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?"