."
Pulling the dory up on the rocks they stumbled over the slippery
eel-grass and approached the ill-fated craft. Dickie Lang examined the
hull.
"Looks like Manuel wasn't dreaming, at that," she ejaculated, pointing
to the jagged hole in the _Petrel's_ side.
"Somebody bumped him all right and it must have been almost in the cove
or he would never have drifted in here."
The further examination of the wreck went on in silence. The engine was
half-submerged, Gregory noticed, and the water poured from the
splintered hull and splashed to the rocks in a series of tiny cataracts.
"Not much of a chance to save anything but the motor and the shaft,"
Dickie observed. "And we'll have to work lively to do that on this ebb.
She'll break up on the flood if there's any sea."
As Howard jerked his head in acquiescence with the girl's diagnosis, a
shower of loose rocks rattled from the overhanging cliff. Dickie walked
around the _Petrel's_ bow and scrambled to the ledge.
"Looks as if we were going to have company," she announced, pointing in
the direction of the bluff, where three men were descending the trail to
the beach. Reaching the ledge the strangers walked steadily toward the
wreck and halted within a few feet of the salvage party. As they
jabbered in a French dialect, Gregory listened intently.
Dickie's hand stole to the pocket of her coat. The men seemed bent on
making trouble. It was best to take no chances. Her fingers sought the
handle of the Colt in vain. Cursing her negligence in leaving the
automatic aboard the _Pelican_, she stepped forward for a parley with
the strangers. Gregory and Howard placed themselves about her as the men
moved closer.
"No sabe," exclaimed Dickie Lang. "What kind of lingo are they talking
anyway."
Gregory was dividing his attention between the man with the red beard
and the weasel-faced stranger who was gesticulating so wildly with his
long arms.
"Red-beard says nobody's allowed here, or words to that effect," he
interpreted. "Weasel-face backs him up in it and says for us to beat
it."
"Tell them what we're here for. And that when we get the boat stripped
we'll go, and not before."
The red-bearded man shook his heavy head with slow comprehension.
Weasel-face shuffled closer, his small eyes blinking malevolently. The
third member of the party, a thick-set man with a face pitted by scars,
motioned threateningly in the direction of the dory.
Dickie brushed forward.
"I'll try them in dago," she said.
Gregory watched the strangers move closer to their leader as the girl
began to speak; heard his low-voiced words, uttered in a harsh guttural;
saw his arm flash out and grasp the girl roughly by the shoulder.
Leaping forward, Gregory found his way blocked by Weasel-face. The
islander's hand was fumbling at his belt. Gregory's fist snapped his
head backward. The man's hands flew up, but not in time to block the
vicious blow which caught him full on the chin.
Weasel-face's legs collapsed. Without a sound he fell in a heap upon the
rocks. Holding Dickie Lang in his great arms, the red-bearded man saw
his companion fall by his side. With a snarl he released the struggling
girl and shoved her from him. Before he could draw his knife Kenneth
Gregory was upon him.
CHAPTER XI
REFUSING TO BE BLUFFED
Dickie Lang reeled backward as the red-bearded man shoved her from him.
She felt the eel-grass slipping beneath her feet. Striving vainly to
regain her balance, she turned cat-like in the air and broke the fall
with her hands. As she rebounded to her feet she could see Gregory
wrestling with the man who had precipitated the attack. Close by his
side, Tom Howard grappled with the scar-faced islander. The third man
lay huddled on the rocks where he had fallen.
Dickie decided at once upon her course of action. Gregory and Howard
were holding their own against the two men. It was up to her to see that
the third of the islanders did not come to the rescue of his companions.
The man might regain consciousness at any moment. Then there would be
three against two. She remembered suddenly that there was rope on the
_Petrel_. Better than that there was a rifle. It was but a few steps to
the launch. She covered it quickly, caught the main-stay and pulled
herself aboard.
* * * * *
Kenneth Gregory realized at the outset that he was up against a hard
fight. In his hurry to close with the red-bearded man, his foot had
slipped on the slimy grass and he had been forced to clinch to save
himself from falling. This placed him at a marked disadvantage. His
opponent had the best of him in weight by at least twenty pounds and was
heavily muscled. Moreover he possessed a certain agility on the
grass-covered rocks which rendered any attempt on Gregory's part to
force the battle, as extremely hazardous. The islander, at home on the
slippery footing, from the start, became the aggressor.
For a time Gregory was content merely to hold his feet against
Red-beard's rushes and retain his hold on the islander's knife-arm,
should he be possessed of a weapon. Men of that type, he reasoned, were
usually short-winded. In time the heavier man would exhaust himself.
Then his turn would come. Ahead he noticed a clear space, free from
grass. The solid rock would afford good footing. There he would have a
better chance.
If the islander was determined to crowd, he might as well crowd in the
right direction. Gregory changed front slowly, working his body around
the heavier man, giving way before his bull-like rushes. When he reached
the position he desired, he checked his circling movement and began to
retreat steadily. Keeping his feet wide apart, his body carefully
balanced, he backed slowly in the direction of the spot where the grass
would no longer slip beneath his feet.
On the other side of the ledge, Tom Howard battled with the scar-faced
man. Of equal weight and strength, the struggle resolved itself into a
question of endurance, as the two men rolled over each other on the
barnacled rocks in an effort to break the other's grip and strengthen
his own. Unconscious of their surroundings, their heads locked close to
their straining bodies, they grappled blindly, working closer to a deep
crevice which lay across their path. For a brief instant they ceased
struggling. Their bodies stiffened. With each man seeking to pin the
other beneath him they rolled to the crevice and dropped from view.
* * * * *
Dickie, aboard the boat, flashed a glance at the gun-rack. The rifle was
gone. The patent-clasp which held the weapon in place had been wrenched
free. Her eyes traveled to the empty provision-locker, which stood open.
Close by it lay a small monkey-wrench with which some one had battered
the padlock.
A wrench would be better than nothing. She caught it up and ran to the
deck. Securing a small coil of rope, she jumped to the rocks and raced
in the direction of the spot where the weasel-faced man had fallen.
As she ran she caught a glimpse of Gregory giving way before the
red-bearded man toward the table-like surface of the ledge which jutted
out over the cove. Of Howard she could see nothing. She stopped
suddenly as she came in view of the spot where the weasel-faced
islander had sprawled upon the rocks.
The man was gone.
* * * * *
Solid rock beneath his feet at last--Red-beard had forced him to the
exact spot he desired to reach--Gregory's muscles contracted with a
jerk. He stopped retreating and began to slide around the islander. If
he was successful in carrying out his plan it was best to have Red-beard
on the outside of the ledge.
Divining his purpose, the big man stiffened as he caught a glimpse of
the sea over his shoulder. Straining closer to each other's throbbing
bodies, the two men redoubled their efforts to twist the other to the
outside. Red-beard's breath began to come in gasps. He opened his mouth
and sucked in the air feverishly. His corded muscles were beginning to
relax. Gregory's feet shot under the islander's legs and the big man
narrowly escaped falling. When he regained his balance he could not see
the water. The cool air from the sea which had been blowing in his face
now stirred the thick hair which covered his neck. He was on the outside
of the ledge overlooking the cove.
