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.