THE BAITED PAWN
Of all the many saloons that made up Legonia's water-front the "Red
Paint" was the favorite resort among the alien fishermen. The universal
popularity of the establishment was due mainly to three causes. The boss
owned the place and paid off there between moons. Credit was freely
given to all fishermen in good standing, and thirdly, Mascola's emporium
enjoyed full police protection.
During the evening when Gregory made his first call at the Lang hill the
tide of revelry at the "Red Paint" was at the flood. It was pay-day and
the boss was in high good humor. Either occurrence was always good for a
number of rounds of free drinks. But when Mascola was happy on pay-day,
the liberality of the "Red Paint" was indeed prodigal.
And Mascola was happy. Within the frosted glass enclosure that marked
off his saloon-office from the bar, the Italian sat at his desk in a
genial glow of good humor. The glow was purely physical, superinduced by
the rapidly disappearing contents of the slim-nosed bottle which stood
at his elbow. The good humor was due to other causes.
As he re-filled his glass, Mascola smiled. It hadn't been such a bad day
at that. He'd showed somebody something about albacore fishing. And he'd
show them a lot more before he got through. Things were coming his way
too from other sources. He took out his leather wallet and ran over a
number of bills of high denomination. Then he took another drink and
smiled at the ceiling. It had been such easy money. Much easier than
fishing.
A knock sounded at the street-door. Mascola shoved the wallet again into
his pocket and hastily removed his bottle of Amontillado.
"Come in," he called.
Boris entered, clumsily filling the doorway with his great bulk and
bringing with him a strong odor of garlic and Jap _sake_. For a moment
he stood on the threshold, blinking stupidly. Then he pulled the door
closed with a bang.
Mascola's eyes grew hard as he dropped his hand into a drawer of his
desk which stood open.
"Stay where you are," he commanded. "What do you want?"
"Job," muttered the Russian thickly.
Mascola shook his head and an annoyed frown darkened his brow. "Go
home," he said. "You're drunk. You're no good. I fired you. Don't want
to talk."
Boris made no move to comply with his order. His small eyes roved
restlessly about the room for a moment, then came to rest on the
Italian.
"Boys making fool with me all time," he said. "Say I can no lick woman.
I get damn mad. You give me job. I show you."
Mascola shook his head. Leaning closer to the swaying figure, he said in
a low voice: "Show me first."
Boris's face became purple with rage as the import of Mascola's answer
filtered into his thick skull. He clenched his huge hands and raised
them above his head, mumbling all the while in his own tongue. Then his
arms fell to his sides and his pig-like eyes gleamed with belated
comprehension. Licking his dry lips, he said: "Give me drink. I show you
to-night."
The Italian slipped a hand into his pocket and tossed him a two-dollar
bill. Stumbling to the door the Russian found Mascola close by his side.
"Wait," he commanded. "Sit down. There."
He pointed to a chair screened from the street entrance by a large steel
safe. When Boris had deposited his great bulk therein, Mascola walked to
the door and looked up and down the street. Then he returned and grasped
the Russian by the arm.
"Go," he said. As Boris reached the door he shoved him out with the
whisper:
"Don't forget. You've got to show me."
Joe Blagg was among the last of Mascola's men to come for his money. And
though he said nothing when he signed the pay-roll, Blagg nursed a
grouch against his employer. Mascola had cursed him out that morning
and no livin' dago could do that. He'd get square, or his name wasn't
Joe Blagg.
The bartender shoved a black bottle toward him as he pocketed his money.
"Boss's treat," he announced.
Blagg's animosity thawed sufficiently to permit him to accept the
proffered drink, then flared again under the influence of the fiery
liquor. He called for another and gulped it down. Then Mascola's whisky
began to talk. He'd make the dago eat his words. That's what he'd do.
Two more drinks and he decided to have it out with Mascola at once.
"Where's boss?" he inquired thickly.
The bartender jerked his shorn head in the direction of the frosted
glass enclosure.
Blagg drew back, his ardor somewhat chilled to find his quarry so near.
Perhaps it was better to figure out just what he was going to say before
he tackled the boss. Deciding that he could plan better in the open air,
he walked unsteadily to the swinging doors and staggered across the
street. There he leaned against the bulkhead and looked back at the Red
Paint.