Before he could recover from his surprise, Red-beard felt the fingers on
his arm relax. His opponent wriggled in his arms, stiffened and crushed
against him. As the big man fought to regain his balance, Gregory freed
an arm and his fist flashed to the islander's ear. Red-beard grunted for
breath. Again the rigidly flexed forearm cut under his guard and landed
on his hairy chin. As he raised his big arms to protect his head, his
antagonist twisted free.
Ducking under the clumsy fist which beat the air above his head, Gregory
swung again for the islander's chin. With a snarl of rage, the big man
lowered his head. Then his angry growl changed quickly to a grunt of
pain as he took the blow full in the forehead. Reeling dizzily, his hand
sought his girdle. His fingers closed on the hilt of his knife and
jerked it free.
Gregory hurled himself forward at the sight of the steel. Grasping the
uplifted arm he wrenched it inward, twisting the man half around.
Surprised at the suddenness of the move, the islander gave way in a
series of staggering steps which carried him to the edge of the rock
ledge overlooking the water.
Retaining his hold on the red-bearded man's wrist, Gregory struck with
all his force at the bulging chest. As the blow landed he felt the body
crumple in his arms and the knife clattered to the rocks. The islander
staggered backward with his assailant pressing close against him. In
their struggle both men had for the moment forgotten the overhanging
ledge.
[Illustration: Both men had forgotten the overhanging ledge]
Gregory remembered it too late. Red-beard's arms were still about him.
Suddenly he felt the dead weight of the islander's body. As he strove to
break the man's hold he tottered on the brink of the ledge. He felt
himself being dragged downward. Before his eyes flashed the rock-dappled
waters of the cove. His only chance lay in clearing the rocks below.
His knees straightened with a jerk. Shoving his body outward, he
plunged over the ledge with the islander clinging to him.
The warning scream died on Dickie Lang's lips as she ran toward them.
Checking her steps on the edge of the rocks overlooking the water, she
stared at the ever-widening circles which rippled the water and the
jagged rocks which shone ominously dark beneath the surface. She
followed the center of the ripples mechanically. Thank God, they had hit
in a clear spot. But what chance would a man have throttled like that by
another?
The cool rush of air on his throbbing face gave place to a cooler one as
the waters closed over Kenneth Gregory's head. He felt his body sinking
like a stone. The arms about his body tightened. The blood pounded to
his brain. To his mind flashed stories of swimmers who had been drowned
by women with the fatal strangle-hold. He realized sharply that he was
held by no woman, but a red-bearded giant, insane through fear,
incapable of reason. Whatever he did must be done at once.
With an effort which left his lungs pressing hard against his ribs he
freed an arm and worked it upward until he felt the matted hair of the
islander's beard. From there it was only a span to the throat. That was
what he must reach. The throat. The words raced through his brain. The
throat. He must shut down on that and hang. His groping fingers searched
for the elusive organ. Perhaps Red-beard had no throat. The
grotesqueness of the idea caused him to want to laugh. It didn't matter
much after all. Not when.... There it was. He had found it at last. His
fingers stiffened and slid on the slippery flesh. Then they fastened,
tightened and hung.
* * * * *
Good God, would they never come up? Dickie searched the faintly dimpled
waters from her commanding elevation, but her closest scrutiny revealed
no sign of the men beneath the surface. Kenneth Gregory was drowned as
his father had been drowned at Diablo. So intent was the girl upon her
examination of the water that she failed to see a limping figure emerge
cautiously from behind a pile of rocks and drop into a near-by crevice.
* * * * *
Under the steady pressure of his fingers, Gregory felt the body of the
islander relax. Then he became conscious in a vague sort of way, of
movement. They were rising to the surface or sinking lower to the
bottom. Why couldn't he tell which? He freed his legs from the inert
form which twined itself about him, and kicked weakly. The red-bearded
man slipped from him at the effort and he narrowly escaped losing his
hold upon his throat. He kicked again. If he could only get one gulp of
air he could make it. In spite of the ever-increasing pressure on his
lungs he found himself getting sleepy. He was tired, worn out. If he
could only fill his lungs with something to stop that dull pain, he
could go to sleep and rest.
* * * * *
Dickie Lang saw the dark blot of the two figures as they neared the
surface. Then she thought of the rope in her hand. She could weigh it
with the wrench and throw it from where she stood. Uncoiling it hastily,
she measured the distance. Too far, she realized bitterly. She looked to
the water's edge. The distance would be shorter from there. Shoving the
wrench into her pocket and throwing the rope loosely about her neck, she
crawled over the ledge and climbed downward.
The ledge dipped sharply under the overhanging surface and extended
shoreward in a narrow shelf, carpeted by kelp and washed by the sea.
Around that big boulder would be the best place. From there she could
throw the rope to good advantage. She was about to shout encouragement
when she heard the sharp splash of a stone falling into the water from
the cliff. Shrinking closer to the rocks, she listened. Then crept
silently on.
* * * * *
Air to breathe at last! Gregory lay passive on the surface, content to
gulp it in in huge mouthfuls. Nothing else mattered now. His head
throbbed painfully and his eyeballs burned in their sockets. But he had
air. And that was enough. As the pressure of blood on his brain
lessened, he became conscious of the fact that he was still gripping the
islander's throat. He released his fingers and the big head tilted
forward until it rested face down on the water. With a start Gregory
realized that the air had come too late for Red-beard. He must get the
man ashore at once.
He turned his head slowly and saw the rock ledge only a few feet away.
By that big overhanging boulder would be the place to land. There he
could crawl up on the soft kelp and rest. Rolling the unconscious man to
his back, he swam slowly for the ledge.
* * * * *
Dickie reached the base of the projecting rock and wedging her slender
body into a small fissure, peered cautiously through the cleft. So close
that she could almost touch him, alert and motionless, stood the
weasel-faced man. His small eyes were fixed upon the water. The hand
which was nearest her held a knife.
Wriggling from the crevice she hastily retraced her steps. No use trying
to squeeze through there. She would be in full view before she would
have a chance. Flashing a glance at the rugged surface of the boulder,
she began to climb.
* * * * *
It was farther to the ledge than he thought. Something was the matter
with his legs. His arms had no strength. They had almost ceased to
function. A sharp pain gripped his side and tore downward through his
body. Still Gregory swam on. In another moment he could reach out and
grip the kelp with his hand. He closed his eyes and swam mechanically.
At length his extended fingers touched the sea-grass which fringed the
ledge. Twining them eagerly about it, he pulled his aching body closer
and rested, clinging to the rocks.
* * * * *
Hand over hand Dickie Lang crawled upward and outward until she could
see the water lapping at the ledge beneath. From her vantage point she
could see Gregory swimming on with closed eyes in the direction of the
rocks. His limbs were moving slowly and his face was drawn with pain.
Still he floundered on. Straight for the kelp-covered ledge--and
Weasel-face.
A sharp turn in the rocky pathway put the man in full view, only a few
feet below. Sheltered from sight of the struggling figure in the water,
he waited in silence.
If she called out to warn Gregory to seek a new landing-place it was
doubtful if he could make the beach in his exhausted condition. Such a
course, too, would make her presence known to the hatchet-faced man who
as yet had not observed her. No, it was better to take the man unawares.
She thought of the rope. Perhaps she could loop it over his head. She
gave up the idea at once. It could only fail. Jamming her hands into her
pockets, her fingers closed on the wrench. She jerked it out and
balanced it in her hand. A feeling of confidence surged over her. She
couldn't miss him from where she stood. Her pastime of flinging stones
at the gulls when a child would stand her in good stead now. If the man
looked up, she would throw before he could recover from his surprise.
