"So I got to nosing around and incidentally tumbled on to something which I think may be of interest to you. Would it surprise you to know that Mascola does not own a single fishing-boat? It did me, though I might have known it if I had remembered the federal statute which prohibits any but American-owned fishing vessels from operating in American waters.
"Rock and Bandrist own the alien fleet. Mascola, yousee, is an alien. Bandrist apparently is not. I wish by the way you'd tell me all you can of that bird. I'm looking up Silvanus myself. I'm on the trail of a pretty good story, Cap, if it works out all right. Shouldn't be surprised if I might not drop in on you any time. If I do, I'll want a boat to go over to Diablo. Keep this all under your hat. It isn't censored."
For some time Gregory stared at Hawkins' letter. The information gleaned from its contents shed a new light upon El Diablo. Bandrist and Rock were in cahoots. Both were interested in keeping him away from Diablo. Something was wrong on the island. It was Mascola's job to keep strange craft from going there to find out. With the words strange craft, his mind flashed to a new tangent. To his half-closed eyes came a vision of a long gray hull, running dark, gliding through the water toward them like a destructive shadow. Bronson had said it looked like theGray Ghost. What was theGray Ghost? Where did she clear from? And what was her purpose in putting in in the dark to Hell-Hole?
The questions multiplied with the smoke-wreaths and in the blue haze which enveloped him, Kenneth Gregory beheld his vague and intangible suspicions gradually crystallizing into three fundamental hypotheses: Something crooked was being pulled off at Diablo. Rock and Bandrist were back of it. The isolation of the island was threatened by the increasing activities of the American fleet in that vicinity. Mascola's opportunity was only a means to an end.
Gregory's frown deepened. What Rock andBandrist were doing at Diablo concerned him in itself, not at all. In so far as it related to Mascola's interference, however, it was all-important. Mascola was the one man who stood between him and his cherished dreams. If Rock and Bandrist were behind Mascola, as he imagined, would it not be pursuing a "cart before horse" policy to continue his expensive militant opposition to the Italian? Why not fathom the motive which lay behind Mascola's action? If Diablo held a secret, the guarding of which threatened his business existence, why should he not as an American citizen take the initiative and——
His meditations were disturbed by a soft tap on the office door. Dickie Lang entered.
"I knew I'd find you here," she said. "Smoking yourself to death and worrying gray. I've come to take you outside for a while. You'll be sick if you go on like this. Forget for a while and come with me. The boys are having a mussel-bake on the beach and they've sent for you. If you have ever eaten kelp-baked mussels you'll not wait to be urged. The grunion should run to-night too, and I want you to see them."
Gregory drew his fingers through his tousled hair and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "But I can't go. I'm waiting for a radio from Diablo."
"Bosh!" the girl interrupted. "It won't take one of the boys five minutes to bring you the message if it comes while you're gone." She came closer andplaced a hand on his arm. "Please come," she said. "Just to please me."
Gregory had no alternative. Leaving word with one of the night men to send him any radio despatch at once, he followed Dickie to the beach, where the service men sat cross-legged about a blazing fire of drift-wood. Gregory sank to the sand beside the dark mound of dampened kelp and watched the operations of the chef as he busied himself in removing the heavy pieces of canvas which covered the sea-grass.
"It's nature's fireless-cooker," explained the girl as she took her place beside him. "You can cook most anything in an oven like that if you know how. It's simple enough too. All you have to do is to scoop out a hole in the sand and line it with rocks to hold in the heat. Then build your fire and let it burn for a couple of hours to get a good bed of coals. Cover them with a thin layer of damp kelp and put in the potatoes. Another layer of sea-weed, then the roasting-ears. After that come the fish, wrapped in paper. Then the mussels, clams or anything else you want. When you get them all in, cover the whole thing with a lot of heavy kelp and batten it down with a big piece of canvas. The whole trick is knowing just when to open the oven. Nothing can burn so it's better to leave it too long than to try to hurry things."
Gregory took the tin-plate, piled high with its smoking delicacies, and leisurely freed a succulent mussel from its shell. As he placed it in his mouth hiseyes lit up with genuine pleasure and the anxious lines slowly disappeared from his face.
"What do you think of them?"
He could only gasp his appreciation. Dickie smiled at the rapidly disappearing contents of his plate. He looked like a new man already. Nothing like a mussel-bake in the open air to make people forget their troubles.
About the dying drift-wood fire, the service men drew closer together and began to sing.
"There's a long, long trail a-windingInto the land of my dreams."
"There's a long, long trail a-windingInto the land of my dreams."
As their voices rose above the dull boom of the surf, Gregory's thoughts turned to the words of the song. The trail had been long. How long and how devious, he had never quite before realized. Perhaps it was because he was tired and the firelight made him think. The "land of his dreams" was still far ahead. Blocked from his vision for the time being by an intangible something which lay like a dark shadow across the path.
"Over there. Over there."
He started and looked involuntarily toward the phosphorescent line of breakers. Over there? Once it had meant France. Now it came to him with a new meaning. Beyond the gleaming waves he fancied he could see the jagged shore-line of El Diablo.
"And we won't come back,Till it's over, over there."
"And we won't come back,Till it's over, over there."
Gregory's eyes narrowed. When "it was over, over there," perhaps it would be over everywhere. Then, and only then, would he reach "the land of his dreams." He looked guiltily at Dickie Lang and was glad that she could not read his thoughts concerning the end of the long trail.
"What were you thinking of, just then? I never saw you look like that before."
It was the eternal feminine speaking.
Gregory shook his head. "I never did look like that before," he said. "Because I never thought quite that far. Some day perhaps I'll tell you what I was thinking."
The moon, which had shyly appeared over the low brown hills, grew bolder and mingled its rays with those of the fire in crowding back the shadows. Then a shout came from the water.
"Grunion."
The singing ceased abruptly and the service men scrambled to their feet and raced down the beach.
Dickie made haste to follow.
"Come on," she cried to Gregory. "And I'll show you the sight of your life."
