THE GRAY GHOST
Ready to clear for Diablo at last! Gregory's lieutenants had done their
work well. The gear from the ship-chandlers had arrived on the morning
train. Also the remittance from Farnsworth. Dickie Lang had outfitted
the fishing-boats in record time. Crews of experienced men were selected
and supplies taken aboard. One by one the launches were carefully
examined by the girl and despatched singly on a course mapped out by
herself, a course which would bring them to Northwest Harbor without
skirting the shore of the island. The auxiliary supply boat, the last of
the fleet to go, had cleared but an hour before. For the time being
Dickie Lang was content to rest upon her oars.
Bronson was ready. In response to a night letter from Gregory he had
arrived on time with the _Richard_, bringing with him a full equipment
of heavy gear. Tuned to the minute, the speed-craft waited impatiently
at the cannery float for the signal to be under way.
Jack McCoy was ready. Everything within the cannery was shipshape to
handle a big run. Depleted supplies had been hastily ordered. Necessary
additions to the floor force had been made and the house-manager was in
possession of detailed instructions for the running of the plant during
the owner's absence.
Even Hawkins was ready. The advertisements had been written and checked
over before being despatched to _The Times_ to "farm out" among the
other city dailies. In addition to that, the newspaperman had arranged
to communicate with his paper _via_ the cannery wireless should he be
fortunate enough to secure a big story.
Gregory himself was ready. The details of the embarkation had been
covered to the minutest detail. A plan had been formulated in the early
morning hours for the outwitting of Mascola at El Diablo, a plan to
which Dickie Lang had given her hearty approbation before it was sent to
Howard over the radio.
Gregory turned for a last word with McCoy before giving the order which
would send the _Richard_ to sea.
"We'll keep in close touch, Jack," he said. "We'll expect you to do the
same. This is Friday. If we send in a lot of fish to-morrow it will mean
a straight run over Sunday. Keep a man at the key day and night. And
don't forget that we are low on cash. If you get any orders that look at
all good, grab them until we can get 'out of the woods.' We're going up
against a mighty stiff proposition. It's make or break, and the sooner
we get down to cases with Mascola the better it will be."
He put out his hand and McCoy's fingers tightened over his. Then McCoy
watched him go down the gangway and take his place beside Dickie Lang in
the _Richard_.
* * * * *
"You don't mean to tell me that's Diablo?"
Hawkins wiped his dripping face and stared at the misty blot on the
purpling horizon.
Gregory and Dickie Lang looked up from their scrutiny of the small clock
on the _Richard's_ dash and smiled:
"Two hours and ten minutes to here," Gregory announced. "We can make it
easy in two hours and a half, and we've been bucking a head wind and sea
all the way over. If the _Fuor d'Italia_ can do this well, Mascola will
certainly have to show me."
Bronson smiled but made no comment.
As the island loomed across their track, Dickie directed a change of
course.
"Cut in close to that big cliff on the northeast corner and we'll work
our way along close in to the shore."
Bronson complied. Then the girl turned to Gregory.
"Get my idea?" she asked.
"You want to see if Mascola has fallen for our scheme," Gregory replied.
"Exactly. We'll cruise by his fleet and lay to by the _Pelican_. Then
we'll find out if he's spotted the _Curlew_ yet. If he hasn't, the boys
can get in in the dark and 'chum' the fish. By that time we won't care
what Mascola does."
The passing of a few minutes brought them in sight of the alien fleet
grouped closely together off Black Point.
"They've shifted," announced the girl. "Tom's message said they were off
the Hell-Hole."
Gregory said nothing but as they drew nearer he exclaimed: "Look!
They've got the _Pelican_ sewed up tighter than a drum. Looks like
Mascola hasn't tumbled on to the other boat yet."
"Can't tell."
Dickie searched the darkening water intently. Then she observed: "I
don't see Mascola's boat anywhere. Maybe he's cruising the island."
Throttling to the speed of an ordinary fishing craft they approached the
fleet and dodged skilfully among the boats in the direction of the
_Pelican_.
Tom Howard had but little news. He had put to sea from Northwest Harbor
according to orders. Had circled the island and appeared off the east
coast at daybreak as if en route from the mainland. Had stumbled on to a
small school of albacore off Black Point and started fishing. Mascola's
fleet had moved down from Hell-Hole in the early morning. Had "fenced"
him. The Italian's men had been drinking freely all day and had refused
to give him sea-way to get out. Of Mascola himself he had seen but
little. The Italian boss had been down in the morning but had paid
little attention to his men. After boarding but one of his boats he had
returned with the _Fuor d'Italia_ in the direction of the Hell-Hole
Isthmus. He had not been back since.