A flash of light illumined the side-walk in front of the saloon office
and Blagg saw Mascola's figure silhouetted in the open doorway. He was
looking up and down the street. As the fisherman drew back into the
shadow the Italian disappeared to return a moment later shoving a burly
figure before him.
Blagg became even more discreet as he recognized Mascola's guest. Boris
was a bigger man by far than himself. And yet Mascola was putting him
out with no trouble at all. The observation had a sobering effect upon
the fisherman. His militant air changed quickly to one of craft. He'd
quit the boss and pull a lot of the boys along with him. He could hit
the dago better that way. They were all pretty sore at being bossed
around by a "furrinor" anyway. And work was plenty up around Frisco. He'd
round up a bunch of the boys right away.
With that idea in view he walked along the water-front and turned again
to the row of saloons. Then he noticed that Boris was lurching along
ahead of him. He saw the Russian push open the door of the "Buffalo" and
heard the derisive roar from within which greeted his entrance. Scenting
amusement at Boris's expense, Blagg followed. When he elbowed his way
through the press of fishermen who thronged the "Buffalo" bar, he saw
the Russian surrounded by a jeering crowd.
"Got a job yet, Boris?" some one called.
"He's workin' for the Lang girl now," put in another.
Boris snarled and, flinging his tormentors away from him, made his way
to the bar, jabbering excitedly in Russian to Pete Ankovitch.
Blagg moved nearer.
"What's he sayin', Pete?" he asked.
Ankovitch laughed.
"He say everybody go to hell," he interpreted. "He say he show Mascola
he ain't 'fraid of no woman."
Blagg strove to focus his mind on the Russian's words. Boris was sore
as a boiled oil, crazy as a coot. And he had it in for the Lang girl for
causing him to get the can. The Russian's reference to Mascola caused
the furrows in Blagg's brow to deepen. Both of them were sore at the
girl. Were they framing up? If they were he'd block the boss's game.
He'd wise her. She'd always shot straight enough with him anyway, and he
was a fool to have ever quit her. If Mascola was baiting the Russian to
pull off some dirty work he'd----
Blagg paused in his tentative plans for outwitting Mascola as his eye
fell on Neilson. There was the man he wanted to see. Swan could swing
the Swedes into quitting the dago. All thought of Boris vanished from
Blagg's mind as he drew Neilson aside and conferred confidentially with
the big Swede in a drunken whisper. When he looked about for the Russian
some time later, Boris was gone.
Blagg drained the contents of his last glass with a wry face, and walked
unsteadily to the door. Colliding with a man on the sidewalk, he
regained his poise by leaning heavily against a sandwich sign-board.
"Hello, Blagg. Seen any of my men inside?"
Blagg shoved back his cap and eyed the speaker with drunken suspicion.
When he recognized the cannery owner, a furtive light crept into his
eyes and he beckoned Gregory closer. Gregory noted the mysterious mien
and promptly credited it to the man's state of intoxication. He was on
the point of hurrying on when Blagg's words stayed him.
"Tell Lang girl t' look out for 'self."
"What do you mean?"
Gregory grasped him by the arm and whirled him about.
"Was in s'loon," Blagg muttered, striving to focus his bleary eyes upon
his auditor. "Damn Russian there, too. Boys's kiddin' him an' Boris tol'
'em he was't 'fraid no woman. Said he'd show 'em."
"Does he live over there?" Gregory asked quickly, pointing toward the
Lang hill.
Blagg shook his head and nodded in the opposite direction.
"Down there," he corrected. "Think he----"
But Gregory did not wait to hear what Blagg thought.
Blagg looked after him stupidly. He had had no time to speak of his
hatred or suspicion of Mascola. But he'd show the dago yet.
A crowd of fishermen lumbered along the sidewalk toward him, talking
excitedly. Leaning against the sign-board, Blagg was able to gather from
their conversation that a fight had just occurred at the Red Paint. Some
one had tried to get square with the boss and Mascola had knifed him.