Following the girl to the wet sands, Gregory was amazed at the spectacle. The silver waves were alive with glistening fish. Borne high on the crest of the tumbling breakers, they surged to the beach by thousands and lay quivering like quick-silver, stranded in the sand by the back-wash. With a deafening shout men scrambled to the water's edge and scooped them up in their hands. Dickie rushed to the water and returned with a small fish, somewhat resembling a sardine.
"Grunion," she announced. "They come up at certain seasons of the year to spawn. There are only three places on the coast south of the Golden Gate where they run. For three or four nights now while the tide is high and the moon full they'll be swept up on this beach and left to lay their eggs in the wet sand. If you get closer you can see them standing on their tails. You'll never believe it unless you do see it. You've got to work fast to get them for they hop along the beach only for a second. Then the next breaker takes them out."
Handing him one of the little fish, she continued: "Take him up to the fire and look at him. Against a good light you can see clear though them. If you had a skillet hot on the coals and threw in a handful of grunion you could never have a finer dish. But they won't hardly keep over night. For that reason they are good for nothing, commercially."
She paused abruptly and listened. "I thought I heard some one calling," she said.
Turning about they saw three men standing by the fire.
"Maybe it's some word from the boys," Gregory exclaimed. "Let's go and see."
At the fireside they came upon Hawkins with two strangers, whom he introduced as brothers of his craft. Drawing Gregory aside while Dickie conversed with Slade and Billings, he said:
"Listen, Cap. I want a boat and a man to run it who knows Diablo from the water-line up. I'm on the trail of the biggest kind of a scoop. I can't give you all the dope but I can tell you a few things that will open your eyes."
The two men drew farther into the shadows and conferred in low-pitched voices, broken now and then by Gregory's muttered exclamations. While they talked one of the night men from the cannery hurried on to the scene.
"Message for Mr. Gregory," he called.
Gregory took the message and drew nearer the coals. In the red glow of the fire, he read:
From: LaunchSnipeAt Sea. Five miles off Hell-Hole.
Got into fight with Mascola about an hour ago. His boats drove ours from island. His men drunk and armed with shotguns. Some of boys pretty well filled up.Curlewlagged with engine trouble and was cut in two off Hell-Hole Isthmus. Sunk in five minutes by some big boat, running dark.Albatrosspicked up crew. All saved. Wire what to do. Twelve boats here. Others at Cavalan for repairs.
Jones.
Dickie's eyes shone angrily at the message. "Damn them!" she cried. "They got myCurlew." GraspingGregory's arm, she exclaimed: "There's a bunch of the fleet off San Anselmo on the mainland side. There's some more a few miles down the coast from Cavalan. They can all make Diablo in two hours if you wire them right away. We can go over in theRichardand round them up and smash Mascola's whole fleet. What if they have shotguns? We have rifles. Come on. What are you waiting for?"
Dickie Lang was breathless. Her cheeks glowed. Her eyes were shining.
Gregory shook his head slowly and looked at Hawkins.
"TheGray Ghostran theCurlewdown about an hour ago off the Hell-Hole Isthmus," he said.
The two strangers drew closer and listened intently to the news while Dickie chafed at Gregory's failure to get under way.
"That means we've got to be off," exclaimed one of the men. "How about going over in that speed-boat of yours?"
Gregory nodded. "That's what I was figuring on," he said. "I'm going to send a radio to all my boats within a thirty-mile radius of the island to reinforce the fleet and mix it with Mascola off the Hell-Hole Isthmus on the north side. While they're busy on that side, it will leave us a clear field on the other."
Dickie's eyes opened wide at his words. As they moved away together in the direction of the cannery, she cried: "I don't understand at all. Aren't you going to help the boys out?"
Gregory shook his head and the grim lines tightened about his mouth.
"No," he answered. "Not this time. That is what Rock, Bandrist and Mascola think I am going to do. But I'm going to fool them. There's something back of all this that we can only guess at now. Diablo has a secret our fathers died to learn. I'm sure of it now. To-night I'm going to find out what it is."
Diablo was steeped in moonlight. For miles about the sea gleamed like a mirror. The grim mountains which guarded the shore were robed in saffron and checkered with black by the dark shadows of the towering peaks as they fell athwart the hillsides and mingled with the darkness which hugged the canyons.
From a small cave high up on a rocky canyon wall the figure of a man emerged and crept silently into the shadows. Picking his way with great caution along a winding sheep-trail, he reached the summit of the hill and looked about. The damp sea air fanned his long hair and caused him to look in the direction of the fleecy white clouds which were creeping upward from the horizon. Soon there would be fog. Then he could continue on his way to the brackish spring on the bluff-side overlooking the south shore. From there it was only a stone's throw to the beach where the mussels and abalones clung so thickly to the rocks.
The thought of the raw shellfish sickened him. For days he had had nothing else to eat. Shrinking closer into the shadows of the sage and cactus, hewaited for the fog. Then he could go on on his nightly journey. How many months had he been a prisoner on El Diablo? He had lost all track of time. But what did it matter? Soon he would be dead. For warm food and a drink of pure water he would almost give himself up now.
Borne on the fog-wind came cries and shouts from the other side of the island. Perhaps help was coming at last. But no, it was only the fishermen fighting among themselves off the Hell-Hole. He had heard them many times before across the narrow isthmus. They would only go away as they had always done and leave him to starve. The faint pulsing of a motor launch directed his attention to the sea.
In the paling moonlight, a gray blot clouded the water, moved slowly among the rocks and merged with the shadows. It was the same boat he had seen so often in the past. Always it came to the island at night, running dark. Once in the bright moonlight he had seen men land on the rocks and walk up the beach to a large cave which extended far into the cliff. As he had huddled closer into the scant shadows of the rock-mottled ledge, other men had come down the trail from the island and he had been forced to slide into the chilling waters of a grass-grown pool to escape detection. Mother of God, it had been a narrow escape.
The fog thickened and he continued on his way to the spring. Creeping noiselessly through the brush he reached the trail which led downward to the beach.Then he stopped and listened. The soft grating of a muted chain caused him to drop lower in the grass and draw back. Silently he retraced his steps until he reached the cover of the heavier brush which fringed the hillside.