"Is the _Curlew_ still off Northwest Harbor?" inquired Gregory.
"Don't know. Haven't tried to reach them. Didn't want to wise these
fellows we had anybody else over here. 'Sparks' says they've got a rig
round here somewhere and have been trying to hail somebody all day.
We've been getting a few messages from the boys. Most of them are off
the other side of the island now, waitin' for dark to pass the harbor."
Gregory and Dickie were elated to find the fleet so near. At the same
time both looked worried at the mention of another wireless equipment in
the immediate vicinity.
"I'll bet they're trying to reach that shore-set the boys spotted the
other day," hazarded the girl. She looked at her watch and glanced
toward the towering peaks which cast their shadows far out into the
water. "Well, if they are, we can't stop them," she observed. "What do
you say we start along the north shore with an eye out for fish and
Mascola? Maybe he's already nosing around Northwest Harbor."
Gregory agreed to the girl's suggestion.
"Running slowly will bring us up with the _Curlew_ about dark," he said.
"Let's go."
Climbing again into the _Richard_, Bronson threw in the clutch and the
speed-craft zigzagged her way through the fishing fleet and headed away
from Black Point. At the same time one of the faster of the alien boats
detached itself from the others and trailed along in their wake.
"Better slip that fellow," advised the girl. "We don't want him tagging.
If we keep well in he won't be able to see us long."
Gregory gave Bronson the necessary orders, and the _Richard_ bounded
away from her pursuer and raced into the shadows of the cliff. When they
arrived at the point near the Hell-Hole Isthmus, the speed-craft motor
began to miss and Bronson guided the _Richard_ in the lea of the
promontory and threw out an anchor.
"Good place to fix that right now," he said. "You see everything's new
and I've been feeding too much oil. The plugs are all gummed up. 'Twon't
take but a minute to clean them."
While he worked over the motor Gregory's eyes roamed shoreward to the
cliffs. It was quite dark now and only the sound of the lapping waves
betokened the presence of the jagged rocks which projected above the
surface of the water near the shore. It was almost here he remembered
suddenly that the _Sea Gull_ had been wrecked. As he looked out into the
darkness, he felt Dickie's fingers tighten on his arm.
"Look!" she cried. "What's that behind us?"
Gregory turned about to see the black waters to the sternward were
rippled with sparkling threads of silver-white. From out the darkness
came a swiftly moving gray shadow. One glance astern caused Bronson to
slash the anchor-rope which held the _Richard_. Then he started the
auxiliary motor and threw the speed-craft forward with a jerk. The same
instant a long gray hull brushed by them and disappeared into the gloom
as silently as she had come. Bronson whirled the _Richard_ about, gazing
intently after the departing stranger.
"A miss is as good as a mile," he observed. "If it hadn't been for the
dual motor we'd have been out of luck."
"I wouldn't say so," Hawkins snapped. "A miss of a mile wouldn't give a
man heart-failure. Lord, I'm weak as a cat."
Kenneth Gregory leaned closer and spoke in a voice which only the
boatman could hear. Bronson put about at his words and muffling down,
followed silently after the gray boat.
"Cut out your lights."
Bronson threw the switch at Gregory's command.
"It's against the law," he muttered, "but I reckon it's safer with a
bird like that."
Soon the strange craft was again dimly visible, appearing like a gray
blot in the darkness ahead. Off the Hell-Hole she turned shoreward and
was lost to view.
"Tell him to stop the motor for a moment," whispered Dickie Lang.
When Bronson complied, the silence for the space of a few minutes was
unbroken. Then from the little cove came the muffled cough of a
high-speed motor.
"All right. Head out."
The _Richard_ sped on her way at Gregory's command. Then he asked: "What
did that sound like to you, Bronson?"
The boatman answered promptly: "That was the bird you're looking for.
I've heard the _Fuor d'Italia's_ exhaust too many times to guess wrong."
Dickie Lang nodded sagely in the darkness, while Bronson volunteered:
"I think I know the one that nearly run us down too. Running dark's her
long suit." For a moment he hesitated, then he added: "She looked a
whole lot like the _Gray Ghost_."
