As theRichardcleared the point and plunged into trough of the swell, a thin column of light filtered through the fog astern and traveled slowly over the gray water.
Gregory put the wheel over and began to zigzag as he remembered that theBenningtonwas lying in at the goose-neck. At the distance the revenue cutter would be unable to distinguish friend from foe and would take no chances.
"Stay down," he called to Dickie. "It's the search from theBennington. They may shoot."
The light moved shoreward as he spoke, carefully searching the rocks which fringed the coast. Gregory threw the wheel in the opposite direction and struck out at a tangent toward the sea. His speed would soon carry him beyond rifle range. Kicking open the cut-out, he advanced the throttle. TheRichardshook with the sudden burst of power, then began to plane.
Gregory kept his eyes on the moving rays as he held the launch on her seaward tack. The light was moving nearer, but its beams were paling. The cutter evidently had not moved from her anchorage. Doubtless she would be kept fully occupied at the goose-neck. The next instant the fog-wall ahead dripped in the rays of the searchlight.
Gregory's hand flashed to the spark as his foot released the throttle. The angry roar of the speed-boat died away on the instant and the hull dropped sullenly. Putting about, he started shoreward at right angles to his former course.
The whine of machine-gun bullets sounded over his head to the starboard. Then the leaden hail was drowned by the bark of the open exhaust.
He had done the right thing that time. To have tried to dodge at speed would have turned theRichardover. Now he was safe for a few seconds at least he reflected, as he watched the light traveling over his former course.
As the rays again bent shoreward he saw a long point projecting out into the sea. Beyond the jutting promontory he would be safe. Running a course which would carry him clear of the point by a narrow margin he settled low in his seat and dashed forward.
The fog-dimmed light hovered about the point as theRichardplunged boldly into the focus of its dripping beams. As the launch veered to make the turn, the waters astern were splashed by the steel pellets from theBennington'smachine-gun. Then the gunner of the revenue cutter began to raise his sights. Splinters flew from theRichard'sstern. The coaming was riddled as the deadly hail moved toward the bow.
The gunner on theBenningtonceased grinding as the launch disappeared behind the point.
"I could have got that bird in one more second," he muttered ruefully. "If the old man would let us move, we can get him yet."
Gregory threw off the power and hurdled the seat.
"Are you hurt?" he called to Dickie as he hurried toward the stern.
Dickie Lang was not hurt. Only cut by a flying splinter. It was nothing. The girl made her way forward.
"Let me take her until we clear the coast," she said. "You gave me the shivers the way you grazed that reef off China Point."
As they inclined their ears into the gray mist which enveloped them, they caught the murmur of theFuor d'Italia'sexhaust.
Gregory surrendered the wheel.
The girl listened to the rapid-fire pulsations of the boat ahead.
"He's headed out to sea," she said. "And we're going to have to drive to catch him with this lead."
Her words were drowned in the thunder of theRichard'smotor and the speed-launch bounded away to overtake her hated rival.
"The fog is lifting. Soon it will be clear. We must watch closely for pursuit."
Mascola grunted a reply to Bandrist's observations. Weather conditions meant very little to him at thepresent moment. His mind was occupied with matters of far more importance.
It would be well to know just where Bandrist stood concerning a division of his money before they went farther. Now would be a good time to find out. He made the suggestion at once that the islander grant him an advance of funds until such time as he could obtain his money from Legonia and Port Angeles.
"I have no money to spare," Bandrist answered curtly. "You are foolish not to have been better prepared. Our business is one which should have taught you that. You will have a hard time now to get your money from the States."
An angry retort welled to Mascola's lips but he choked it back. Bandrist was speaking again.
"Here is one hundred dollars. You are welcome to that. But no more."
Mascola's eyes flashed at the smallness of the sum. A hundred dollars would be next to nothing, even in Mexico. Bandrist, he felt sure, possessed money in plenty. If there was not enough for two, there would be plenty for one.