The strange vessel was dropping anchor again in the little cove. He dared not run the risk of going farther down the trail. There were mussels and abalones around the next point. He would get them. By that time perhaps the men would be gone and he could return by the spring. The fog settled close about him, blinding his eyes and clinging to his shivering body. For a moment he stopped and sucked thirstily at the wet grass. Then he crawled on.
Planing high on the glistening waves, theRichardsped onward across the moonlit sea in the direction of El Diablo. At the wheel, Kenneth Gregory strove to concentrate his mind upon the quest which lay before him. But another thought obtruded with ever recurring frequency. Why had he permitted Dickie Lang to accompany the party to the island? There would be danger. There was always danger at El Diablo. Landing upon the island would be an added risk if Hawkins' suspicions had any grounds for fact. The girl's threat that she would withdraw her support from the cannery if not permitted to go with the expedition, was only a bluff: Why had he not remained firm? He knew the answer. There was a look in the girl's eyes which he could not withstand. Somethingin her voice which left him powerless to refuse as she had said:
"Our fathers were not afraid. They died in one boat to learn Diablo's secret. We've fought together from the start. Don't leave me at the finish." She might have added: "If they get you, they might as well get me too."
But her eyes told him that. Well, it was too late now to change his mind. The girl was here and it was up to him to leave her in a place of safety if such could be found upon the island. While Hawkins conferred with his two friends, Gregory laid his plans.
He would leave Dickie with theRichard. She had her automatic and a rifle. They would lay in close to shore on the south shore, opposite the Hell-Hole. The island was narrowest there and it was generally in that vicinity that things had happened oftenest in the past. That was where theGray Ghostput in, the place too where his father and Bill Lang had met their death. With the fishing fleet fighting Mascola's boats on the north side the opposite shore of the island might not be held in such rigid surveillance.
His thoughts turned again to the girl by his side. The rock-shadowed coves would afford a fair anchorage for theRichard, even on such a night as this. There Dickie could see without being seen. Should danger threaten while the landing party were ashore, she must put to sea. He must make that perfectly clear to her at once.
As he expected, he encountered stubborn resistancefrom Dickie Lang. If there was anything to be found out, she wanted to be there to see it. She was not afraid. She could shoot as well as a bunch of newspapermen. What was the idea of leaving her clear out of it? Gregory smiled at her slurring reference to Hawkins' two friends. Then he reflected that what the girl did not know concerning the real object of the mission to Diablo would cause her no worry. Until the party landed at least, he was in command of the expedition. And orders must be obeyed.
"You'll have to do as I say," he concluded. "Whether you like it or not."
Dickie's lip curled and she turned her head away to hide her face. "All right," she answered. "I'll stay on theRichard." To herself, she added: "But I'll use my own judgment when it comes to running away."
In the silence of the fog the prisoner of El Diablo crept warily on. Deep ravines laced his path and yawned close about the trail. A misstep would hurl him to the bottom of the rock-lined gorge which was swallowed up in the mists at his feet. Suddenly he stopped and threw himself to full length on the ground. Far above him the solid whiteness of the fog wall was broken by irregular flashes of blue. To his ears came the sound of snapping spluttering flames.
Covering his head with his arms, he crossed himself. The devil was speaking from the hilltop. On two other occasions he had heard the crackling of theflames near the old sheep-herder's shack on the crest of the hill. He had taken the wrong trail. Had gone too far. Worming his way down the path he fled from the flashes of blue light.
For some time he retraced his steps in silence, thanking his saints that the devil had spoken to warn him from the spot. Then the soft breathing of a motor-launch caused him to stop and listen. He was again at the bluff-side. Soon he would reach the rocks. The echoes of the motor-boat died suddenly away and he groped his way to the edge of the cliff and scrambled down the trail.
"You'd better take her now. The fog's getting pretty thick and I don't know the shore-line along here."
Dickie Lang took the wheel.
"I don't know it any too well myself," she admitted. "We'll have to go mighty slow and feel our way along."
Throttling to quarter-speed they skirted the south shore of the island and nosed their way along the coast. At length the girl suggested a halt.
"We ought to be nearly up to the Hell-Hole Isthmus by now," she whispered. "On the beach along here there should be a lot of tide-water caves if we're where I think. Around the next point is the goose-neck. We'd better go ashore and have a look. We may be too far down already."
Gregory agreed.
"I'll take Hawkins and Slade and row ashore," he said. "Billings can stay with you on the launch."
Dickie's objections were quickly overruled and the canvas-wrapped anchor chain was lowered into the water while the dory was pulled alongside.
"Look along the base of the cliff for the caves," cautioned the girl in a low voice. "And watch out for your oars. Keep them in the water and be sure the wrappings fit tight in the locks."
Gregory nodded and took his place in the skiff.
"We'll be back in five minutes," he said. Then he shoved the dory out into the fog.
From the ledge of rock which bordered the cove, the half-starved man pulled the razor-backed mussels from the sea-grass and broke them open with his pocket-knife. For some time he ate rapidly. Then he ceased pulling at the shellfish and listened. A boat was coming to anchor in the cove. He could hear the soft slip of the chain through the chaulks. Perhaps they would land on the beach. Then he would be trapped on the ledge until they had gone.
Picking his way over the barnacled rocks he started for the beach. As he climbed from the ledge, he stopped suddenly and clung to the rocks. On the beach at his feet, and only a few feet away, he heard the pebbles grate beneath the bow of a boat. The men were already landing. Staring into the opaque wall of white, he saw it clouded by three dark blots. Followed the rattle of stones, the soft crunch of the sanddying slowly away into silence. The men had gone on up the beach.
The man who clung to the rocks climbed noiselessly to the sand, his brain burning with one great idea. While the visitors were gone from the place he would steal their boat. In the fog no one could find him. He could row about the island and be picked up at sea in the morning by some fishing-boat. The great chance had come to him at last.