"Interesting, if true," muttered Hawkins, sliding nearer to the
operator. Then he asked aloud: "Who's the _Gray Ghost_?"
Bronson noted the suppressed eagerness of the man's tone. Then he
remembered that Hawkins was a newspaperman. Reporters were a nosey class
as a rule. Perhaps it would be as well to keep still. After all, what
did he, Bronson, know about the _Gray Ghost_? What did anybody really
know about her, for that matter?
"The _Gray Ghost_ is a fishing-boat," he said quietly, "that was built
by Al Stevenson. She's bigger and quieter than the average. She's
supposed to be about as fast for her size as any of them. I heard the
other day she was owned by a fellow by the name of----" He stopped
abruptly. "I can't remember the man's name," he concluded.
Hawkins knew Bronson was lying. Straightway he decided to find out what
he could about the ownership of the _Gray Ghost_. Of the vessel herself,
he had some knowledge though he gave no intimation that he had ever
heard the name before.
"Mascola must own the _Gray Ghost_ himself, the way he's sticking around
her," observed Dickie Lang. "He must have been waiting in there for her
or he'd have been scouting around before this."
Gregory agreed.
"Tom said they were pretty well fished out down below," he contributed,
"and Mascola hadn't given them a new location. He's evidently got
something on his mind that's more important to him than fishing."
Bronson said nothing but smiled grimly in the darkness. Perhaps that
wasn't such a wild guess, at that. But it was none of his business. His
firm was building boats for the Italian, so why should he say anything?
The sky was dark overhead and a freshening breeze sprang up when they
reached the tip of the island and headed shoreward. Rounding Devil's
Point they came in full view of the glimmering lights of the fishing
fleet.
"Looks like home," commented Dickie. "Wonder how long the boys have been
there." She checked up the lights rapidly, then announced: "They're all
there but one. Probably the supply-boat. She isn't due yet. That's
pretty quick work I'd say."
Hailing the first of his fishing-boats, they learned that the voyage
from the mainland had been without incident. The albacore were thick
about the island. They were keeping the fish around with live bait. All
of the fishermen predicted a record haul.
Proceeding to the _Curlew_, Bronson tied the _Richard_ alongside and the
party from the speed-launch climbed aboard. Then the girl conferred with
Gregory and plans for the night were formulated. The fleet would lay at
anchor with every motor in instant readiness to get the respective
vessels under way at a given signal. The men would alternate on an
anchor watch and keep the fish "chummed" up during the night. Those who
were off duty would get their needed rest and make no unnecessary noise.
No vessel was to move from her anchorage without permission from the
_Curlew_. Fishing would begin at daybreak.
With preparations completed for the night, Gregory's party made
themselves comfortable aboard the _Curlew_. A message was despatched to
the _Pelican_ instructing Howard to join the fleet shortly after
midnight. And the cannery was notified of the safe arrival of the boats
at the island.
After supper Hawkins clung tenaciously to Bronson and the two men
retired to the bow and conversed in low tones. Gregory sat with Dickie
Lang in the stern and for some time puffed at his pipe in silence. The
yellow rays which issued from the fresneled glass light on the mast-head
fell full upon the girl's figure and Gregory saw that her eyes were
fixed on the dark outlines of the coast.
"What do you make of Mascola?"
Dickie shook her head. "I don't know," she answered. "He has me guessing
right now. I can't understand why he's been hanging round Hell-Hole all
day and hasn't tumbled on to the _Curlew_. He seems to have forgotten
his boats entirely."
"I have an idea he has," Gregory answered. "Sometimes I think that
perhaps fishing is only a small part of Mascola's business. We both know
he hasn't made much with his boats in the last few months, yet Bronson
says he's having twenty new launches built at Port Angeles. That will
run into a big bunch of money at present prices."
"You're not the only one who has ideas to-night," Dickie said softly.
"Being around Diablo always makes me think--and wonder."
"What?" Gregory encouraged.
The girl moved closer to his side.
"I'm wondering about the same things our fathers wondered about," she
said. As Gregory said nothing, she went on hurriedly: "Did you ever stop
to think that if Mascola and that gray boat lay in at Hell-Hole that
they are doing it with Bandrist's permission? That means that whatever
they are doing there, Bandrist is in on it." She paused abruptly and her
eyes rested full on Gregory's face. "I have an idea that old Rock is in
on it, too," she said. "He and Bandrist are pretty thick evidently, and
Rock always did stick up for Mascola. And all three of them are doing
all they can against us."
