OUT on the bay, where it narrowed to the river mouth, the green of salt water, coming in with the tide, met the darker bluish green water of the Rogue.
The gulls were screaming raucously, as they wheeled above the sandspit; the cormorants dove and fought in the shallow current along the edge; steelhead were flashing opal and rose in the sunlight; great leather-backed Chinook rolled on the surface. The tide ran in, chafing the beach, gurgling in little eddies, hissing low as it swelled on the front of the river flow. A well-defined line of demarcation, irregular and changing, showed where salt and fresh water met, to contend for the mastery. But the tide was the stronger. Slowly it gathered momentum to halt the river, and then to force it back.
This was the hour that Keven liked so well to fish. Sorely as he had been tempted, he had never let the fun and sport and thrill of rod fishing interfere with business. But hand line and heavy spoon could not wholly rob the work of its charm. While Garry rowed like a machine, Keven let his line back to drag the bright lure along the merging of currents. This day salmon ran large and plentiful. Smash! and the line would whiz through his hands. The strike never failed to make him jump. Then followed the short battle, always ending when a gasping salmon was hauled over the gunwales.
“Somethin’ doin’ today,” said Garry, for the tenth time, and he grinned his pleasure.
“Sure is. Now, Garry, you troll and I’ll row,” replied Keven.
“I ain’t tired yet. Reckon I’d never git tired watchin’ you fish. Kev. yours ears stick up like a jack rabbit’s an’ your eyes shine. Then when one hits into you, my gosh, you jump like a boy…. Fishin’ is fun, though. It was the love of it thet made me a market fisherman.”
No day this season had yet compared with this one. But few boats were out, and none of the Indian fishermen. Keven had the trolling at the mouth all to himself. By the time the tide had pushed the river back, to occupy the bay, he had half loaded the skiff with salmon. And even then the trolling remained good.
“Jest happened we hit it right,” said Garry philosophically. “Reckon it won’t happen again, wuss luck. We could make fair money at this rate.”
“I never thought of money,” returned Keven with a sigh.
“My Gord, boy, do you reckon I’m wearin’ myself out fer love of fishin’?”
“Garry, you’re like me. You’d fish for nothing…. Wow!”
“By gosh, you’ve hung a lunker. Let him run.”
“He’s taking all the line. Say, what a strike! Garry, row after him. I’ll bet this is the granddad of the whole bunch.”
It developed, at length, that he had indeed hooked a mighty Chinook. Ordinarily a forty-pound salmon would tow the light skiff for quite a while. But this one pulled it fast and failed to tire.
“If he heads out to sea we jest ain’t a-goin’, Kev,” declared Garry, as the fish drew them towards the outlet.
“We’ll follow him to Kamchatka,” retorted Keven. “Aw, Garry, we’ve got to catch this Chinook. I’ll bet he’ll go eighty pounds.”
“Come down, Kev. I never seen but a couple of eighty-pounders, an’ thet was ’way north of here…. Listen to thet surf out there.”
Indeed the boom and pound of the sea could not have been anything but dominant here, except to a deaf man. With tide at flood and a fresh breeze from off shore the thunder on the beach was incessant, deep, and heart-quaking.
Meanwhile the sun had gone down over the wide ridged expanse of ocean, which Keven could see out across the narrow mouth. Already shadows were forming under the low sand dunes, and near shore on the north side the water had begun to glance and gleam darkly.
“Ain’t you ever goin’ to land thet Chinook?” queried Garry. “I’m ’most starved. Hoss him in, Kev.”
“Ha! ha! ‘Hoss him in.’ You ought to have hold of this line.”
“Well, I’m willin’ enough, if you can’t lick him.”
“Thunder and blazes!” ejaculated Keven, aghast. “He’s making for that net.”
“Sure. Thet’s why I’ve been hollerin’. I seen it was comin’. Better cut him loose.”
“What? Like hell I will.”
