A HAND IN THE DARK
While they were talking a tug-boat towing a pile-driver came into view.
Boyd asked the meaning of its presence in this part of the river.
"I don't know," answered Big George, staring intently. "Yonder looks
like another one behind it, with a raft of piles."
"I thought all the Company traps were up-stream."
"So they are. I can't tell what they're up to."
A half-hour later, when the new flotilla had come to anchor a short
distance below, Emerson's companion began to swear.
"I might have known it."
"What?"
"Marsh aims to 'cork' us."
"What is that?"
"He's going to build a trap on each side of this one and cut off our
fish."
"Good Lord! Can he do that?"
"Sure. Why not? The law gives us six hundred yards both ways. As long
as he stays outside of that limit he can do anything he wants to."
"Then of what use is our trap? The salmon follow definite courses close
to the shore, and if he intercepts them before they reach us--why, then
we'll get only what he lets through."
"That's his plan," said Big George, sourly, "It's an old game, but it
don't always work. You can't tell what salmon will do till they do it.
I've studied this point of land for five years, and I know more about
it than anybody else except God 'lmighty. If the fish hug the shore,
then we're up against it, but I think they strike in about here; that's
why I chose this site. We can't tell, though, till the run starts. All
we can do now is see that them people keep their distance."
The "lead" of a salmon-trap consists of a row of web-hung piling that
runs out from the shore for many hundred feet, forming a high, stout
fence that turns the schools of fish and leads them into cunningly
contrived enclosures, or "pounds," at the outer extremity, from which
they are "brailed" as needed. These corrals are so built that once the
fish are inside they cannot escape. The entire structure is devised
upon the principle that the salmon will not make a short turn, but will
swim as nearly as possible in a straight line. It looked to Boyd as if
Marsh, by blocking the line of progress above and below, had virtually
destroyed the efficiency of the new trap, rendering the cost of its
construction a total loss.
"Sometimes you can cork a trap and sometimes you can't," Balt went on.
"It all depends on the currents, the lay of the bars, and a lot of
things we don't know nothing about. I've spent years in trying to
locate the point where them fish strike in, and I think it's just below
here. It'll all depend on how good I guessed."
"Exactly! And if you guessed wrong--"
"Then we'll fish with nets, like we used to before there was any traps."
That evening, when he had seen the night-shift started, Emerson decided
to walk up to Cherry's house, for he was worried over the day's
developments and felt that an hour of the girl's society might serve to
clear his thoughts. His nerves were high-strung from the tension of the
past weeks, and he knew himself in the condition of an athlete trained
to the minute. In his earlier days he had frequently felt the same
nervousness, the same intense mental activity, just prior to an
important race or game, and he was familiar with those disquieting,
panicky moments when, for no apparent reason, his heart thumped and a
physical sickness mastered him. He knew that the fever would leave him,
once the salmon began to run, just as it had always vanished at the
crack of the starter's pistol or the shrill note of the referee's
whistle. He was eager for action, eager to find himself possessed of
that gloating, gruelling fury that drives men through to the finish
line. Meanwhile, he was anxious to divert his mind into other channels.
Cherry's house was situated a short distance above the cannery which
served as Willis Marsh's headquarters, and Boyd's path necessarily took
him past his enemy's very stronghold. Finding the tide too high to
permit of passing beneath the dock, he turned up among the buildings,
where, to his surprise, he encountered his own day-foreman talking
earnestly with a stranger.
The fisherman started guiltily as he saw him, and Boyd questioned him
sharply.
"What are you doing here, Larsen?"
"I just walked up after supper to have a talk with an old mate."
"Who is he?" Boyd glanced suspiciously at Larsen's companion.
"He's Mr. Marsh's foreman."
Emerson spoke out bluntly: "See here. I don't like this. These people
have caused me a lot of trouble already, and I don't want my men
hanging around here."
"Oh, that's all right," said Larsen, carelessly. "Him and me used to
fish together." And as if this were a sufficient explanation, he turned
back to his conversation, leaving Emerson to proceed on his way,
vaguely displeased at the episode, yet reflecting that heretofore he
had never had occasion to doubt Larsen's loyalty.
He found Cherry at home, and, flinging himself into one of her
easy-chairs, relieved his mind of the day's occurrences.
"Marsh is building those traps purely out of spite," she declared,
indignantly, when he had finished. "He doesn't need any more fish--he
has plenty of traps farther up the river."
"To be sure! It looks as if we might have to depend upon the
gill-netters."
"We will know before long. If the fish strike in where George expects,
Marsh will be out a pretty penny."
"And if they don't strike in where George expects, we will be out all
the expense of building that trap."
"Exactly! It's a fascinating business, isn't it? It's a business in
which the unexpected is forever happening. But the stakes are high
and--I know you will succeed."