* * * * *
Dragging his tired body wearily from the water, Gregory pulled his
unconscious companion after him. As he stretched the islander at full
length on the soft kelp and knelt over him, he caught sight of a man's
foot protruding from behind a rock.
Gregory stumbled to his feet. At the same instant he heard the sound of
a muffled blow. A small wrench clattered to the rocks and fell with a
splash into a pool of water.
"I knew I could get him," a girlish voice called from above. Dickie Lang
jumped down with shining eyes and made her way toward him. "Buck up," he
heard her say. But the voice trailed away into silence.
When he regained consciousness, the girl was bending over him, rubbing
his numbed limbs and slapping his cold flesh violently.
"You'll be all right in a minute," she said. "Don't try to talk now. Lie
still and rest. Feel better?"
He nodded. As he moved his head he noticed the two figures lying close
beside him. Noting the questioning look in his eyes, Dickie explained:
"They're all right or will be in a little while. I'm looking after them.
When they come to, I'm going to tie them up." She flourished a small
coil of rope.
As his strength returned Gregory began to pick up the loose threads.
"Howard?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Don't know where he is. Couldn't see him. Don't
worry. Chances are he's all right. He's hard as nails. When you can walk
we'll go and look for him."
They found the fisherman huddled against the rocks at the bottom of the
small crevice. Close by his side lay the scar-faced islander. Both men
were unconscious.
Gregory examined Howard carefully.
"His leg is broken," he announced. "And he's pretty well bruised up. He
must have got an awful jolt when he fell on these rocks." Jumping up, he
exclaimed: "I'll go and get something for splints," he said. "Make him
as comfortable as you can."
When he returned Dickie noticed he carried a heavy oar which he had
fashioned into a rude crutch, a number of small strips of wood and a
piece of an old blanket.
"Found them on the _Petrel_," he said as he set to work.
Dickie assisted Gregory in caring for the wounded man. Her respect for
the young man increased as she noted the skilful manner with which he
worked. Soon Howard's leg was set and after a time he opened his eyes
and slowly regained consciousness. The sun was high overhead when they
were able to move the injured men. While Howard rested for a moment on
the ledge, Gregory carried the unconscious form of the other man to the
soft sea-grass and stretched him at full length. Then he thought of the
two men they had left on the narrow shelf by the sea.
"I'd better have a look at Red-beard and the other fellow," he said
suddenly. "The water might come in there and wash them off."
Dickie nodded. "I'll stay here," she said, and Gregory hurried off.
When he came back he shook his head. "Gone," he announced.
"Washed off?"
"Don't think so. The water hadn't quite got to where we left them. I
guess they sneaked."
Dickie's eyes searched the sea while he spoke.
"I can't understand what is keeping the boys from the _Curlew_," she
said. "We'd better get Tom aboard the _Petrel_ where we can make him
more comfortable. Better bring the other fellow too. There's some whisky
on the boat unless those devils have stolen it too. Hello, what's that?"
The quiet was broken by the sharp clatter of horses' hoofs. Looking in
the direction of the sound, Gregory saw a number of horsemen riding over
the crest of the bluff overlooking the cove.
The fisherman glanced toward the dory which lay on the rocks at the
extreme end of the ledge.
"Better beat it," he suggested.
Dickie Lang shook her head stubbornly. "No," she said. "We'll leave that
man here and the rest of us will get aboard. The _Petrel's_ on tide land
and I'll be damned if any one's going to bluff me out."
CHAPTER XII
A WARNING
From the _Petrel's_ sloping deck they saw the horsemen appear in bold
silhouette against the sky-line. Swinging from their saddles they walked
to meet a white-shirted rider who galloped over the ridge and drew rein
among them.
The newcomer remained astride his horse. Resting an arm on the horn of
his saddle, he stared into the little cove through his binoculars.
Satisfied apparently by what he saw, he dismounted and walked rapidly
toward the trail leading to the beach, the men following after him. As
they took their way down the cliff Gregory noticed that some of the men
carried rifles. When they reached the beach the white-shirted man walked
on alone, and without a backward glance, traversed the rocks in the
direction of the wreck.
"He walks like a king," commented Dickie Lang. "I wonder if that is
Bandrist."
Gregory noted the clean-cut figure of the stranger carefully. The man
was about his own height though of slighter build, the spareness of his
figure being emphasized by the close-fitting riding-trousers and the
thin silk shirt which fluttered about him as he strode along. The
fair-haired stranger stopped abruptly when he reached the _Petrel's_
side. Flinging an arm upward with a careless gesture, and looking
straight at the girl, he said quietly:
"I am unarmed. May I come aboard your vessel?"
Only the slightest trace of the foreigner was discernible in his speech.
Dickie Lang nodded. "Come ahead," she said. "Whoever you are, you can
speak English at least."
The visitor smiled as he caught the mast-stay and drew himself
gracefully over the rail.
"I am Leo Bandrist," he introduced. "I fear my men have caused you some
annoyance. I am sorry."
Dickie rehearsed the incidents leading up to the trouble with the
natives and when she had concluded, Bandrist's forehead wrinkled in a
frown.
"I am very sorry," he repeated. "My men, you see, are very stupid. Very
ignorant. They understand but little English. Then, too, I have been
annoyed by others. You see, I have many sheep and wild goats upon the
island. Hunters come to shoot the goats, but they often mistake my sheep
for them. Fishermen also have caused me great trouble. I have fenced my
lands to keep them out; put up the signs the law tells me I must to
protect myself. But no, they disregard my rights. So I give my men
instructions to keep them out. When my rangers are opposed they grow
ugly. One of them tells me that one of your number began the attack.
That angered them, you see, and they fought back. It was but natural.
However, I am sorry. I trust that none of your party has been seriously
injured."
"Small thanks to you," Dickie snapped. "Your men tried hard enough to
commit murder." Nodding in the direction of the unconscious islander,
she added: "There's one of your outfit stretched out over there. Another
was half-drowned. The third tried to knife Mr. Gregory. I hit him in the
head with a monkey-wrench. They both got away or were washed off the
ledge."
Bandrist shot a quick glance at Gregory as the girl mentioned the
cannery owner's name. At the girl's reference to her part in the affair
his eyes lighted with interest. Then the frown came again to his face.
"That is the trouble," he said quickly. "My men do not understand. They
know only one way to fight. That is to win. If you will permit me, I
shall summon the others to care for their companion."
He waited for the girl's consent. Then he waved his hand to the men on
the beach. When they were within ear-shot, Bandrist addressed them
rapidly, nodding toward the spot indicated by Dickie Lang. As the men
hurried away, he explained:
"They come to me from many countries. Some of them are bad and cause me
much trouble. It is so lonesome out here that I can not keep good men. I
tell my fence-riders only to keep people away so that they will not kill
my sheep. Some of them I arm as you see, because those who hunt also
carry guns and are sometimes ugly."
He spread out his slender fingers apologetically.
"Again I am sorry," he said. "If you desire to work now I will see that
you are undisturbed, if you will promise to leave the island when you
are through. You see I do not want any more trouble," he concluded with
frank emphasis. "My men will be very angry when they find their wounded
comrade. Sometimes it is difficult for me to restrain them."