“Kev. if I ain’t mistook thet’s one of Mulligan’s nets. He an’ his gang have gall enough to set nets an’ leave ’em. Somethin’ we upriver fishermen never dared do…. Ahuh, your fish is fast.”
“Yes, dang it. But I’ll get him or bust.”
“Better cut him loose, Kev,” repeated Garry soberly.
“Say, pard, are you afraid?” asked Keven, derisive in his excitement.
“Hell if you put it that way,” rejoined Garry, offended, and he backed the skiff toward where the net buoy bobbed on the surface.
Meanwhile Keven hauled in the slack line, which led them somewhat to the right of the buoy. Keven directed his partner to row close to the buoy, so that he could pick up the net rope. Soon he was hauling on the net and at the same time taking in his hand line. With a lunge and a roar the huge Chinook came up. That flurry was apparently his last, for he turned his great, broad shiny side up, and gaped with the jaws of an enormous wolf.
“Help, Garry,” panted Keven, as he tried to lift the salmon.
“Tip the skiff an’ slide him in,” replied Garry.
Between them they got the fish into the skiff, where it lay gasping, the most marvelous salmon Keven had ever seen.
“Oh! What’ll he go?”
“Some lunker!” ejaculated Garry. “Sixty-five, mebbe seventy pounds.”
The big spoon had become entangled in the net, and as Keven extricated it, with some difficulty, Garry suddenly burst out, hoarsely: “By Gord! … Look at thet net!”
“What? It’s all right. I’ve got the hook free. No damage done.”
“Look at thet mesh!” exclaimed Garry, low and sharp. His blue eyes shot fire.
Keven gazed from Garry back to the net, a fold of which dragged over his knee. It appeared to be made of smaller twine, more closely knit. Puzzled, he lifted it—spread it wide. Measured the net with eye and then with fingers.
“Four-inch mesh!” he whispered.
“Sure as you’re borned,” corroborated Garry.
“And the law allows only an eight-inch mesh?”
“The law allows! Haw! Haw! But thet’s the law, Kev.”
“Garry, we’ve got it on them.”
“Lemme look.” Then Garry reached over to spread the folds, sliding them back into the water, until he came to a line of heavier twine and larger mesh. The top of the net had a border of mesh which conformed with the existing law.
“Thet top is only a blind,” went on Garry. “Pretty slick, I’ll tell the world…. This net is deep an’ heavy; I’ll bet there’s twenty feet an’ more below. Look out! A boat comin’.”
Garry flipped the top line back into the water, where it disappeared, and sitting back to his oars, he added: “Stand up an’ be liftin’ thet salmon.”
Keven, further spurred by the creaking of oarlocks, did as he was bidden, while Garry rowed. A few strokes took them out from the shadow cast by the sand dunes. Still they could easily have been seen before that, if the approaching boatman had been looking. As his back was turned, however, there was a chance that they had not been observed.
“Hey, look out where you’re goin’,” bawled Garry, in quite unnecessary alarm, for the fisherman was some rods off. He backed water with his oars and then turned to look.
“Can’t you see when a feller’s on a fish?” went on Garry, loudly, as Keven made as if he had just that instant hauled the Chinook aboard.
“Hey yourself,” replied the fisherman gruffly. “Hev you been foolin’ round my——” He plainly was going to say net, but he checked himself and added, “hyar?”
“Naw, we haven’t been foolin’ round nuthin’,” replied Garry, just as gruffly. “We was landin’ this Chinook an’ thought you’d run us down.”
Keven dropped the fish with a great flop, and then flopped down himself. No easy task had it been to hold up that weight. He gazed from the magnificent salmon to the grim Garry.
“Lucky catch, pard?”
“Ump-umm! Damn unlucky.”
“But why?” gasped Keven.
“Lemme think, you dinged amatoor fishin’ detective.”