Boyd smiled at her comforting assurance, her belief in him was always
stimulating.
"By-the-way," she continued, "have you heard the historic story about
the pink salmon?"
He shook his head.
"Well, there was a certain shrewd old cannery-man in Washington State
whose catch consisted almost wholly of pink fish. As you know, that
variety does not bring as high a price as red salmon, like these. Well,
finding that he could not sell his catch, owing to the popular
prejudice about color, this man printed a lot of striking can-labels,
which read, 'Best Grade Pink Salmon, Warranted not to Turn Red in the
Can.' They tell me it worked like a charm."
"No wonder!" Boyd laughed, beginning to feel the tension of his nerves
relax at the restfulness of her influence. As usual, he fell at once
into the mood she desired for him. He saw that her brows were furrowed
and her rosy lips drawn into an unconscious pout as she said, more to
herself than to him:
"I wish I were a man. I'd like to engage in a business of this sort,
something that would require ingenuity and daring. I'd like to handle
big affairs."
"It seems to me that you are in a business of that sort. You are one of
us."
"Oh, but you and George are doing it all."
"There is your copper-mine. You surely handled that very cleverly."
Cherry's expression altered, and she shot a quick glance at him as he
went on:
"How is it coming along, by-the-way? I haven't heard you mention it
lately?"
"Very well, I believe. The men were down the other day, and told me it
was a big thing."
"I'm delighted. How does it seem, to be rich?"
There was the slightest hint of constraint in the girl's voice as she
stared out at the slowly gathering twilight, murmuring:
"I--I hardly know. Rich! That has always been my dream, and yet--"
"The wonderful feature about dreams," he took advantage of her pause to
say, "is that they come true."
"Not all of them--not the real, wonderful dreams," she returned.
"Oh yes! My dream is coming true, and so is yours."
"I have given up hoping for that," she said, without turning.
"But you shouldn't give up. Remember that all the great things ever
accomplished were only dreams at first, and the greater the
accomplishments, the more impossible they seemed to begin with."
Something in the girl's attitude and in her silence made him feel that
his words rang hollow and commonplace. While they had talked, an
unaccustomed excitement had been mounting in his brain, and it held him
now in a kind of delicious embarrassment. It was as if both had been
suddenly enfolded in a new and mysterious understanding, without the
need of speech. He did not tell himself that Cherry loved him; but he
roused to a fresh perception of her beauty, and felt himself privileged
in her nearness. At the same time he was seized with the old,
half-resentful curiosity to learn her history. What wealth of romance
lay shadowed in her eyes, what tragic story was concealed by her
consistent silence, he could only guess; for she was a woman who spoke
rarely of herself and lived wholly in the present. Her very reticence
inspired confidence, and Boyd felt sure that here was a girl to whom
one might confess the inmost secrets of a wretched soul and rest secure
in the knowledge that his confession would be inviolate as if locked in
the heart of mountains. He knew her for a steadfast friend, and he
t'elt that she was beautiful, not only in face and form, but in all
those little indescribable mannerisms which stamp the individual. And
this girl was here alone with him, so close that by stretching out his
arms he might enfold her. She allowed him to come and go at will; her
intimacy with him was almost like that of an unspoiled boy--yet
different, so different that he thrilled at the thought, and the blood
pounded up into his throat.
It may have been the unusual ardor of his gaze that warmed her cheeks
and brought her eyes back from the world outside. At any rate, she
turned, flashing him a startled glance that caused his pulse to leap
anew. Her eyes widened and a flush spread slowly upward to her hair,
then her lids drooped, as if weighted by unwonted shyness, and rising
silently, she went past him to the piano. Never before had she
surprised that look in his eyes, and at the realization a wave of
confusion surged over her. She strove to calm herself through her
music, which shielded while it gave expression to her mood, and neither
spoke as the evening shadows crept in upon them. But the girl's
exaltation was short-lived; the thought came that Boyd's feeling was
but transitory; he was not the sort to burn lasting incense before more
than one shrine. Nevertheless, at this moment he was hers, and in the
joy of that certainty she let the moments slip.
He stopped her at last, and they talked in the half-light, floating
along together half dreamily, as if upon the bosom of some great
current that bore them into strange regions which they dreaded yet
longed to explore.
They heard a child crying somewhere in the rear of the house, and
Chakawana's voice soothing, then in a moment the Indian girl appeared
in the doorway saying something about going out with Constantine.
Cherry acquiesced half consciously, impatient of the intrusion.
For a long time they talked, so completely in concord that for the most
part their voices were low and their sentences so incomplete that they
would have sounded incoherent and foolish to other ears. They were
roused finally by the appreciation that it had grown very late and a
storm was brewing. Boyd rose, and going to the door, saw that the sky
was deeply overcast, rendering the night as dark as in a far lower
latitude.