Mascola made up his mind quickly. He would be the one. He had given Bandrist his chance. The islander had tried twice to-night to give him the double-cross. Would do it again if he got the chance. But Bandrist would have no more chances. Reaching out his hand, Mascola took the gold with muttered words of thanks. Then his fingers sought the switch and the noise of the motor died suddenly into silence.
"Listen."
Mascola turned quickly in his seat and looked over the stern. At the same time his right hand sought his dagger.
Bandrist twisted about, his eyes searching the gray waters astern.
"I don't," he began. But his words ended in a choking gasp.
Mascola's knife had found its mark and the Italian's fingers were tearing at Bandrist's throat.
The islander struggled to reach his gun, but he felt his strength leaving him. The moonlight shimmered before his eyes, mingled with gray splashes of fog. A sharp pain laced his side. His mouth opened and he fought hard for air. Heavy darkness began to settle about him. From the far-off spaces he heard the sound of rapid breathing. Or was it the faint pulsing of a motor-launch? Then the murmur grew fainter until it trailed away into silence. Mascola pulled the islander roughly from the seat and dragged him along the floor of the cockpit. Then he sprang to the wheel and started the motor. There was no time now to get the money. The fog was lifting. And there was a boat following.
Clear of the Diablo reefs, Gregory took the wheel and plunged theRichardinto the shifting wall of fog. Mile after mile he traversed in silence, stopping at intervals to listen to the faint pulsing of the boat ahead. At length the gray canopy lifted slowly fromthe water and he caught the outline of theRichard'sbroad hood rising staunchly above him in the gloom. He smiled grimly at the sight. The motor had not missed a shot since leaving the island. And they were overhauling theFuor d'Italia.
He threw the switch again as his eye caught the gleam of the moonlight ahead. For some moments he listened intently. But only the soft slap of the waves against the hull of the launch disturbed the stillness.
Mascola had escaped him; had noted the clearing and heard the sound of pursuit; had doubled back into the fog bank. Anguish took possession of his heart at the thought as he reached for the switch. But neither Gregory nor Dickie Lang heard the rasp of the starting mechanism. The sound was swallowed up in a deafening roar which came from the moonlit waters ahead.
"Straight ahead," the girl shouted. "I see him."
Gregory had already thrown in the clutch. In a swirl of white water theRichardraised her head proudly, and snorting angry defiance, raced across the intervening waves which separated her from her primordial enemy. Gregory saw theFuor d'Italialeap forward in the moonlight, noted that the craft had already changed direction and was heading off at a tangent, a course which would bring Mascola under cover of the fog bank.
Veering as sharply as her speed would permit, theRicharddipped like a gull and sped on to intercept theFuor d'Italia. The shifting bank of blinding misthung uncertainly above the shimmering waters less than half a mile ahead, dead ahead for Mascola, off Gregory's starboard quarter. For the Italian it meant safety. To his pursuer it spelled defeat.
TheRichardwas gaining. Gregory measured the distance with a calculating eye. He was going to head the Italian off.
"Swing her to port. Catch him on the beam."
Acting at once upon Dickie's advice, Gregory saw the wisdom of it at once. His angling course would have put him into the fog before theFuor d'Italiareached it. Now he would catch Mascola broadside, full on the beam. Or at least at an angle which would drive the heavier hull through the lighter one.
With seaman's instinct, Mascola sensed rather than saw theRichard'schange of course. If he tried to make the fog he would be cut in two. If he deviated a hair's breadth at that speed he'd turn turtle. There was only one thing he could do.
He reached his decision in a whirl of the propeller.
Dickie Lang knew his answer.
"Hard a port. Throw your switch."
The words tumbled from her lips in a piercing shriek. Gregory obeyed on the second, thinking the girl had lost her reason. TheRicharddipped with a swerve which threw him violently against the coaming. As he felt the heavy hull sinking down into the water he saw that theFuor d'Italiahad ceased to plane and was settling sluggishly.