Keven let him alone then and tried to compose his whirling thoughts to some clarifying order. Dusk had settled down over the river when they arrived at their mooring. Flares of lightning showed the bold peaks of the Cascades. Storm threatened. The river slid by, gleaming and melancholy. Leaping ashore, Keven hurried to camp and started a fire, while Garry attended to the catch. Sometimes he made a deal with Stemm to dispose of it. Soon he came slopping up the path, to sit down before the tent and kick off his rubber boots.
“Seventy-one pounds,” he announced.
“You weighed him? Say, didn’t I tell you? What wouldn’t I have given to catch that Chinook on a rod! Seventy-one pounds!”
“Never could have licked him. Stemm’s scales weigh under, too, you can gamble on thet…. Kev, I’m in the need of a stiff swag of likker. But as I can’t have it, a cup of strong coffee might settle my nerves.”
Between them they got supper with little or no unnecessary conversation. Keven waited patiently for his partner to speak, but that did not happen until the meal was finished, the chores done, and Garry was smoking by the campfire.
“One way or another we got it on them!” suddenly Garry burst out.
“Ahuh!” agreed Keven. That was exactly what his conclusion had been.
“Pard, I swear I’ve long suspected that very thing, but honest—I never seen a net like thet before,” declared Garry. “Might only be one. Might belong to a half-breed who was ketchin’ steelhead to smoke fer winter use. Might not have any connection with the canneries. Might be a lot of things.”
“Ahuh,” continued Keven.
“An’ then again it might not!”
“But Garry—what do you think?”
“Think? A hell of a lot. An’ now I know why big steelhead seldom or never show up the river till after October first. I mean the fourteen- an’ sixteen-pounders we used to ketch…. I think mebbe there’s many such nets. I think Mulligan an’ his crew are back of thet. Mebbe the whole damned ring. I think they sell every little fish they ketch—an’ not to the natives up in the hills to smoke fer winter. Ho! Ho! Not hardly…. I think it’s crookeder than hell. I think it’s rottener than hell.”
“My, what a stink it will make! What a row up the river! Garry, I’m tickled pink,” raved Keven.
“Kev, we can’t lay thet onto the canneries. It could never be proved. They’d make the fishermen the goats. But thet’s nuthin’.”
“We don’t need to implicate the canneries,” declared Keven intensely. “All we need is to show evidence why the salmon and steelhead run fewer up the river.”
“By Gord, Kev, you’re right. If we can steal thet net full of small jacks an’ silversides an’ steelhead, we’ll raise such hell thet it’ll ring all over Oregon. Blackwood is honest. He couldn’t be bought. If we steal thet net with fish in it, by gosh, he’ll make it hot for these fishermen. He’d stand by us. He’d blow thet news far an’ wide. Then the big holler would come.”
“Whew!” whistled Keven, loosening his collar. “What’ll we do?”
“Watch thet net day an’ night,” returned Garry, his eyes narrowing to slits. “An’ the first time the coast is clear we’ll steal it. A net with a small mesh like thet will have fish in it—even an hour after it has been picked over. When our chance comes we’ll cut the anchors loose, keepin’ the buoy, an’ we’ll pile the net into the skiff an’ beat it fer shore. All we gotta do is to keep from bein’ ketched in the act…. Kev, we’re broke an’ pore as church mice, but we’re settin’ pretty this minnit.”
It turned out during the next few days that that particular fishing locality in which Keven and Garry were especially interested was never without fishermen on it. At dawn boats were everywhere; during the day no safe opportunity presented; from sunset to dark appeared to be the time in which they were going to get their chance.
They fished early and late and, contrary to their expectations, caught as many salmon as the trolling Indians. This was killing two birds with one stone, and they were jubilant. But one morning Garry returned from the canneries to inform Keven that they no longer had any market for their fish, unless they would sell to Priddy for ten cents a fish.
“Think of thet. A dime fer a big salmon,” declared Garry wrath fully. “A measly ten cents fer an hour’s hard work! … Kev, it’s plain as print. The little cannery is broke. They’ll take our fish if we’ll trust ’em to pay. I heerd Atwell has now got interest in the Smith factory. An’ of course Priddy’s offer is jest an insult. What’ll we do, pard?”