Cold sweat broke out on Joe Blagg's forehead. To his whirling brain came
other instances he had heard of how Mascola always got square with those
who opposed him. Blagg's whiskyfied courage began to ooze. Perhaps he
had gone too far. Suppose Neilson, with a desire to get in strong with
the boss, should tell Mascola that he, Joe Blagg, was trying to start a
strike among the alien fishermen? And a Swede liked to talk too. Why not
get out of town for a while till the thing blew over? He wasn't afraid
of the dago and his whole crowd. But what was the use of starting a row?
Besides he was ready to move anyway. He reflected suddenly that the
midnight train for Frisco stopped at Legonia on signal. That would give
him time to throw his stuff together. He had already drawn his money.
Why not hit the grit?
* * * * *
As Jack McCoy took his way down the hillside he was acutely conscious of
the fact that the evening had been a distinct disappointment. Why was
Gregory there anyway? That talk about his forgetting his papers sounded
mighty thin. How many times had the boss been there before? What was the
matter with Dick to-night? She acted kind of funny, didn't seem to care
whether he stayed any longer or not.
McCoy stopped by the roadside as he caught sight of a man running
hastily along one of the streets leading from the town. Whoever the
fellow was he was sure in a hurry the way he was cutting 'cross lots. As
the runner came under the rays of the corner arc-light, McCoy started
and peered intently after the departing figure.
It sure looked like Gregory. And he was angling in the direction of the
Lang hill. The idea clung tenaciously. When he reached his rooming-house
it became an obsession. He decided to find out if the runner could have
been his employer. Calling up the cannery it was some time before a
sleepy voice answered his summons.
"Boss ain't here. Went out at eight and ain't been back since. Want to
leave message?"
McCoy snapped up the receiver and walked slowly into his room. So it was
Gregory. Where had he been going at this time of night? And on the run,
too. The forgetting of the paper was only a frame-up. Dick had acted
funny. Now he knew it was because she wanted to get rid of him.
He sat on the bed, making no effort to remove his clothes. You're a poor
fish, something whispered. Why don't you go and find out if they're
double-crossing you? McCoy tried not to listen. For a long time he
stared moodily at the floor. Then he rose and threw off his coat.
Hastily replaced it and hurried to the door. He was ashamed of his
suspicions. But he simply had to find out.
* * * * *
There was a light still burning in the Lang cottage when Gregory turned
into the walk. Perhaps he was foolish to have returned. Still it would
do no harm to warn the girl.
As he went up the steps he saw Miss Lang walking up and down the little
hall. Tapping loudly, he summoned her to the door.
"Could I speak to Miss Dickie a moment?" he shouted. "It is something
important."
Aunt Mary came out on the porch.
"If you wait a moment," she said, "my niece will be back. She left some
time ago to take some medicine over to one of our neighbor's sick
babies."
Gregory's fears multiplied.
"Where did she go?"
"To the Swanson place just over the hill. It's the first place you'll
come to before you reach the Russian Valley."
"I'll go meet her."
He turned quickly and hurried down the path.
Reaching the brow of the hill, he saw the lights of the Swanson cottage
and slowed down to a walk. His fears for the girl's safety were
apparently groundless. The valley lay before him, steeped in moonlight.
No sound disturbed the stillness save the far-off cry of the screaming
gulls and the monotonous murmur of the distant sea. Walking slowly down
the road, grown high on both sides with sage and cactus, he caught a
glimpse of a bulky figure in the path ahead.
Looking again to the cottage only a few hundred yards down the road,
Gregory saw the light flash out from an open door. For a moment it shone
brightly, then disappeared.
As the man in the roadway heard the sound of footsteps behind him, he
stepped quickly to the brush and faced about. Keeping well in the center
of the path, Gregory went steadily on with his eyes fixed upon the clump
of sage which sheltered the disappearing figure. It was Boris, without a
doubt. No other man about Legonia possessed the giant proportions of
the big Russian.
Boris glared sullenly from the brush as he saw the advancing figure
hesitate and turn toward him. Then he recognized the young cannery
owner. What chance would he have to show Mascola now? The intruder
threatened the defeat of his cherished plans. The girl he sought was
coming up the hill. A few minutes more and----
"What do you want, Boris?"
The Russian's answer to Gregory's question came in a guttural snarl as
he staggered from the sage and flung himself upon the speaker.