A snarl of disappointment burst from Mascola'slips as he saw theRicharddid not flash across his bow. A snarl, which changed quickly to a cry of rage as he noted that the two hulls were drifting sullenly toward each other. Robbed of his way, he could not escape. TheRichardwas already brushing theFuor d'Italia'srail.
In a frenzy of mingled fear and rage, Mascola whipped out his dagger and leaped to the cockpit to battle with the hurtling figure that sprang from the other boat as the two hulls scraped. Gregory caught Mascola's knife arm and twisted it backward, crowding the Italian to the rail. For an instant the two men were locked in a swaying, bone-racking embrace. Then Mascola felt the oak coaming pressing hard against his knees. He was being shoved over the rail by the fury of the heavier man.
Struggling in desperation, there came a gleam of hope. In the water Gregory's superior weight would not count. Strength would not count so much, without the weight. But a knife would count. Jerking his body backward, he lunged downward into the sea, dragging his antagonist with him.
As Gregory and Mascola fell to the water, Dickie Lang drew her automatic and covering the cockpit of theFuor d'Italiawith her flash-light, peered cautiously over the rail. Upon the floor of the launch sprawled the figure of a man. His face was turned away from her. The gray linoleum wasdyedred with his blood. As she watched him, his extended fingers twitched convulsively. He was still breathing. Butthat was all. Seizing the rail of theFuor d'Italiashe began to work theRichardaround the hull of the other craft. She dared not start the motor. The propeller might cut the men in the water to shreds. Reaching the stern of Mascola's launch she directed the rays of her light into the rippling waves.
Gregory tightened his hold on Mascola's wrist as the waters closed over his head. The Italian struggled fiercely to free his right arm as he felt his body sinking deeper into the water. Then he noticed that his antagonist had freed his legs and was moving them slowly upward to his stomach.
Locking his knees about Mascola's waist-line in a scissors-grip, Gregory began to squeeze. Lashing the water with his feet the Italian jerked his head backward and forced it against Gregory's chin. Then he freed his left arm and the fingers slid upward to his enemy's throat.
Under the steady pressure of the sturdy legs about his waist Mascola felt his strength going from him. With bursting lungs he tore at the corded muscles of Gregory's throat. But his fingers had but little power. Sharp pains seared his eyeballs. A deadly numbness was creeping over his entire body. Then he felt the hand which held his knife arm twist the wrist and forced it inward to his body.
Mascola writhed in terror. By a powerful effort he squirmed sidewise and checked the onward course of the knife as it came nearer to his side. The exertion sent the blood pounding to his temples, left himweak with nausea. For an instant his hold on Gregory's throat relaxed. Then his fingers dug viciously into the flesh as he felt his wrist being crowded closer to his body.
The point of the dagger was scratching at his shirt. In another second it would be piercing his side. Mascola knew that the blade was sharp. The Italian released his grip on Gregory's throat. With a convulsive shudder he dropped his knife. He was beaten. At the mercy of his enemy. Better take chances with the courts than sure death at the hand of Kenneth Gregory.
Gregory felt the muscles of the Italian relax in a token of submission. For an instant his heart rebelled at the turn of the battle in his favor. Why not strangle Mascola beneath the surface? Who would ever know? The Italian had shown his father no mercy.
Why didn't Mascola fight like a man?
Gregory's fingers reached the Italian's throat. The law of the sea knew no mercy.
A feeling of utter helplessness seized Dickie Lang as she stared into the moonlit waters. The man she loved was battling for his life beneath the surface of the shimmering waves. And she could do nothing.
"God bring him up safe." She repeated the words again and again. Then a new fear assailed her.
Kenneth Gregory would never give up. If he came up at all there would be blood upon his hands.Justifiable blood. An eye for an eye. And yet, as the seconds trailed endlessly by, the girl was surprised to find herself amending her prayer.
"Bring him up safe—and clean."
She uttered a choking cry as the bright rays of her light fell upon Kenneth Gregory's head. He was swimming slowly toward the launch, dragging Mascola after him.