“What do you think?”
“Let’s shoot the whole works. Let’s burn them two big canneries to the water. Then Smith will come into his.”
“No. We can’t do that, Garry,” replied Keven gravely. “Take our fish to Smith. It’s no matter whether he pays us or not. But we don’t want these fishermen to see us out there, trolling day in and day out, with absolutely no market for our fish. That’d give us away.”
Garry agreed, and now in settled conviction of the wrong done them, and in growing wrath, they returned to their profitless work. Garry drank steadily. He always had a bottle, from what source Keven did not know. And Keven drank, too, more than usual, and more than was good for him. Garry had long been without money, and Keven’s was fast disappearing. Their supplies were low and they had no credit because the store belonged to the interests that were hounding them off the river.
“We can’t hold out much longer. We gotta swipe thet net quick,” Garry kept saying.
All this strain had worn severely upon Keven. He grew no longer capable of the keen, patient watching for opportunity. And once more that dark, bitter mood fastened upon him, until at last he was desperate.
One August afternoon storm clouds appeared over the mountains. The sultry atmosphere heralded rain, but it was slow in coming. Sunset had a red, smoky, sinister aspect.
“Kev, we’re gonna git our chance,” averred Garry, as they shoved off. “The tide’s runnin’ hell-bent fer election. An’ there’ll be a storm bustin’ soon.”
“High time we had one. Rain has been as scarce here as loose change with us,” replied Keven.
“Row straight across,” directed Garry, as he took up the coiled trolling line. “Kev, I don’t see a damn boat. But the light’s queer. Did you ever see the like of thet? … An’ listen. There’s thunder thet ain’t from the surf.”
A gold-red glow suffused the western sky and was reflected in the quiet waters of the bay. Northward, up the river, the sky was black as ink, illumined now and then by flares of lightning.
“There’s one boat, with two fellers,” said Garry, pointing. “Rowin’ in…. Kev, pull easy, like we was trollin’. I tell you, our chance has come. There’s been pore fishin’ lately, the tide’s runnin’ out, an’ a storm’s a-comin’. There won’t be no fishermen out there a-tall.”
“We’ll grab that net tonight even if there are fishermen on the bay,” rasped Keven.
He had reached the end of his rope, the limit of endurance. Yet never had he been so passionately determined to secure evidence against these crooked fishermen.
“Pard, drink to our success,” said Garry, offering a bottle. “Only a little left. Save one fer me.”
Like fiery flame the liquor seemed to course through Keven. Then he watched Garry tilt and drain the bottle. His form showed black against the golden gleam of the bay. “Aggh!” he ejaculated huskily and flipped the bottle into the water. It sank, sending up bubbles.
A darkening of the afterglow, sudden and striking, changed the beautiful effect of sky and water. The lights were dying. An ominous calm, a menacing silence, lay like a blanket over the country. It was broken by low muttering thunder from the mountains and the answering roar of the sea. Then again the muffling silence. Keven’s oars dipped noiselessly, as if in oil. Garry had the posture of a hawk, peering over the shimmering bay. Soon the shore line, except on the western side, vanished in the gathering gloom. Wavering and dark the sand dunes began to loom against that fast-fading dusky gold in the west.
“Pretty black under them dunes,” whispered Garry. “A boat could be hid along there. But we ain’t got time to look…. Coast is clear…. Turn now, Kev, an’ pull…. There. We’re in line with our landmark.”
Keven sent the skiff gliding swiftly. He faced to east and north, while Garry faced the west. An unearthly glow came from the last fire in the heavens. Weirdly it lighted the surface of the bay, magnifying the floating bits of driftwood and the widening circles made by fish. Driftwood was a sure sign of a rise in the river. A faint soft breeze struck Keven’s heated face. It bore the burden of the sultry, oppressed air, and a deeper rumble of thunder. Jagged forks of lightning shot down from that black pall to the north.