Perhaps the men had left another to guard the boat. The thought caused him to draw his pocket-knife. Grasping it tightly in his shaking fingers, he crawled silently over the wet sand, feeling for the sides of the dory with his extended arm.
Hope danced brightly before his eyes as he touched the boat. Weakened by hunger, he rubbed his shriveled limbs and tottered to his feet, waving his knife. Then he chuckled aloud. There was no one in the boat.
Throwing the knife upon one of the seats, he leaped again to the sand and began to shove. Mother of God, he had no strength. The bottom grated noisily on the pebbles. Then the dory slid into the water. Laughing to himself, he threw his body over the rail and felt about for the oars.
Men were running down the beach. He had not a second to lose. His hand closed upon the oars. He was saved. Tugging feebly at the heavy sweeps, he drew them through the water with all his might and the dory moved slowly forward. Again his weakened muscles responded to the fevered call of his brain. Suddenly he felt the dory strike a heavy object ahead. Thrown half from his seat by the impact he dropped an oar, regained it on the instant and pushed the skiff away from the launch as hands reached out to grasp it. Then he heard the low murmur of voices from the motor-boat. As he headed close in to the rocks he felt the stern of the dory dip sharply.
Gregory whirled at the sharp rattle of oars and raced down the beach in the direction of the dory. Some one was meddling with their boat. When he reached the place where they had left the skiff, he found it gone. From the waters of the little cove came the creak of oar-locks. Plunging into the water, Gregory swam rapidly in the direction of the launch. Whoever had taken the boat was heading straight for theRichard.
A sharp bump sounded close ahead and Gregory redoubled his efforts to reach the side of the launch. Then he narrowly escaped being run down by the small boat which had turned and was heading in for the rocks. Grasping the stern of the dory as it moved by him, he hung for a moment while he regained his wind, striving vainly to ascertain how many passengers the skiff carried.
Suddenly he noticed that the oars no longer disturbed the water and the skiff had lost its way. Then he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps coming toward the stern. Releasing his hold, he swam alongthe side and caught the bow, dragged his body from the water and tumbled into the boat. The same instant a heavy oar crashed against the seat close to his head and a dark figure flung itself upon him.
It was but the work of a moment for Gregory to overpower the thief of the small boat and bind him with the dory's painter. The man had fought desperately only for a moment, then collapsed, andgibberingwith fear had allowed himself to be bound without a struggle.
Turning the skiff about, Gregory started for the launch. Had the man landed others on theRichard? Surely he had reached the speed-boat and had put about. Was he bent only upon stealing the boat or was he only one of many who would be down upon them any minute?
Arriving alongside theRichardDickie hailed him softly.
"Some fellow tried to steal our boat," he explained to the girl. "If you'll get Billings to help me get him aboard I'll go back and pick up the boys."
Dickie's companion in the launch assisted him in lifting the prisoner to theRichard'sdarkened cockpit where he lay huddled in a heap.
As Gregory rowed away in the direction of the shore, Billings veiled an electric torch and allowed its tiny ray to fall full upon the face of the quivering prisoner.
"A greaser," he whispered to the girl. "Look. He's scared to death."
Dickie looked quickly at the crumpled little figure. Then she fell on her knees close beside the man and peered intently into his shriveled face. For an instant she remained motionless staring into the face of the trembling captive.
"My God!" she whispered. "It's Mexican Joe."
"You have seen nothing of the speed-boat from Legonia?"
Mascola shook his head in answer to the question and reached for the bottle which stood on the table in Bandrist's ranch-house.
Bandrist jerked it away. "Cut that out," he said sternly. "You've had enough. To-night you have work to do. You must keep sober."
Mascola scowled, glaring angrily at the islander as he went on:
"Mr. Gregory left Legonia at ten-thirty with his speed-boat. There were five in the launch. Four men and Miss Lang."
Mascola drew in his breath sharply.
"That damned Lang girl," he began. "She is a——"
Bandrist slid from his chair with a quick movement which carried him wriggling about the table.
"Keep your tongue still," he gritted as he towered over the Italian. "You talk too much."
Mascola started from his chair, but there was a look in Bandrist's eyes which made him drop back. A sneering smile played about the Italian's lips but hesaid nothing. If Bandrist was a fool about a woman, what was that to him? He could not afford to quarrel with the islander. Not yet.
"How did Peters know they were coming here?" he asked after a moment.
"He didn't," Bandrist answered shortly. "But it is only natural that they should come here. Their boats have been fishing along the north shore of the island. Your men failed to drive them off."
Mascola flushed.
"My men did drive them off," he contradicted hotly. "Only a few minutes ago they returned with other boats. I will drive those off too."
Bandrist smiled insultingly.
"Why don't you do it?" he challenged. "To-night is a time I must have something more than talk. I want you to go down and join your fleet at once, keep a close watch and if the speed-boat does not arrive within a half-hour, let me know immediately."
Mascola made no move to obey.
"Gonzolez is laying in at the goose-neck," he said. "I sent Rossi round to join him. TheFuor d'Italialies in the little cove beyond."
Bandrist's blue eyes flashed. "I can tend to that," he exclaimed. "You do what you're told and quit meddling with my business."
"It's my business too," Mascola retorted doggedly. "Gonzolez is becoming angry at the delay. He will wait no longer."
Bandrist walked slowly to the window and staredout into the fog. When he faced about an automatic shone dully in his hand.
"Do as I tell you," he ordered quietly. "And do it quick."
Mascola's face purpled. Still he made no move to do Bandrist's bidding. "Don't forget," he said thickly, "that there are others who know besides you and me. If anything happens to me at Diablo there is one who will tell what he knows. I have seen to that."
Bandrist's fingers tightened on the revolver. Then he slowly replaced it in his pocket. The Italian might only be bluffing, but it was best to take no unnecessary chances. Mastering his anger at Mascola's insubordination, Bandrist walked again to the table.
"Perhaps you are right," he said pleasantly. "Let us go on to the goose-neck."
When Gregory returned to theRichardwith Slade and Hawkins he found Dickie Lang huddled close beside the crumpled figure of his captive. The girl was sobbing softly as she listened to the whispered words of the little Mexican.