The excited jargon of the islanders as they came upon their disabled
fellow confirmed the truth of his words. Jabbering to themselves, and
casting sullen glances in the direction of the _Petrel_, they carried
the man over the ledge to the beach.
"Mr. Bandrist," said Dickie clearly. "I've as much right to be here as
you have. You can't legally keep me from taking the engine out of this
boat. She's on tide and you haven't any more claim to that than I have.
You know that as well as I do. I'm going to take my time. When I get
through, I'll go. And not before. If you are on the square you'll stay
here until I do. We don't want trouble any more than you do. But we're
not going to be bluffed out on this deal or any other."
Bandrist's eyes shone with unconcealed admiration. He inclined his head
in response to her suggestion and exclaimed: "I shall be only too glad
to remain here until you are ready to leave."
Dickie Lang turned quickly to Howard. "You keep off your feet, Tom," she
said. "I might as well start in. The boys from the _Curlew_ ought to
have been here long before this."
Gregory pressed forward. "Tell me what to do," he said.
The girl regarded him approvingly. "You can loosen the stud-bolts on the
motor first. Come on," she said. "I'll show you."
Bandrist followed after them. "May I help?" he asked.
She shook her head with decision. "Two's as many as can conveniently
work around the engine," she answered.
The work of tearing down the motor began at once. Gregory wore the skin
from his knuckles in loosening the stud-bolts while Howard instructed
him from the doorway how to take off the carburetor and rip up the
feed-line. As they worked the girl made a rapid survey of the parts she
desired to salvage.
"Some more of your friends?"
Bandrist pointed seaward where a dory was rounding the point and heading
shoreward.
The girl acknowledged his words with a curt nod.
"Here come the boys from the _Curlew_," she announced.
When the landing party reached the _Petrel's_ side, Jones and Sorenson
stared in silence at the white-shirted man leaning against the rail.
"Got things fixed up, Jones? You were a long time coming."
The skipper of the _Curlew_ climbed aboard before replying. Drawing the
girl to one side, he said quietly: "Thing's pretty well shot, miss. Took
her down and found this."
He extended a blackened handkerchief covered with fine dust. Dickie Lang
examined it carefully, rubbing the particles of black grit between her
fingers.
"Emery dust?"
Jones nodded. "She's full of it," he answered. "Don't dare and start her
up. She'd cut herself to pieces."
Silently regarding the blackened particles, the girl asked: "Carlin was
with you yesterday you said, didn't you?"
"Yes. Him and Jacobs."
"Carlin's enough. I knew he was a dub. But I didn't think he had brains
enough to be a crook. I know now. Well, we've got enough trouble right
here for a while without bothering about your boat. You rip up the motor
and Sorenson and Mr. Gregory can strip the deck. We've got to hustle. It
will begin to rough up soon. Then we'll have to run with what we have.
She'll break up on the flood by the looks of things."
Pausing for a moment to partake of a meager lunch which Dickie
discovered had been overlooked by the robber of the _Petrel_, all hands
turned again to the work of salvaging the motor.
Through the long afternoon they worked in silence. As Gregory stripped
the iron chaulks from the deck and removed the stays, he noticed that
Bandrist leaned idly against the rail with his blue eyes following the
movements of Dickie Lang with great interest. Once, before Gregory could
surmise his purpose, he sprang to the girl's side and assisted her with
a piece of shaft and the ease with which he handled the heavy brass
caused the young man to marvel.
A queer specimen of man was Bandrist, he reflected, to be marooned in
such a spot as this. Gregory's work gave him a chance to study the
islander without being observed. He was a figure who merited more than a
passing glance. He would challenge attention in any environment. While
he twisted the galvanized turn-buckles, rusted by the salt-air, Gregory
appraised the man carefully.
Trained to the minute and hard as nails, he catalogued the slender
figure. The long smooth-lying muscles were those of an athlete. He could
see them rippling at the open-throat and on the islander's wrist when he
raised his arm. The features too were worthy of notice. Line by line he
studied them. From the high forehead which bulged over the clear blue
eyes, to the delicately ovaled chin. The face was emotionless. Only the
curve of the thin lips showed the man beneath the mask. The lips were
cruel as death.
The tall crags cast their irregular shadows athwart the cove and a
sudden puff of wind, which had freshened as the day wore on, ruffled the
quiet waters and caused them to slap angrily at the base of the ledge.
Dickie Lang cast a weather-eye to seaward and shook her head.
"Time we were getting in the clear, boys," she said. "The tide's
beginning to set in strong and the breeze is freshening. We've got about
all we dare fool with. I want to get clear of the Diablo coast before
the fog drifts any closer."
The fishermen issued from the engine-house at her words and began to
gather up the parts of the dissembled motor and carry them to the
waiting skiffs. Then they assisted Howard to the dory. In a few moments
they were ready to shove off. Dickie stepped into the dory of the
_Pelican_ which Jones shoved into the water.
"I want to get Tom to the launch and have her ready to get under way,"
she explained to Gregory. "Will you stay and help Sorenson load the rest
of the motor?"
Gregory nodded and set to work. Bandrist's eyes followed the departing
skiff until it disappeared around the point. Then he motioned Gregory to
one side and began to speak: "Do not let her come out here again," he
said in a low voice. "Diablo is not a safe place for fishermen, much
less a woman. My men will not forget you. I was able to control them
to-day. The next time I might not be so fortunate."
However well meant the warning might have been, it rankled in Gregory's
breast. He felt his instinctive dislike of Bandrist grow with the man's
words. Meeting the islander's eyes squarely, he said in a voice which
only Bandrist could hear:
"If it is necessary for us to come to Diablo again, Mr. Bandrist, we
will come. If you are unable to handle your men, that will be up to
you."
For a moment the two men appraised each other in silence. Then Gregory
turned and walked to the waiting dory.
In the purpling dusk they embarked from Diablo and sped across the
rippling water to the launch which lay in the offing. Looking back from
the stern-seat, Gregory saw the man on the ledge gazing after them with
folded arms.
On the deck of the _Pelican_ the girl was issuing hasty orders for the
return to the mainland.
"Kick her over, Jones. Johnson, stand by the hook. Here comes the other
skiff. Get your stuff aboard, Sorenson, as quick as you can," she called
to the approaching dory, "and swing the boat on deck. We'll beat it out
of here and take the _Curlew_ in tow. Make it lively, boys. We've got to
be under way."
Swinging wide of the headland the _Pelican_ plunged into the trough of
the swell and skirting the coast raced on to pick up the disabled
_Curlew_. Dickie Lang looked back at the dim outline of the cliffs as
they shadowed the sea.
"Poor little _Pete_," she exclaimed softly. "It's tough. But it can't be
helped."
Gregory alone heard her words.
"It sure is," he said, feeling that the words were wholly inadequate.
"And I'm mighty sorry," he added.
The girl started. "I guess I was thinking aloud," she said. "I didn't
know you heard." She set her lips together. "It's all in the game, I
know," she went on, "but no one but me knows how I hate to lose the
little _Petrel_."
When they picked up the _Curlew_ the fitful wind died suddenly and the
air grew heavy with moisture. The white clouds which scurried across the
face of the heavens dropped lower and massing themselves together
obscured the stars. Piloting the _Pelican_ and her tow safely to the
high seas, the girl relinquished the wheel to Johnson with a sigh of
relief.
"I'll rustle something to eat, Bill," she said. "We'll stand two-hour
watches. I'll take her next. I want to see if there is anything I can do
for Tom. I'll be in the cabin. Call me if you sight anything or it gets
thicker."