The bright rays of her light fell upon Kenneth Gregory's head
The bright rays of her light fell upon Kenneth Gregory's head
"Hold his wrists."
She noted the lifeless tone of Gregory's voice as she made haste to comply with the order. Saw the fingers of the two men clutch the rail while they waited for strength to pull their bodies from the water.
Kenneth Gregory pulled himself weakly over the coaming. In silence he assisted the girl in dragging Mascola from the water. Huddling on the driver's seat of theRichard, the Italian leaned against the dash, fighting for breath. Gregory stumbled backward and sank to the floor of the cockpit, covering his face with his hands.
"I—failed," he gasped. "I had a chance.—But I passed it up.—I couldn't do it."
Dickie fell to her knees beside him and threw her arms about his neck. "You're a man," she whispered, "One in a million." Then her lips found his.
Mascola watched the two shadows blend into one. Silhouetted in the bright moonlight, he leaned against the coaming, his lips curved in a sneering smile.
From the darkened cockpit of theFuor d'Italiacame a bright jet of flame. Then another. Beforethe echoes of the two shots had died away Mascola's body slid from the seat and fell in a heap upon the floor.
Dickie drew her revolver and sprang to the rail. Sweeping the darkness of theFuor d'Italia'scockpit with the rays of her light, she drew back.
"Bandrist," she whispered to Gregory through whitening lips.
Silvanus Rock was at the Golden Rule Fish Cannery at an early hour on the morning following the raid upon El Diablo. When Blankovitch entered the office, he noted at a glance that the face of the capitalist looked drawn and worried.
"Any news, Blankovitch?"
The words tumbled eagerly from Rock's thick lips as he caught sight of the ruddy countenance of the manager.
Blankovitch shook his head.
"Only the broken message a little before midnight," he answered. "You got that. Gonzolez landed. That's all we know."
Rock fidgeted while his eyes roved about the room. "You don't suppose anything went wrong?" he hazarded after a moment.
Blankovitch did not think so. The wireless had failed for some reason or other. But it had done that before. He was expecting Rossi in at any moment. There was no occasion for worry. Would Mr. Rock care for a drink so early in the morning? The bank president gulped down the brandy, and under the stimulus of the fiery liquor his wavering courage rallied perceptibly.
"Had a bad night," he explained. "Didn't sleep a wink. Neuralgia."
The Slavonian nodded sympathetically and the two men lapsed into silence. After some time had passed a fisherman entered.
"Rossi's coming in," he announced.
Rock leaped to his feet with the youthful exuberance of a schoolboy.
"I feel like a new man," he confided to Blankovitch, when the messenger had gone out. "The brandy was just what I needed. Lack of sleep surely pulls a man down."
The manager agreed and together the two men went out to the receiving platform to await the arrival of the boat from El Diablo.
When Rossi drew alongside, Rock greeted him effusively.
"How is everything at the island?" he asked. "Have you plenty of fish?"
The fishing captain answered the bank president's greeting with his usual shrug.
"Bonne," he said shortly. "Everything's fine. I got some good fish."
Rock was jubilant. His fears had been groundless. Everything was quite all right. For had not Rossi given the accustomed signal to that effect?
Blankovitch had already taken the cue.
"If his fish are first-class, we might put them up special for those A-1 orders," he suggested.
Rock nodded as he noted the stolid faces of the fishermen peering over the rail. Rossi had his regular crew. Still, one could never be too careful. For a moment he appeared to deliberate. Then he said:
"Good idea, Blankovitch, we're short on high-grade stuff."
The manager moved at once to the receiving-vat and pulled the grating over the traveling conveyer which carried the fish into the cannery. Then he opened a valve at the bottom of the tank.
"All right, Rossi," he said. "Dump them in."
Rock stood by for a moment watching the fish slide into the vat. Then he walked away in the direction of the cannery office. Passing through the room where he had conferred with the Slavonian, he entered the manager's private sanctuary which lay beyond and closed the door.