Feeling his way to her side, he placed an arm about her, and drawing her away from the other man, waited for her to speak. Then she explained in a voice shaken by tears.
"It's Mexican Joe. He was with our fathers on theGull. No one knew it at Legonia. He went out with them at midnight and reached Diablo a littlebefore daybreak. They left him on the launch while they went ashore. He saw them murdered on the beach. The launch was run down a few minutes later. Joe was thrown overboard. He struck his head on the rocks. When he came to, he heard them searching for him but he hid in the sea-grass and escaped to the other side of the island. He's been living there ever since in a cave in the hills. It was he who stole the gun and provisions from thePetrel."
Gregory held the girl close as she told the Mexican's story. For an instant tears dimmed his eyes, then melted away before the white-hot heat of the blood-lust which surged into his heart. His father had been murdered at El Diablo. By whom? He put the question.
The girl's fingers tightened on his arm and she placed her lips close to his ear.
"A number of men overpowered them on the beach and drowned them. Mascola was with them."
Gregory's jaws locked and the muscles of his body grew tense. Mascola had murdered his father and Bill Lang. Releasing the girl, he hurried over to the three men who were talking to the Mexican and grasped Hawkins by the arm.
"What are we waiting for?" he cried. "While you're talking the man may get away."
"Just a minute, Cap," Hawkins remonstrated. "Things are coming along fine. Billings and Slade are learning a lot from the Mex. As soon as they get him filled up with those sandwiches he's going to showus the wireless tower and the cove where theGray Ghostput in to-night. He says there's a cave close by where he saw——"
Gregory shook off his restraining arm.
"What is all that to me?" he flashed. "Don't you know that Mascola murdered my father? Let the men go where they will. I'm going after Mascola."
Hawkins started at Gregory's words.
"I didn't know, Cap," he muttered blankly. For a brief instant he strove to express his sympathy for his friend. Then he gave it up. "Brace up, old man," he said at last. "Take a grip on yourself. You can't do anything over here alone. Before morning we'll have the whole gang rounded up and Mascola with them. I guess the boys are ready to go now."
Gregory shivered in his wet clothes and Hawkins pressed his slicker upon him. While the men took their places in the skiff Gregory found Dickie Lang. The girl came into his outstretched arms and clung close to him in the darkness.
"Take me with you," she pleaded. "Don't leave me here. I can't stand it."
He released her gently and shook his head.
"No, dearest," he said softly. "If you were with us I might be afraid. And I can't afford to be afraid to-night. Stay close and keep under cover. If the fog lifts, pull the anchor and drift in to the shadow of the rocks."
"Why don't you tell me what you are going to do?" the girl asked. "You know that——"
Gregory drew her closer.
"I'm going to get Mascola," he answered in a whisper. Then his voice changed suddenly. "And if I don't come back," he went on. "You'll know now that I love you."
For an instant his lips met hers. Then he climbed over the coaming and joined the men in the dory. Dickie listened to the soft creak of the oar-locks until the sound was no longer audible.
Mascola had killed her father and Richard Gregory. His son had gone to bring the Italian to justice. But what could five men do on the island against the hordes of Bandrist and Mascola? Who were the mysterious strangers who had accompanied them from Legonia? The questions crowded close upon one another as they raced through her brain. Then her mind surrendered to a single thought,—a thought which warmed her heart and took possession of her being.
"You'll know now that I love you."
She whispered the words softly through lips which were still warm with the memory of Gregory's kiss. Hope surged into her heart. God was good. Breathing a prayer for the safety of the man she loved, she caught up her rifle and sat down to wait.
The men from the launch landed silently on the beach and hid the skiff among the rocks. Then they followed the Mexican up the trail. Crawling throughthe brush, they halted at length at their guide's direction.
"From the top of the hill," he whispered, "the devil speaks."
Billings caught the Mexican by the arm.
"Come," he said. "Lead the way and the devil will speak no longer."
When the sheep-herder's shack loomed across their path, Slade commanded a halt. Then he gave orders to surround the building. As the men drew near the cabin the door opened suddenly and a man stepped out. Before he could close the door, Slade and Hawkins were upon him. Gregory and Billings darted for the open doorway as the light disappeared from within. From the fog-shrouded cabin came the sound of muffled blows, the quick breathing of men, the rasp of feet upon the creaking floor. A choking cry died away into silence. Silence broken after a moment by a sharp click. Then another. Slade relighted the lamp and turned to examine the two white-faced men who lay handcuffed on the floor.
"Look like 'snowbirds,'" he said. "The two of them haven't the strength of one healthy cat."
Passing the men over to Billings with instructions to search them, he walked to the radio switch-board and examined it carefully.
"They've got a regular set just the same," he said half-admiringly. "They could reach Encinitas with this one all right."
Seating himself on a stool by the board he placed his hand on the key.
"I'm going to try to get theBennington," he said.
Billings nodded. "She ought to be close along shore by now," he answered. "If they left when they said they would."
While the search went on the radio spluttered spasmodically. Finding nothing of value on the persons of his captives, Billings bared the arms of the two men and scrutinized the flesh intently in the yellow lamplight.
"Snowbirds," he announced. "One of them's punctured up one side and down the other. Other's not so bad. Good business I'd say for them to get hold of a couple of fellows like these. They're about the only ones they could get to stick in a God-forsaken hole like this and keep their mouths shut."
He rose as he spoke and began to move slowly about the room.
"Tell the Mexican to keep a good lookout outside," he instructed Hawkins. "Then you and your friend can help me go through the shack."
Gregory assisted mechanically in the search but with little interest. The sooner they were through the sooner they would go down to the cove where theGray Ghostlay at anchor. Then he would find Mascola. A muttered exclamation from Hawkins caused him to look up quickly.
The newspaperman was handing Billings a cigar-shaped capsule half filled with a coarse white powder.
"What's this, Jack?" he asked. "Looks like sugar. Found it in the grub-locker."
Billings poured the contents of the capsule into the palm of his hand. For a moment he scrutinized it intently. "That's the stuff we're looking for," he said quietly. "Though I never saw it in a package like that before."