“Slow. I see the buoy,” whispered Garry. “Left—a little. Now stop…. Slip the oars behind you, so you can grab them quick…. Quiet, Kev! Sound carries far a night like this.”
Keven had thumped the gunwale with an oar. The skiff glided smoothly. Garry reached far out. Then Keven saw him catch the buoy.
“Cut her free, Kev, while I haul,” went on Garry, standing up.
Grasping the big fish knife, Keven leaned forward behind Garry and slashed the anchor rope. It twanged. It let go. Garry lifted the buoy into the skiff and began to drag the net likewise.
“Let ’er swing, Kev…. Gee! What you make of thet?”
The net held many wiggling steelhead, just gilled, and salmon under size. Garry hauled powerfully, dropping the wet folds into the skiff. Keven laid the knife down to help. While they slowly drifted with the tide, downstream and inshore, they gathered in net and fish, to pile them at their feet. Soon they were standing on the thick folds and squirming, gasping fish.
“Here’s the end. Kev. Cut the rope…. By Gord, the job’s done.”
Keven straightened up, knife in hand, his back to the shadow cast by the sand dunes. His heart beat high. Exultantly he gazed out across the pale bay toward the canneries. On the instant a flare spread across the sky, lighting the hills, the trees. It appeared to augment the unreal, opaque gleaming surface of the bay. He was about to second Garry’s husky whisper of triumph when a slight noise froze him. The skiff was drifting. Garry had just lifted the trailing anchor rope aboard. Had he been accountable for that sound? A gurgling, sucking dip? It had been made by an oar. Warily Keven sought to turn.
“Look out, Kev!” shouted Garry, with piercing suddenness.
He leaped to shove Keven back. His upflung arms went protectingly above Keven’s head.
“Ketched you net thieves!” rasped out a voice, thick with fury.
“Aye, Mulligan—you blackhearted half-breed!” returned Garry fiercely.
A boat thumped hard against the skiff. Then came a swish. Keven saw a dark descending object, over him. A terrible sodden thud! Garry fell over the seat into the bow.
“Take thet, you upriver——!”
Mulligan’s boat bumped against the skiff, bringing the burly fisherman somewhat forward of Keven, yet within reach. Mulligan lifted the long oar over the prostrate Garry. Like a tiger Keven leaped. With all his might he swung the fish knife. He drove it into Mulligan’s burly neck. Hot blood squirted over his hand before he could let go. A horrible hoarse, strangled cry rent the air. Mulligan plunged overboard, his oar striking the boat and sliding off.
Keven had lost his equilibrium. The skiff had been overbalanced. Water was pouring in over the net. Then he plunged, face forward, into the bay. The icy shock, succeeding the awful rush of fire through his veins, aided rather than hindered his desperate lunging up, to where he could breathe again and see.
The skiff had righted, but the gunwale was only a few inches above water. He dared not attempt to clamber aboard. It had been caught by the current. Keven grasped the bow and held on.
Then as he peered back a lightning flash showed the other boat, black on the white water, drifting down. There was no sign of Mulligan. He had sunk. A fiendish primitive glee danced in the cold marrow of Keven’s bones.
Keven saw one of Garry’s arms hanging limp over the gunwale. Holding fast, keeping the skiff trim, Keven peered about. They had drifted from the bay into the mouth of the river. Like a millrace the outgoing tide carried the skiff toward the outlet. Nearer sounded the crash of the breakers. Keven began to kick, and to paddle with his free arm. Gradually the skiff swung toward the sandpit. He could discern the pale gray point, lashed by that sliding tide.
Suddenly his feet touched bottom. He waded, desperately clinging to the bow. The skiff swung broadside. Then the tremendous current tore it from his grasp. He lunged, meaning to catch it again, and go with Garry. But too late! The current beat him. The boat gleamed against the dim white waves—swept on—disappeared. And the tide dragged at him. Frantically he plunged and clawed his way out on the sandspit, where he fell.