"And you think it is something else than fishing?" Gregory prompted.
"Yes, I'm sure of it. I think our fathers had the same idea. I believe
they came over here alone that night to find out."
"Do you think----" Gregory began.
But the girl answered his unfinished question.
"Yes," she said slowly, "I think they found out. That is why they never
got out alive."
"But they were wrecked and drowned."
Dickie shook her head slowly. "I have never thought so," she answered in
a half-whisper. "Listen," she went on, "boats like the _Sea Gull_ don't
wreck themselves and a better man with a launch than my dad never lived.
Men like him don't drown easily. He was a regular fish in the water and
had got out of many a smash-up before."
"But they were drowned. The coroner himself told me----"
"You're right," she interrupted. "Any man can be drowned. How long do
you suppose you and Tom Howard would have lasted on the island if you
had insisted on staying the night we were over here?"
Gregory considered her words carefully. In the light of past events,
they held some truth. But if Bill Lang and his father had met with foul
play, why were the bodies ever recovered? Why would it not have been
simpler to have made way with them entirely? He put the question and
Dickie answered promptly:
"That would have caused a search of the island. Just what they do not
want, if they are up to anything crooked over here. With the bodies
recovered and the boat smashed, it had all the appearance of a natural
wreck."
"Why have you never said anything like this before?"
Dickie hesitated. Then she answered simply. "Because I never felt as if
I knew you well enough. I have no proof. It's only a girl's idea, and
one I'm afraid you would have taken but little stock in."
"You're mistaken," Gregory replied. "I would have. And perhaps by now we
could have had the proof."
"No. We've done just right. If we had pretended we suspected anything
they would have gone to cover. There's only one way to get to the bottom
of this thing and that is to beat Mascola at his own game. Make him
think that fish are the only thing in the world we care for around
Diablo. And while we're fishing over here, keep our eyes open and learn
what we can."
Before Gregory could reply the silence of the night was broken by the
sharp exhaust of a high-speed motor. Looking in the direction of the
sound, he saw a flash of red pierce the darkness and heard the girl's
voice close to his ear.
"I guess we're due to find out something now. Here comes Mascola."
Together they watched the red light brighten. Then came a flash of green
as the oncoming launch swerved and sped toward them. In a few moments
Mascola had located the flag-ship and the _Fuor d'Italia_ lay snorting
angrily by the _Richard's_ side.
"I want to see the boss," demanded the Italian.
Gregory leaned over the rail and focused his flash-light on Mascola.
"What do you want?" he called.
Mascola blinked under the bright rays. Seated beside him was another man
who leaned closer into the shadow of the fishing-boat.
"I want you to move," Mascola said thickly. "My men were here first.
Plenty of fish at San Anselmo. Many as here. If you go to the other
island there will be no trouble."
"And if we stay?"
Mascola's passenger looked up quickly at Gregory's words, and the light
fell full upon his face.
It was Bandrist.
"I hope you will not decide to stay," he said slowly. "As I have told
you before, I'm not seeking trouble on this island. Mascola's men have
been drinking too much and are ugly. A supply-boat arrived to-day from
the mainland with too much liquor. I am having some difficulty with my
own men. I hope you will help us avoid trouble."
Gregory answered them at once.
"If there is any trouble, it will be of your making. The ocean is free
to all. We are interfering with no one's rights. We're here. The fish
are here. And here we're going to stay."
"I'll show you, you----"
Bandrist checked the Italian's angry outburst by placing a hand firmly
upon his arm.
"I'm sorry," he began. But Mascola's open muffler drowned his words and
the _Fuor d'Italia_ leaped away into the darkness.
"Mascola's drunk," commented Dickie, looking after them. "Otherwise, he
would never have talked like that. It's a wonder Bandrist ever mixed up
with him." She turned about and confronted Gregory. Behind him were
Hawkins, Bronson and the crew of the _Curlew_. "This means we've got to
move," she exclaimed. "We'd better round up the bunch, give them their
positions and start fishing."
Gregory and the girl climbed into the _Richard_, calling to Bronson to
follow.
"Tell 'Sparks' to send word to Howard to beat it out with the _Pelican_
right away," Gregory instructed Hawkins. Then he exclaimed to Dickie as
she took her seat beside him: "It looks like Mascola was spoiling for a
fight. And if he is I'll say he's due for the surprise of his life."