Turning to Gregory, she exclaimed: "The next thing is to eat. I'm
starved myself, and I'll bet you're worse."
Repairing to the cabin where the big fisherman was already asleep on the
bunk, they ate their first real meal of the day in silence. There was
much that they could have talked about, but one does not follow the sea
long without learning that opportunities to eat are sometimes golden,
and not lightly to be passed over or interfered with by conversation. It
was not until the last morsel of food had been consumed, therefore, that
Gregory made an effort to voice his thoughts.
"What do you think of Bandrist?" he asked suddenly.
The girl started, surprised that they should both be thinking of the
same man. Her forehead wrinkled slowly as she answered:
"I think he's a crook. I don't know why exactly, but I just do. He's too
smooth. Too well educated for a sheep-man. He's up to something at
Diablo. Don't know what. Don't know that it is any of my business at
that. But I don't like him."
"Neither do I," Gregory admitted. "I sized him up as a mighty clever
man. He has a hard outfit out there and he pretends he can't control
them. That's the bunk. Did you notice how they took orders from him
without even talking back?"
"Yes. And he had most of them armed. With orders to keep people off of
the island. Why?" she asked suddenly. "I don't believe it's on account
of the sheep."
Gregory shook his head emphatically.
"That was bunk too," he said. "They knew we were not trying to hunt. I
suppose they did get pretty sore when we roughed it with them, but that
didn't give them any license to pull their knives and try to carve us
up. That crazy fool would have had me in another minute if it hadn't
been for you."
Dickie sought to minimize her part in the affair.
"I didn't do much," she said. "I was just lucky. You did all of the hard
work. I thought you were never coming up."
"You were dead game," Gregory cut in. "You saved me from that fellow's
knife and you know it."
Dickie Lang made no reply but sat with her arms resting on the
cabin-table, looking off into space. Again she saw herself huddled
against the rocks, looking down into the sunlit water of the cove,
waiting for the men to come to the surface. What a fight Gregory must
have had to have freed himself from that strangle-hold and save the life
of the other man as well as his own. How skilfully he had worked over
Howard. He seemed to know just what to do. She raised her head sharply.
Not given to living in the past, she wondered why her mind had gone
wool-gathering. Perhaps it was because she was beginning to realize that
this man was a man among men. And real men were scarce. He was speaking
again.
"There's something wrong at Diablo. I'd give a lot to find out what it
is."
"It would cost a lot," she answered soberly. "And what business is it of
ours? Dad used to say that monkeying with other people's affairs was a
luxury he never could afford."
"But if they interfere with fishing, it is some of our business."
"Yes, but do they?"
"I don't know. That is, not yet," he was forced to admit.
"Neither do I. Until I do, I'm not looking for any more trouble than I
can see ahead right now."
Silence for several moments. Then, from the girl:
"Besides, you couldn't find out anything. The fishermen are scared stiff
of Diablo as it is. When this gets around, they'll be even worse.
They're not looking for more excitement. They have enough."
To Gregory's mind recurred his plan of manning the girl's boats. Here
was an opportunity to justify it.
"The bunch I'm figuring on wouldn't be afraid of it," he said. "In fact
I think they would kind of enjoy finding out."
Dickie smiled. "Aren't you speaking two words for yourself?" she asked.
He smiled too. "I'll admit I have some curiosity," he answered.
The girl laughed. "You've got into the habit of fighting," she retorted.
"But the war is over now."
"Maybe you're right. But at Legonia I've an idea it has just begun."
It was just what she would have had him say. What she would have said
herself if she had spoken her mind. She liked a man who wasn't afraid.
They were the kind one could tie to. Gregory's proposal again assailed
her. It had its advantages. She would think it over while she was at the
wheel.
"Boat off starboard quarter," a gruff voice announced from the doorway.
Dickie Lang sprang to her feet and hurried on deck with Gregory
following close behind. From the gray gloom came the sharp exhaust of a
high-powered motor, running at top speed. As they looked in the
direction of the sound, which was fast changing to an angry roar, the
shifting wall of filmy fog was pierced by a flash of green.
"Mascola!"
Gregory was barely able to catch the girl's words above the uproar of
the gatlin-like exhaust. The next instant the green light flashed by and
was swallowed up in the gloom.
"I wonder what he's doing out here running like that?" Dickie mused.
"How do you know who it was?"
She laughed. "There's only one boat anywhere around here with an exhaust
like that," she answered. "That's the _Fuor d'Italia_. She's the fastest
craft in southern waters of her kind. And no one ever runs her but
Mascola."
Gregory continued to listen to the rapid-fire exhaust as it died away in
the distance. Then he pictured himself driving the trim craft, plunging
through the waves and hurling the spray into his face as he raced on.
Recalled to himself by the slow-moving _Pelican_ burdened by her tow, he
reflected that speed sometimes was everything. If he was going to oppose
Mascola he would have to get there first. Dickie was speaking again.
"Joe Barrows built her up at Port Angeles. Mascola hasn't had her very
long and he won't have her much longer if he pounds her like that. I
wonder what he's going out to Diablo for in such a hurry."
Gregory could not answer. But he made up his mind if he was ever going
to find out, he would have to have a faster boat than the _Fuor
d'Italia_. Perhaps Joe Barrows could help him out.
Through the long night the _Pelican_ crept into the thickening fog with
the disabled _Curlew_. Daybreak found them at the entrance to Crescent
Bay. When they reached the Lang docks the masts of the fishing-fleet
could be dimly discerned through the shifting mist like a forest of
bare-trunked trees.
Dickie frowned.
"The boys are late getting out," she observed. "I wonder what's the
matter."
As they drew alongside the wharf it was evident that something unusual
was in the air. The pier was thronged with fishermen, gathered together
in little groups, leaning idly against the empty fish-boxes. At the
landing party's approach the low hum of conversation died away into a
faint murmur. A solitary figure, standing apart from the others, hurried
forward to meet the girl as she walked up the gangway.
"Hello, Jack. What's the trouble?"
McCoy nodded in the direction of the silent fishermen. "Trouble enough,"
he whispered. "I'm mighty glad you've come, Dick. There's a strike on.
Carlin's got them all riled up and there's hell to pay."
CHAPTER XIII
THE STRIKE
A strike at this of all times! And Pete Carlin at the bottom of it! With
her nerves frayed raw by two nights of sleepless vigil and the memory of
the _Curlew's_ disabled motor rankling within her, Dickie Lang brushed
by a group of men and confronted a bullet-headed man in a loose gray
sweater.
"Carlin," she said clearly in a voice which all could hear, "you're
fired. You're a crook. If you'd work the clock around I wouldn't have
you on the job."
Turning to the fishermen she rapidly related the incident of the finding
of the emery-dust in the _Curlew's_ motor.
"It's a lie," Carlin interrupted, "I don't----"
"It's the truth, Pete Carlin, and you know it."
Dickie moved closer to Carlin and her eyes met his. "You can't look me
in the eye and deny it," she challenged. As the man said nothing, she
flashed: "Get off my dock while you're still able to walk. If I was a
man I'd knock you down."
The man grinned but did not move.
"But you ain't," he retorted. "I reckon I ain't goin' to have no fool
girl tell me where to head in at. I reckon I----"
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and his sentence remained unfinished.