"I've overstayed my welcome," he ventured, and smiled at her answering
laugh.
With a trace of solicitude, she said:
"Wait! I'll get you a rain-coat," but he reached out a detaining hand.
In the darkness it encountered the bare flesh of her arm.
"Please don't! You'd have to strike a light to find it, and I don't
want a light now."
He was standing on the steps, with her slightly above him, and so close
that he heard her sharp-drawn breath.
"It _has_ been a pleasant evening," she said, inanely.
"I saw you for the first time to-night, Cherry. I think I have begun to
know you."
Again she felt her heart leap. Reaching out to say good-bye, his hand
slipped down over her arm, like a caress, until her palm lay in his.
With trembling, gentle hands she pushed him from her; but even when the
sound of his footsteps had died away, she stood with eyes straining
into the gloom, in her breast a gladness so stifling that she raised
her hands to still its tumult.
Emerson, with the glow still upon him, felt a deep contentment which he
did not trouble to analyze. It has been said that two opposite impulses
may exist side by side in a man's mind, like two hostile armies which
have camped close together in the night, unrevealed to each other until
the morning. To Emerson the dawn had not yet come. He had no thought of
disloyalty to Mildred, but, after his fashion, took the feeling of the
moment unreflectively. His mood was averse to thought, and, moreover,
the darkness forced him to give instant attention to his path. While
the waters of the bay out to his right showed a ghostly gray, objects
beneath the bluff where he walked were cloaked in impenetrable shadow.
The air was damp with the breath of coming rain, and at rare intervals
he caught a glimpse of the torn edges of clouds hurrying ahead of a
wind that was yet unfelt.
When the black bulk of Marsh's cannery loomed ahead of him, he left the
gravel beach and turned up among the buildings, seeking to retrace his
former course. He noticed that once he had left the noisy shingle, his
feet made no sound in the soft moss. Thus it was that, as he turned the
corner of the first building, he nearly ran against a man who was
standing motionless against the wall. The fellow seemed as startled at
the encounter as Emerson, and with a sharp exclamation leaped away and
vanished into the gloom. Boyd lost no time in gaining the plank runway
that led to the dock, and finding an angle in the building, backed into
it and waited, half-suspecting that he had stumbled into a trap. He
reflected that both the hour and the circumstances were unpropitious;
for in case he should meet with foul play, Marsh might plausibly claim
that he had been mistaken for a marauder. He determined, therefore, to
proceed with the greatest caution. From his momentary glimpse of the
man as he made off, he knew that he was tall and active--just the sort
of person to prove dangerous in an encounter. But if his suspicions
were correct there must be others close by, and Boyd wondered why he
had heard no signal. After a breathless wait of a moment or two, he
stole cautiously out, and, selecting the darkest shadows, slipped from
one to another till he was caught by the sound of voices issuing from
the yawning entrance of the main building on his right. The next moment
his tension relaxed; one of the speakers was a woman. Evidently his
alarm had been needless, for these people, whoever they were, made no
effort to conceal their presence. On the contrary, the woman had raised
her tone to a louder pitch, although her words were still
undistinguishable.
Greatly relieved, Boyd was about to go on, when a sharp cry, like a
signal, came in the woman's voice, a cry which turned to a genuine wail
of distress. The listener heard a man's voice cursing in answer, and
then the sound of a scuffle, followed at length by a choking cry, that
brought him bounding into the building. He ran forward, recklessly, but
before he had covered half the distance he collided violently with a
piece of machinery and went sprawling to the floor. A glance upward
revealed the dim outlines of a "topper," and showed him farther down
the building, silhouetted briefly against the lesser darkness of the
windows, two struggling figures. As he regained his footing, something
rushed past him--man or animal he could not tell which, for its feet
made no more sound upon the floor than those of a wolf-dog. Then, as he
bolted forward, he heard a man cry out, and found himself in the midst
of turmoil. His hands encountered a human body, and he seized it, only
to be hurled aside as if with a giant's strength. Again he clinched
with a man's form, and bore it to the floor, cursing at the darkness
and reaching for its throat. His antagonist raised his voice in wild
clamor, while Boyd braced himself for another assault from those huge
hands he had met a moment before. But it did not come. Instead, he
heard a cry from the woman, an answer in a deeper voice, and then
swift, pattering footsteps growing fainter. Meanwhile the man with whom
he was locked was fighting desperately, with hands and feet and teeth,
shouting hoarsely. Other footsteps sounded now, this time approaching,
then at the door a lantern flared. A watchman came running down between
the lines of machinery, followed by other figures half revealed.