Slade held up a hand for silence and pulled his head-set closer about his ears. For a moment his attention was held by the instrument. Then his hand again sought the key. When the sputtering of the radio had died away he announced:
"Got theBennington. She's about a mile off the goose-neck. They're going to land in the next cove. TheGray Ghost'sat anchor now off the isthmus cove. Mascola's speed-boat passed them in the fog about an hour ago. He's lying in somewhere farther down."
He rose as he spoke and began to wreck the radio set.
"Tie those fellows up good, Jack," he instructed Billings. "We don't want to be bothered with them down below. We've got to be on our way. The boys will be there by the time we get down the hill. What's that you've got there?"
Billings extended the capsule and Slade examined it curiously.
"Queer package," he said. "But it's the straight dope."
Hawkins' eyes shone with excitement as he crowded closer to Slade. "What is it, Tom?" he asked.
"Heroin," answered Slade quickly. "A refined product of opium. Never saw it put up like this before though. When we hit the beach maybe we'll learn the idea."
Beckoning Gregory to his side, Slade took from his pocket a deputy shield of the United States Customs and pinned it on the young man's vest.
"For your own protection," he explained. Then he added: "You must act entirely under my orders from now on, Mr. Gregory. Do only what I tell you. Nothing more. You have been in the service of the government before. You know what it means."
A few moments later the four men followed the Mexican down the trail leading to the goose-neck.
Under orders. Do only what I tell you. Nothing more. The words echoed in Gregory's mind. Slade did not understand. Mascola was to the revenue man only one of many. A man to be arrested and tried. Perhaps acquitted on a mere technicality of law or a perjured alibi. Slade did not know the Italian. Had Dickie Lang not said that Mascola laughed at the courts? Gregory's jaw set tighter as he descended the trail. To-night, orders or no orders, he would bring Mascola to justice by the law of the sea.
With the sands of the sea-beach gritting beneath their feet, Slade ordered a halt and conferred with the Mexican. Then he whispered to Billings: "This is the isthmus bay where I told the men to land. I know where I am now all right. Around the next point is the goose-neck. The cave Joe speaks of is at the far end of the cove. It has two entrances, one from the bluff and one from the beach. Jack Smith's been in it. I'm going to send him ahead. Take a look for the landing boats down by the water."
Billings disappeared on the instant and a moment later rejoined his chief.
"Everything's O.K.," he announced. "The men have landed and are standing by for instructions."
"Tell them to carry the dingeys clear of the tide and join me here," Slade directed. "Send one boat back to theBenningtonand have the skipper move her around to the goose-neck in ten minutes. Tell him to nail anything that's at anchor in the cove."
Billings returned in a few minutes accompanied by the men from the revenue cutter. Silently they grouped themselves about their chief and waited for instructions.
Gregory crowded closer and listened while Slade gave the men their orders. The deputies were to be divided. A few of the best trained men, familiar with the local topography, were to scout on in advance, entering the cave from the bluff-side. The others were to move along the beach, surround the main entrance and cut off escape to the water. All were to challenge once. Then shoot to kill.
Slade selected his men carefully. When he came to Gregory he said: "Stay with the main body on the beach."
It was in Gregory's mind to argue. Slade was throwing him into the discard. What chance would he have of finding Mascola at the main entrance to the cave? The leader of the advance was already marshaling his men about him.
Gregory found Hawkins and the two men walked away from the others, whispering together. Hawkins returned alone. When the advance party had left Slade checked up the men who remained.
"I'm a man short," he announced. "What became of Mr. Gregory? I told him to stay here."
Hawkins shook his head blankly when questioned concerning the sudden disappearance of his friend. Gregory might have misunderstood. It was not like him to disobey orders. In any case Slade need not worry. His ex-captain was used to scouting and had received many citations during the war for crossing the enemy's lines. Gregory would be a help to the advance if he had gone with them, Hawkins stoutlymaintained. Then he lied earnestly: "He knows that cave like a book."
Joining the men detailed to enter the cave in advance, when they reached the top of the bluff, Gregory reported to the officer in charge.
"Mr. Slade sent me to join you," he said. "I brought him over from Legonia in my launch."
Jack Smith hesitated. "All right," he muttered after a moment. "Slade's the boss. Take off that slicker. It'll catch on the brush. Follow after the others and stay close. Don't do anything until I tell you."
His manner was curt and plainly showed that he was not pleased with the latest addition to the party. But Kenneth Gregory cared little for that. If theGray Ghostwas at the goose-neck, the chances were that Mascola would be in the cave. And Mascola must be given no chance to escape.
As he followed after the others down the winding sheep-trail, before Gregory's eyes flashed a vision of his father's battered face staring up at him from the canvas bundle on the hatch. Then came the memory of Mascola's insolent look of triumph when he had first beheld Richard Gregory's son on the wharf at Legonia. Why had he not seen and understood before this?
But then, he had had no proof. He reflected bitterly that he had no proof now. Only a Mexican's unsupported word that Mascola had stood by while his father and Bill Lang were murdered by his men.That was not enough. Mascola might be convicted of smuggling but he would go clear on the charge of murder.
Gregory shook his head slowly in the darkness. No, Mascola would not go clear. He would choke a confession from the Italian with his own hands. Somewhere below him in the fog, a girl waited for him to bring back her father's murderer. The girl he loved, had always loved, but had never known it before to-night. If he failed, he could never face Dickie Lang again. But he would not fail.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of sharp scuffling ahead. Rushing down the trail he came upon the deputies struggling with two men in the bottom of a small ravine. As he assisted the revenue men in securing their captives, he heard Smith whisper: "Down the gulch, men. Take it easy. It's steep. Stay with these fellows, Joe."
The air which sucked through the ravine grew colder as they descended. Then the dank atmosphere became strongly permeated with the odor of fish. Gregory felt a hand upon his arm.
"Go last," Smithordered. "Watch the others. Do what they do. No more."