Gregory's eyes were snapping close to Carlin's.
"Beat it," he said, "while the trail's open."
Carlin flashed a glance over his shoulder at the fishermen who stood
looking on in stoical silence. Then he decided to go. Mumbling to
himself, he turned sullenly from the men about him and walked slowly
down the dock.
Dickie Lang faced the silent fishermen.
"Now, boys, what is it? I'll hear what you've got to say. But I won't
have any dealings with a crook."
The men about her shuffled their feet and drew closer. Then a man in a
faded plaid jumper detached himself from the others and began to speak.
"We ain't got nothin' against you, Miss Lang," he began uncertainly.
"But we've all got to look out for ourselves. We got families and folks
dependin' on us. Livin' 's out of sight. So is clothes and everything.
We----"
"What's your proposition, Blagg?"
The fisherman hesitated at the directness of the question. Then he
recited: "Straight time. Eight-hour day for six dollars. Double money
for overtime and Sundays."
Dickie started at the demand. Carlin had done his work well to set such
a limit as that. She wondered how far the seeds of discontent had
spread among the others. As her eye traveled over the silent groups,
Blagg went on:
"You see, miss, as I say we got families and the women-folks----"
"Don't blame the women, Joe," interrupted the girl. "If they got half of
what the saloons leave they'd have no kick coming. I'll bet they're not
back of this. You've been listening to a half-baked fool who couldn't
make a living if dollars grew on trees. All Pete Carlin can do is talk.
You boys know he isn't a fisherman."
She stepped closer and her voice dropped to a conversational tone. "It
just isn't in the business, boys. If I promised to pay those wages I
couldn't do it. I'd be broke with the first run of bad luck and you know
it as well as I do, if you'd stop to think. The man doesn't live who can
pay that around here and get out."
Blagg smiled knowingly at the fishermen.
"You're wrong, miss," he said. "We've already got the offer for a job at
them terms."
"Not here?"
He nodded. "Right here in town. We won't have to move nor nothin'."
Watching the effect of his words upon the girl, he went on, carried away
by the importance of his announcement. "That's why we're puttin' it up
to you. You've always shot pretty square with us. But money talks, and
we all got to look out for Number One. I reckon none of the boys is
honein' to go to work for a furrinor, but we all knows his money's good
as yours and that's what counts."
"You mean you're going to ditch me for Mascola?"
Blagg dropped his eyes to the planks of the wharf before the girl's
steady gaze.
"We don't aim to ditch nobody," he said awkwardly. "But we got to live.
The dago's offered us six day straight with double for overtime and
Sundays. We ain't decided yet. We waited to give you a chance."
Dickie Lang listened quietly, her eyes roaming among the knots of silent
fishermen. Some she noticed stood close and as their spokesman went on,
shuffled closer. Others held aloof. When Blagg had concluded, she began
to speak in a voice which carried to the detached groups of men standing
in the back row.
"I'm not going to say much. But what I do say I want it to sink in. Come
up closer all of you where we can see one another."
When the fishermen ranged themselves about her, she looked hard into
their weather-beaten faces and went on earnestly: "Boys, you've known me
since I was a kid. Most of you knew my dad. If you did, you knew a man.
He had to fight hard for a living. But he shot square every foot of the
way. Some of you were here when he came."
She singled out a few of the older men and spoke directly to them: "Do
you think you'd be here now if it hadn't been for Bill Lang? What were
the Russians and Austrians doing to you when he came? You were all down
on your uppers and didn't know where your next meal was coming from. Who
was it that took up your fight? Who backed you with boats and gear and
taught you how to fish so you could hold your own against the outsiders?
You know without my telling you."
Some of the older fishermen dropped their eyes to the rough board planks
at the girl's words. There was no doubt that Lang had been square. But
as Blagg had pointed out, a man had to look out for himself.
"You think that hasn't anything to do with your quitting me to get more
money? All right. I'll show you that it has. Let me ask you some
questions. What is Mascola paying his own fishermen? Why should he pay
you fellows twice that much? Does he think you'll rob more traps, lay
round more nets and run more men off the beach with his seine? Why
should he pay you six dollars when he can load up with a gang that'll do
what he says for three? Is that business?"
She paused and her lips compressed in a straight line as she went on:
"You can answer those questions just as well as I can. You know what
Mascola's game is. He thinks he's going to put me out of business. He's
trying to crowd me off the sea. What do you suppose will become of you
if he makes good? How long will you get that six dollars a day with the
Lang fleet out of commission? You've been fighting his men for a square
deal ever since you came here. And now you're figuring on helping them
run you out of your own town."
Blagg noticed that several of the men were falling back and whispering
among themselves. Scenting signs of a break among his ranks, he felt it
was up to him to say something. Well, he had his trump card yet to play.
"We ain't such fools as you think," he said. "We ain't gone at this
thing without considering pretty careful and gettin' good advice. Last
night some of us had a meetin' and talked things over. Mr. Rock was
there and he give us some mighty good advice. He says to the boys that
it was every feller for himself and----"
"Rock's got a mortgage on your house, hasn't he, Joe?"
Blagg flushed beneath his tan.
"I reckon that ain't got nothing to do with it if he has," he
challenged. "And you understand I ain't even sayin' he has. But he's a
business man."
"And a hypocrite," supplemented Dickie Lang. "Nobody knows that any
better than I. He lied to me and tried to flim-flam me out of my boats
before my dad was buried a week. If I'd fallen for it he would have had
me right where he's got you, Joe. But I didn't. And when he found out I
was going to stick to you boys, he called me a fool and said no white
man could compete against Mascola's men."
As she paused for breath, Gregory saw Tom Howard hobbling through the
crowd, speaking in low tones with the fishermen.
"One minute more and I'm through," the girl concluded. "We're up against
a hard fight here at Legonia. A fight for Americans to fish their own
waters. Sounds foolish, but you know it's the truth. When my father and
Mr. Gregory were drowned off Diablo, Mascola thought he had us beaten.
Rock thought so, too. But I'm telling you we're going to fool them both.
There's something wrong around here, boys, when we can't get a
fifty-fifty break on our own coast. And we're going to find out what it
is."
Seeing that she had the ear of the men at last, she walked closer.
"Listen, boys, I've got a big proposition to offer you. One that will
beat Mascola's like an ace beats a deuce. Because this one is on the
square."
The fishermen crowded closer while she went on:
"You know what we've been up against here for years to get good help.
You boys have been working short-handed most of the time. Doing more
work than it was up to you to do. I've got a plan now to get all the men
you want. Good men too. Fellows who have been tried out, red-blooded
men. Fighters! I want you men to train them. Show them how to fish. In a
little while they'll be doing all the work and I'll pay you four dollars
a day straight time with a dollar a day more if you stick through the
season. But better than that I'll give you a share in the profits of
not only my own business, but the Legonia Fish Cannery as well."
Gregory gulped. It was Dickie's voice all right. But the words were his
own. There was some mistake somewhere. He strove to regain control of
his scattered senses as Blagg burst out:
"You're figurin' to start somethin' you can't finish, ain't you? You
ain't bought the cannery already, have you?"
"Don't you worry about that, Blagg. I know what I'm talking about. Mr.
Gregory and I are partners on this deal."
Blagg was taken back by the girl's announcement. Almost as much so as
Gregory himself.
"Suppose there ain't no profits?" put in another fisherman.
