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[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.