Foot by foot, the men wormed their way over the dry sticks which choked the entrance to the cave. Then Smith ordered a halt.
Leaving a half dozen men at the entrance he instructed them: "Watch this outlet. When you hear a shot inside, light the signal flares and throw theminside. Then you can see anybody that tries to get by you. They're going to do the same thing at the main entrance." Beckoning Gregory and the two remaining deputies to his side, he said: "We'll go on into the cave. Keep close behind me. When I give the signal by calling on them to give themselves up, each one of you pick a man and hang to him. They haven't a chance of getting out with both entrances lit up and guarded. Come on."
The carpet of dried sea-grass thrown up by the high tides, deadened their footsteps as they crawled into the cave. For an instant they crept on through the darkness. Then a twist in the pathway brought a faint gleam of light ahead. Smith flattened to the kelp and wriggled nearer with the two men behind him following close. Gregory was the last to reach the surface of a table-like ledge of rock which ribbed their path and projected outward over the cavern. Crawling abreast of the deputies, he raised slowly to his elbow and looked down.
The floor of the cave lay only a few feet below, faintly discernible in the yellow light which issued from a hooded lantern. Gregory's eyes searched the grotesque shadows which fell athwart the rocky floor.
Were there no men in the cave?
For an instant no sound broke the stillness. Then, from the darkness beyond the lantern, came the shuffling of footsteps and three fishermen stepped out into the circle of light and dropped to their knees on the rocky floor.
Gregory's eyes opened wider. The cavern floor was literally covered with fish. As he sought to fathom the strange actions of the fishermen as they passed silently up and down the long rows of albacore, the silence was broken by an angry snarl and the figure of another man leaped out from the shadow. Rushing upon one of the fishermen, he shook him roughly by the arm. Then the rays of the lantern fell upon his face.
Gregory's automatic was in his hand as he caught sight of Mascola. Holding the weapon close against his coat to muffle the click of the hammer, he cocked the revolver and shoved it forward over the ledge. For an instant the muzzle wavered, then drew steadily upward until the sights were in line with Mascola's waistband. What an easy shot it was. He couldn't miss. What was the matter with his trigger finger? His arm slowly relaxed. He couldn't shoot the man from the dark.
He'd shoot you quick enough.
I know he would, but——
He murdered your father. He didn't give him a chance, did he?
There was logic in that. The arm which held the automatic stiffened. The eyes which glinted over the sights, grew hard, then closed to blot out the hated visage. When they opened again, the temptation had passed and Mascola was walking again to the shadow.
From the ledge above the cave a bright ray oflight followed the figure of the Italian. Mascola leaped to cover behind a huge rock.
The same instant the roar of a pistol shot deafened Gregory's ear. As Smith fired into the air to give the signal to the men without, he cried: "Hands up, men. You're prisoners of the United States."
The flash-light fell from the deputy's hand as an answering shot echoed from the darkness acrossthecave. Smith rolled to his side. "Nail 'em," he gasped, and tumbled from the ledge.
Gregory slid from the rocks and stumbled to the fish-covered floor of the cavern. The light from the lantern was suddenly extinguished. Dropping to his knee, he shot at the flash of a gun ahead. Dimly to his ears came the shouts of the posse fighting their way into the cave. Soon the vaulted walls reverberated with the rattle of firearms and the darkness was faintly illumined by the light of the signal flares burning at the entrances.
Brought into bold relief by the weird glow from the sputtering candles, a number of darting figures could be seen leaping to cover behind the rocks. From the shadows came bright jets of flame. Bullets whined through the cavern, clipping the walls and rattling the pebbles to the stone floor. Flattening his body against the slimy fish, Gregory wriggled foot by foot in the direction of the big rock which sheltered Mascola.
The game was up. Bandrist emptied his revolverin the direction of the advancing deputies and drew cautiously away from Mascola. TheFuor d'Italialay at anchor in the cove beyond the goose-neck. The tunnel-like passage, which only himself knew, would lead him to the beach. While the Italian delayed the attacking party would be his chance to take to the boat. In the fog he could make his escape. By daybreak he could make the Mexican coast. Then he would be safe. Of Mascola he thought but little, save as a means to an end. It would serve the Italian right.
Mascola faced about a few minutes later to find himself fighting alone. Then he heard the rattle of loose stones dropping from the cavern wall. Bandrist was leaving him. The Italian's blood warmed at the islander's treachery. Did Bandrist think he was the only one who knew the way out? His anger mounted as he climbed the wall and wormed his way through the narrow opening. So Bandrist thought to give him the slip, did he? Well, he'd show him.
When Bandrist reached the end of the tunnel he crawled out into the fog and listened intently. Some one was following from the cave. Jamming a fresh clip into his automatic he waited. Then he silently replaced his revolver. A shot would only draw pursuit. Perhaps there were men already guarding the secret exit. Huddling close to the cavern tunnel he waited for the figure of the man behind him to emerge.
When Mascola reached the end of the tunnel he felt himself grasped roughly by the arm and twisted to therocks. Bandrist recovered his wits quickly when he recognized the Italian.
"Quiet," he whispered. "You were a long time coming. There may be men on the beach already. Where is your boat?"
Mascola nodded his head in the direction of the beach.
"My skiff lies close to rocks by the point," he said. "The launch is close by."
Bandrist fingered his automatic nervously.
"We can wait no longer," he said.
As he spoke he began to crawl forward toward the water.
The blue light from the signal flares flickered about the rock behind which Mascola had gone into hiding. Gregory reached the shadow, revolver in hand. Raising his body to his elbow, he leaned forward and looked up. The space which lay between the rock and the cavern wall was empty. He was on his feet in an instant. Mascola had escaped. That much was clear. But how? Surely not through the main entrance to the beach. He would have no chance that way. The sound of the tumult at the mouth of the cavern told him that. Neither could the Italian have taken the other passage. He would have seen him as he passed.
He searched the floor carefully for a possible hiding-place which would shelter the man he sought. Then he raised his eyes to the cave wall. It was lined with irregular niches, some of which might be largeenough to hide the body of a man. In the faint glow from the signal flares, he climbed slowly upward until he felt a cool rush of air fan his cheek. The air was heavy with fog; laden with the breath of the sea. The cavern held still another entrance.