"That's your lookout as well as mine." Again the girl took Gregory's
words and went on: "But there will be. I'm going to get a bunch of
ex-navy men down here that mean business. They won't let Mascola, Rock
or anybody else bluff them off the sea. All they want is a chance to
learn the game. You boys can teach it to them right."
Blagg stepped back and began to whisper to the men about him. The other
fishermen looked at one another and listened for Bill Lang's girl to go
on:
"You fellows all know the advantage it gives you to have enough boats
and men. If you break down and get into any trouble, it's pretty good to
have somebody standing by to give you a hand. And you know that Mascola
knows how to make trouble."
Turning to the older men, some of whom had already begun to feel their
joints stiffening with rheumatism, she said: "Fishing's a hard game,
boys, for the best of us. And it doesn't get any easier as we get older.
There's a lot of you who will have to go into dry-dock before long and
get patched up. And there's some that can't afford to lay up. You've
been working with your hands too long. You've got to ease up and use
your brains. That's what I want to hire now. These young fellows are
eager to help you. It will be up to you to show them what to do."
Could this be the girl who had angrily announced that she intended to
run her business in her own way? Gregory could only stare at Dickie
Lang. So far, she had not even included him as being a partner to the
idea, save by her pledge of the profits of his cannery. Surely she would
explain her sudden change of heart. Listening intently, he heard her
conclude:
"Think it over, boys. It's a chance that may never come again. If there
are any questions you'd like to ask, shoot."
Blagg noted that her words were having a marked effect upon the silent
fishermen. Seeking to stem the tide of the reaction which he felt was
setting in against him, he began to make objections.
Dickie Lang met his arguments with painstaking explanations and the
objections gradually became fewer, simmering down into more or less
intelligent questions. Gregory noticed that the fishermen began to
retire and clustered together in little groups while they talked
earnestly among themselves. Still there came no explanation from the
girl. She was championing his ideas as if they had been her own
cherished plans.
At length the various knots of men drew further apart and faced each
other in two well-marked divisions. To the left stood Joe Blagg, about
him clustering the younger and more radical element of the fishing
colony. On the right the property-owners and heads of families for the
most part, drew closer to Big Jack Stuss, their acknowledged leader.
Dickie Lang regarded the two factions carefully, striving to count their
ranks. Each was about evenly divided, she figured, with Big Jack's
constituency slightly in the lead.
Blagg stepped forward and began to speak: "It's six straight for me and
mine," he said. "Them's our terms. The boys can't see your new-fangled
proposition at all."
"It's up to you," the girl replied coolly. "If that's the way you feel,
you can get your money. But before you do, I'd advise you to talk it
over at home. Don't forget that I'm fighting for you--not against you.
It might be pretty nice to remember some time that you tried to help
yourselves. Think it over before you get your checks."
As she finished speaking, Big Jack got slowly under way. Elbowing a path
through the crowd he shuffled closer, hitching at the straining
suspender to which was entrusted the task of holding in place his two
pairs of baggy canvas trousers. Shifting from one bowed knee to the
other, he contemplated his great bare toes in silence while he drew in a
deep breath which filled his huge lungs to the bursting point and caused
the muscles of his neck to stand out in purpled knots.
Dickie waited, knowing full well that it was Big Jack's invariable
preface for speech. When the big fisherman had secured enough
compression to proceed, he boomed forth in a fog-horn voice:
"Me and my fellers has decided to stick. Youse fellers can count on us
if you shoot square. We's willin' to take a chanct."
[Illustration: "Me and my fellers has decided to stick"]
His sentences were interpolated with great gusts of surplus breath. As
he finished speaking he lumbered away to rejoin his companions.
"That's the stuff, boys. It's the way I like to hear men talk. It shows
you've got the sand. Take it from me, you'll never be sorry you stuck."
She walked forward and passed familiarly among them while the Blagg
faction melted slowly away and straggled down the dock in the direction
of the town.
Gregory stood with McCoy while the excitement quieted down and Dickie
despatched the fishing-boats on their accustomed morning cruise.
"Well, I'll say you've done wonders," McCoy was saying. "Who would ever
have thought that Dick would have given in?"
Gregory nodded weakly. "I was rather surprised myself," he admitted.
McCoy looked at his watch. "I must go," he said. "It's almost time to
blow the whistle. Coming up soon?"
Gregory promised to be on hand as soon as he got his breakfast and McCoy
hurried off. When the last of her remaining men had left the dock,
Gregory noticed the girl coming toward him. Now he would learn the
reason for her sudden change of mind. He listened eagerly for the
explanation.
Dickie Lang passed a slim brown hand slowly over her forehead and
replaced a tousled lock of red-brown hair.
"Now," she said calmly, "when can you get me my men?"
CHAPTER XIV
THE MOTHER OF INVENTION
Everything was coming his way. Kenneth Gregory glanced again at his
first balance-sheet. The cannery had been in operation but a single
month and already the business was exceeding his fondest expectations.
He glanced at the chart which hung by his side. Forty-two completely
equipped fishing-boats in the water and every one fully manned. He
smiled as he thought of Dickie Lang's astonishment at the manner in
which the ex-navy men had taken hold of the work.
His smile broadened too as he noted the receipts from the fresh fish and
the canned product. Fishing had sure been good. And there had been
little or no interference from Mascola. Since the day when Dickie had
accepted his proposition all had gone smoothly. Gregory attributed his
success to the carrying out of an idea. It had worked. It had to work.
And it was _his_ idea.
On the floor of the cannery, Dickie Lang was also analyzing the
phenomenal success of the Legonia Fish Cannery while she waited for the
owner to accompany her on their daily cruise to the fishing grounds.
"I'll tell you, Jack, it gets my goat how things began to pick up the
very minute I threw up my contract. He's had nothing but luck ever
since."
"I wouldn't say that, Dick," McCoy objected. "The boss's idea was worth
something. Of course I----"
"Oh, rats! I'm sick of hearing everybody talking about an idea. All
these fellows in here think that Kenneth Gregory can't make a mistake.
They think that nobody else could have done what he did."
"That's what you want fellows to think who are working for you, isn't
it?" ventured McCoy.
Dickie gasped. Had McCoy too fallen a victim to hero-worship? McCoy, who
had been her loyal friend, and servant? She determined to find out to
what extent he had transferred his allegiance.
"Do you think Mr. Gregory did any more than I could have done?" she
flashed.
McCoy endeavored to temporize. "Well, in a way he didn't," he said, "and
then again he did. You see----"
But Dickie refused to see. Whirling angrily, she walked rapidly toward
the office. Anything to get away from hearing Gregory's praises chanted
from every lip. Better be with the idol himself than his devout
followers. She flung open the door and entered the office. Gregory faced
her with a smile. A self-satisfied smile, the girl thought. In his hand
was a paper.
"Look at that," he exclaimed. "My idea has worked out a lot better than
I anticipated."
Dickie glanced coldly at the sheet but made no effort to take it from
his hand. Looking him full in the eye, she observed:
"I'm about caught up with that idea of yours. I don't see that there is
anything in it to cause any one to get the swelled-head."
"Who's getting the swelled-head?" demanded Gregory, the smile passing
from his face.
"Well, I'm not," retorted the girl, laying special stress on the
pronoun. "I've seen too much of this game to have my head turned by a
little luck."
Gregory overlooked the implication and admitted soberly:
"Yes, we sure have had luck. There's no denying that. I never had any
idea the boys would take to the game the way they have."
