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."