Forcing his body through a cleft in the rocks from whence the breeze came, he found himself in a tunnel-like passage. The dry sticks snapped beneath his feet as he felt his way through the impenetrable darkness, stopping at intervals to listen.
That Mascola had preceded him only a few minutes before, he felt reasonably certain. By the time he reached the end of the passage the Italian might have gained a place of safety. Why had he not jumped from the ledge at first sight of his father's murderer? By now it would all be over. His thoughts turned quickly to Dickie Lang. Perhaps theGray Ghostmight have come upon theRichard'sanchorage in the cove adjoining the goose-neck. Perhaps the speed-boat had been run down. Would the girl do as she was told and stay on the launch?
His mind a prey to conflicting thoughts and emotions, Gregory crawled on through the darkness.
When Bandrist and Mascola reached theFuor d'Italia, the Italian kicked the dory adrift as the two men climbed aboard. "Pull the hook," he cried, "while I start the motor."
"No," Bandrist whispered. "You'd be a fool to do that. The cave was filled with revenue men. Thatmeans there's a cutter lying in around here somewhere. Perhaps at the goose-neck. She would spot you in a minute with her search. We must row the launch around the next point at least."
Mascola growled his resentment at Bandrist's air of authority. Nevertheless he saw the wisdom of the suggestion and hastily brought out the long ash oars and fastened them in the brass locks. Bandrist pulled the anchor and took his place at one of the sweeps. For some moments the two men rowed silently into the fog. Then the islander ceased his labor at the oar abruptly.
"Head out," he whispered. "There's a launch ahead."
Mascola's eyes sought to pierce the fog where the dim outline of a motor-boat loomed dark across their course. Then he swung theFuor d'Italiaabout and skirting the point rowed doggedly away from the darkened stranger.
The Italian's ugly temper was not bettered by the physical exercise. There was no need to row the launch as far as this. If Bandrist was going with him, he must learn he was to be only a passenger. TheFuor d'Italiadid not belong to Rock and the islander. She was his own property. He would run her where he pleased and as he pleased. As he labored, he formulated his plans.
He would head straight for the Mexican line, keeping well out to escape the patrol off San Juan. Daybreak would put him in the little lagoon beyondEncinitas. There he would be among friends. He reflected suddenly that he had but little money. American gold in Lower California would buy much. Without it, even his friends would give him but scant comfort. Bandrist, he remembered, never trusted his money to banks, but paid his bills in yellow gold which he carried in the coin belt about his waist.
The observation gave Mascola comfort. Bandrist had enough for them both. He would see that he received his share.
He ceased rowing.
"Far enough," he muttered.
"No."
Bandrist's reply was sharp and decisive.
"Your exhaust can be heard for miles," he said. "The wind is blowing in our faces. We must keep at the oars. Then they will think us still on the island. If you start the motor now you'll bring pursuit."
Mascola's hatred of Bandrist increased with the quiet tone of command with which the islander spoke.
"There is no boat that can catch mine with this lead," he bragged.
"Mr. Gregory's boat is faster than yours for one," Bandrist disputed quietly. "The new revenue cutters are faster for others. Why are you a fool?"
A hot argument began on the instant between the two men. An argument which ended by Bandrist's knocking Mascola to the cockpit.
Mascola lay where he fell for a moment, dazed by the blow. Bandrist was not rowing he noticed.Without doubt he had him covered with his revolver. Fuming with impotent rage, the Italian growled: "Well, you're the boss. It's up to you."
As he struggled to his feet he made up his mind to get square with the islander. Again resuming his oars, he rowed steadily until Bandrist gave the order to start the motor.
TheFuor d'Italialeaped forward and the cool sea air fanned Mascola's flaming face. Settling quietly into his seat he turned his attention to the wheel.
He could afford to wait, but only a little longer.
Dickie Lang grasped her rifle tighter and leaned over the rail as she heard the soft dip of oars. Then her hold on the gun relaxed. Perhaps it was Gregory returning to the launch.
A glance into the gloom to starboard caused her to drop silently into the cockpit. Resting the rifle on the coaming she covered the approaching boat and waited in silence. To her ears came the low murmur of men's voices. Then the oncoming craft veered sharply and faded from view. For some time the girl crouched upon the floor of the launch. At length the silence of the night was broken by the far-off pulsing of a high-speed motor.
She jumped to her feet, her eyes glowing with excitement. Even at the distance she could not be deceived. There was only one other craft about with an exhaust like that.
Mascola was fleeing from Diablo in theFuor d'Italia.
She sprang to the hood and began pulling on the anchor-chain. Then she stopped suddenly. The man she loved was still on the island. Perhaps he had been wounded. Maybe killed. And in the meantime, Mascola was escaping. For an instant love and hate fought for possession of the heart of Dickie Lang. Then the chain slipped through her fingers and the anchor dropped again to the bottom. Silently she returned to the wheel and sat down to wait. It was the hardest part of all to play. And it always fell to a woman.
When Gregory reached the end of the tunnel he could hear the shouts of men and the rapid discharge of firearms from around the point. He must be in the cove adjoining the goose-neck. Crawling rapidly through the brush he gained the beach. Then he stopped and listened. Mascola had evidently taken to the water.
A sudden fear gripped his heart at the thought and sent him racing down the beach in the direction of theRichard'sdory. His fears for the girl's safety abated as he found the dory undisturbed among the rocks. Shoving it into the water he rowed hastily for the launch. As the skiff scraped theRichard'sside, he sprang aboard and caught the girl in his arms. For an instant love alone dominated his heart.
"Mascola escaped in theFuor d'Italia."
Dickie's words recalled Gregory to his purpose. The next instant he was pulling at the chain.
"I'll take you around the point to the cutter," he called to her as he worked. "You'll be safe there until——"
"No." The girl's answer was spoken with a determination there was no gainsaying. "I'm going with you," she said in a low voice. "There were two men in the launch."