"They wouldn't if it hadn't been for my fishermen taking all the trouble
they did with them. Why, a lot of those fellows were seasick when they
first came down here. They were 'rocking-chair sailors.' My men made
them what they are. I don't see any luck in that."
Gregory smiled provokingly.
"No, I don't suppose there was," he said. "What I meant was I was lucky
in getting hold of men who really wanted to learn. You've admitted
several times that they got along faster than you had any idea they
would."
"Anybody could catch fish the way they've been running the last few
weeks," evaded Dickie. "I never saw anything like it before. Nearly
every boat comes in with a good haul. And when the local market was
glutted at Port Angeles, you shot them up north and just tumbled on to a
good market as Frisco was out of fish. That was nothing but luck," she
challenged.
"And now we have orders for all canned stuff we can turn out," Gregory
put in.
"Sure you have. From the Western outfit. I wouldn't trust them out of
sight with a case of fish. They'll eat the stuff up as long as you can
throw it to them in big lots. That gives them a chance to beat you down
on the price. The first bad run of luck you have, they'll drop you cold.
I know. They did the same thing with your father the very first time he
began to fall down on his output."
"Yes, but----"
"You're not going to fall down." She took the words from his mouth and
hurried on: "That is just what I was afraid of. Your luck has gone to
your head. You have an idea things are always going to be like this. I
know better. And you'll know before you get through. The fish are liable
to head out to sea any day."
"You guessed wrong about what I was going to say," Gregory announced. "I
was going to tell you I had an order from Winfield & Camby for a
shipment of albacore if we can get them out right away. Suppose the
fish do run to sea," he went on. "I'll back you to find them if any one
can. And we're well equipped now to follow them up."
Dickie was somewhat mollified but she took care not to show it.
"You're not figuring on Mascola either," she began.
"Mascola," Gregory repeated. "Why, he's been decent enough the last two
or three weeks."
"I know it," she interrupted. "That's what has me guessing. It isn't
like Mascola to be that way. He's been checking up on us right along,
but he hasn't bothered any of our boats since he lost the _Roma_. It's
about time he showed his hand."
"We have nearly as many boats as he has now," Gregory observed. "Maybe
he thinks----"
Again the girl anticipated his words.
"Get that out of your head," she snapped. "If you think Mascola's quit,
you're wrong. The more boats dad got, the harder Mascola fought him.
It's only when an outfit gets big enough to make a showing that he
begins to get busy."
"We'll have the rest of the cannery boats out the last of the week,"
Gregory announced. "I'll have the boys rush them. We won't start
anything, but just get good and ready. It's Mascola's move. I've made it
perfectly clear to all the men that we are not looking for trouble."
Dickie was silent for a moment. Then she said:
"I have an idea that Rock gave Mascola a 'bum steer' and that both of
them are just beginning to find out their mistake."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Rock guessed wrong. He told a lot of people around town
when you opened up that you'd be broke in thirty days. He and Mascola
are pretty thick and the chances are he told Mascola the same thing and
the dago believed him. Now they're beginning to find out they slipped up
in not trying to cripple you before you got your men broken in. I've
just got a hunch it won't be long before we hear from Mascola. He's
bringing more boats in here every day from down the coast and the
islands."
Seeing they were getting nowhere by their talk, Gregory tossed the
balance sheet to the desk and got to his feet.
"We'd better be on our way," he said.
With Dickie following, he lead the way out into the cannery where he
stopped for a moment to speak to McCoy. "I'm going outside for a while,
Mac. If the Western people call up, tell them we're shipping the last of
those sardines to-day. Sound them out on albacore prices in job lots."
Dickie turned away at the mention of the jobbers. Gregory evidently
thought very little of her advice. Biting her lips, she walked to the
door to wait on the receiving platform. McCoy watched his employer
follow after her. Dick was sore at him. He'd have to go up to the house
this evening and try to square himself. She was evidently sore at
Gregory, too. And in that thought, McCoy derived some consolation.
With the crisp sea air fanning their faces as they headed out to sea,
Dickie's irritability vanished. Desirous of starting conversation after
a protracted silence, she began: "Who do you think I saw down-town the
other day?"
Gregory could not guess. "I was in the bank," she began after a moment,
hoping Gregory would not notice that at times she did frequent Rock's
institution. "And that crazy fool, Boris, was in there trying to borrow
some money. He's been hanging round town ever since Mascola fired him.
When I've seen him he's been drunk on Japanese _sake_. He has it in for
me because all the fishermen kid him about being run on the rocks by a
girl. When I stepped back from the teller's window, Boris lunged against
me and started to mumble something. But before he had hardly opened his
mouth, a well-dressed man came from somewhere and threw him half across
the room. And who do you think it was?"
Again Gregory shook his head.
"Bandrist."
As Gregory voiced his surprise, the girl went on:
"You wouldn't have known him. He was all dolled-up and looked like a
different man. He knew me all right and he had the nerve to ask me if he
could come to see me," she concluded.
Gregory's dislike of Bandrist increased.
"What did you tell him?" he asked.
Dickie laughed.
"I told him I wasn't any more anxious to receive callers at my home than
he was at his."
Gregory wondered if the caustic answer to Bandrist might have been
retailed for his own benefit. He reflected suddenly that Dickie Lang had
never so much as intimated that he would be a welcome guest at her home.
Well, there was no use dwelling on it now. He had never bothered the
girl, and never would.
"Bandrist is no ordinary sheep-man," she went on. "And I know it. He's
working some kind of a game over there that he doesn't want people to
butt in on." She paused abruptly and her eyes narrowed. "I wonder," she
began, but left her sentence unfinished as she noticed that Gregory was
regarding her curiously.
"What?" he prompted.
"Nothing," she said. "Maybe some day I'll tell you. But not now."
Gregory knew her well enough to know that nothing could be gained by
urging. During the silence that fell upon them the minds of both were
working in parallel grooves, groping for a way of light to lighten the
darkness of an unsolved mystery. When they reached the albacore banks
and sighted the vanguard of the fishing fleet, both came back sharply,
back from the maze of doubt and intangible suspicions which clouded
their brains as the fog had clouded the island that held their thoughts.
Making the rounds of the albacore fishermen the truth of the girl's
pessimistic prophecy became strikingly apparent. The fish had
undoubtedly taken to sea. Laying-to to check one of the last of the few
remaining boats which rode at anchor, Dickie consulted her tally-sheet
and shook her head.
"Not much in this," she averred. "It's a losing game so far. And there's
only Big Jack with the _Albatross_ yet to hear from. We ought to find
him cruising off the seal rocks. He's generally the first out and the
last to come in. He never gives up while there's a chance left. I've
seen him 'chumming' for albacore all day and then bring in a bunch hours
after everybody else had given up."
As they drew near the _Albatross_ she hailed the fisherman: "How are the
fish, Jack?"
Big Jack continued throwing the live bait from the tanks into the water.
Then he straightened up and hitched at his suspender.
"They're beginnin' to come in like hell," he bellowed.
The fisherman was right. Gregory looked over the rail and gasped with
wonderment. The sea about them was literally alive with fish. The lines
which flashed over the side of the _Albatross_ scarcely touched the
water before the fish struck.
Dickie's eyes snapped at the sight.
"Put her about," she cried to Gregory. "And beat it as fast as you ca
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