Boyd had pinned his antagonist against the cold sides of a retort at
last, and with fingers clutched about his throat was beating his head
violently against the iron, when by the lantern's gleam he caught one
glimpse of the fat, purple face in front of him, and loosed his hold
with a startled exclamation. Released from the grip that had nearly
made an end of him, Willis Marsh staggered to his feet, then lurched
forward as if about to fall from weakness. His eyes were staring, his
blackened tongue protruded, while his head, battered and bleeding,
lolled grotesquely from side to side as if in hideous merriment. His
clothes were torn and soiled from the litter underfoot, and he
presented a frightful picture of distress. But it was not this that
caused Emerson the greatest astonishment. The man was wounded, badly
wounded, as he saw by the red stream which gushed down over his breast.
Boyd cast his eyes about for the other participants in the encounter,
but they were nowhere visible; only an open door in the shadows close
by hinted at the mode of their disappearance.
There was a brief, noisy interval, during which Emerson was too
astounded to attempt an answer to the questions hurled broadcast by the
new-comers; then Marsh levelled a trembling finger at him and cried,
hysterically:
"There he is, men. He tried to murder me. I--I'm hurt. I'll have him
arrested."
The seriousness of the accusation struck the young man on the instant;
he turned upon the group.
"I didn't do that. I heard a fight going on and ran in here--"
"He's a liar," the wounded man interrupted, shrilly. "He stabbed me!
See?" He tried to strip the shirt from his wounds, then fell to
chattering and shaking. "Oh, God! I'm hurt." He staggered to a
packing-case and sank upon it weakly fumbling at his sodden shoulder.
"I didn't do that," repeated Boyd. "I don't know who stabbed him. I
didn't."
"Then who did?" some one demanded.
"What are you doing in here? You'd a killed him in a minute," said the
man with the lantern.
"We'll fix you for this," a third voice threatened.
"Listen," Boyd said, in a tone to make them pause. "There has been a
mistake here. I was passing the building when I heard a woman scream,
and I rushed in to prevent Marsh from choking her to death."
"A woman!" chorused the group.
"That's what I said."
"Where is she now?"
"I don't know. I didn't see her at all. I grappled with the first
person I ran into. She must have gone out as you came in." Boyd
indicated the side door, which was still ajar.
"It's a lie," screamed Marsh.
"It's the truth," stoutly maintained Emerson, "and there was a man with
her, too. Who was she, Marsh? Who was the man?"
"She--she--I don't know."
"Don't lie."
"I'm hurt," reiterated the stricken man, feebly. Then, seeing the
bewilderment in the faces about him, he burst out anew: "Don't stand
there like a lot of fools. Why don't you get him?"
"If I stabbed him I must have had a knife," Emerson said, again
checking the forward movement. "You may search me if you like. See?" He
opened his coat and displayed his belt.
"He's got a six-shooter," some one said.
"Yes, and I may use it," said Emerson, quietly.
"Maybe he dropped the knife," said the watchman, and began to search
about the floor, followed by the others.
"It may have been the woman herself who stabbed Mr. Marsh," offered
Emerson. "He was strangling her when I arrived."
Roused by this statement to a fresh denial, Marsh cried out:
"I tell you there wasn't any woman."
"And there isn't any knife either," Emerson sneered.
The men paused uncertainly. Seeing that they were undecided whether to
believe him or his assailant, Marsh went on:
"If he hasn't a knife, then he must have had a friend with him--"
"Then tell your men what we were doing in here and how you came to be
alone with us in the dark." Emerson stared at his accuser curiously,
but the Trust's manager seemed at a loss. "See here, Marsh, if you will
tell us whom you were choking, maybe we can get at the truth of this
affair."
Without answering, Marsh rose, and, leaning upon the watchman's arm,
said:
"Help me up to the house. I'm hurt. Send the launch to the upper plant
for John; he knows something about medicine." With no further word, he
made his way out of the building, followed by the mystified fishermen.
No one undertook to detain Emerson, and he went his way, wondering what
lay back of the night's adventure. He racked his brain for a hint as to
the identity of the woman and the reason of her presence alone with
Marsh in such a place. Again he thought of that mysterious third person
whose movements had been so swift and furious, but his conjectures left
him more at sea than ever. Of one thing he felt sure. It was not enmity
alone that prompted Marsh to accuse him of the stabbing. The man was
concealing something, in deadly fear of the truth, for rather than
submit to questioning he had let his enemy go scot-free.
Suddenly Boyd paused in his walk, recalling again the shadowy outlines
of the figure with whom he had so nearly collided on his way up from
the beach. There was something familiar about it, he mused; then, with
a low whistle of surprise, he smote his palms together. He began to see
dimly.
For more than an hour the young man paced back and forth before the
door of his sleeping-quarters, so deeply immersed in thought that only
the breaking storm drove him within. When at last he retired, it was
with the certainty that this night had placed a new weapon in his hand;
but of what tremendous value it was destined to prove, he little knew.