In the far corner of the room was a small clothes-closet. To this Rock made his way hastily, and, fitting a key in the lock, passed within, slamming the door after him. In the darkness of the stuffy cubby-hole, his fingers found a small flash-light in the pocket of an old vest which hung from one of the hooks. Directing the rays of the light about him, he worked his way through the hanging garments and reached the end of the closet. For an instant his fingers slid along the inside wall. Then a cool draught of airfanned his face, strongly tinctured with the smell of the mud-flats.
Swinging the panel shut behind him, Silvanus Rock descended the narrow stairway. When he reached the bottom he paused and drew his coat collar closer about his neck. The air was damp and cold and the waters of the bay were lapping softly against the pilings which supported the building.
Grasping the wooden rail of the gangway which led away from the bottom of the stairs, the capitalist crept on through the darkness until he reached the base of a big concrete storage-vat. Groping for the lock which secured the outlet-cleaning-door of the big tank, he unlocked it and passed within.
With the water-tight door closed behind him, he switched on the electric light. The cement floor of the vat was already partly covered with the fish which slid downward from the receiving tanks on the platform above.
Rock listened intently. But only the soft slip of the fish through the chute and the drip of the water from the draining-table, disturbed the silence. Then he heard the murmur of men's voices from the platform. The valve was still open. When Blankovitch closed that, no sound would penetrate the vat from the outside world.
He turned his attention at once to the fish. Drawing one of the albacore to one side, his fat fingers delved carefully into the fish's belly. Then they brought forth a large aluminum capsule and laid itcarefully on a tin-topped table which stood conveniently near a small capping-machine.
For some moments he repeated the operation until all the fish had been emptied of their contents and a double row of capsules covered the table.
The albacore, he noticed suddenly, had ceased to slip through the chute. He frowned at the observance. Surely Rossi had brought a larger cargo than this.
Walking again to the intake from the tank above, he listened. The valve was still open. There would be more or Blankovitch would close the chute and assist him below. Wiping his hands carefully on his handkerchief, he walked nervously about the tank. There was nothing he could do but wait. There would be no use to fill the cans at present or start the conveyer to carry the empty-bellied fish to the cannery floor. Both would necessitate the use of machinery, and even electric-driven power made some noise.
If the Slavonian was through, why didn't he close the valve and come down? The door of the storage-vat opened suddenly and Blankovitch's bulky figure staggered within. Rock drew back at the expression on the Slavonian's face. All color had fled from the manager's ruddy cheeks. His eyes were staring and his heavy jaw sagged.
Then Rock noted that the door was still open. As he made haste to close it before questioning the frightened Slavonian, he found the way blocked by three shadowy figures who sprang upon him.
"You are under arrest, Mr. Rock."
Silvanus Rock wriggled vainly in the arms of the men who forced him back into the tank. In the struggle the light fell full upon the open vest of one of the strangers. Then Rock collapsed.
For years he had suffered this nightmare. In his troubled dreams he had seen the glittering shield of the revenue men winking at him from the darkness. Now it was a tangible reality. He was caught with the goods through the Slavonian's treachery. Glaring in sullen anger at his trembling manager, he opened his mouth to speak but no word came. Then one of the deputies who had made a cursory examination of the vat, began to speak:
"Well, Mr. Rock," he said, "it kind of looks like we had the man higher up. At the point of a gun, Mr. Blankovitch showed us the way to your little office down here. And Signor Rossi brought us all the way over from Diablo hidden away among his fish so we could have the pleasure of finding out where he sold his cargo. The little ride was worth as much to him as it was to us."
Turning to the man who was standing by the Slavonian, he ordered: "Better put thesteelson him, Jack. I'll take this one while Joe stays down here with the stuff."
When theBenningtonentered Crescent Bay followed by theRichardtowing theFuor d'Italia, excitement was rife at Legonia. And as the boatscame to anchor off the Golden Rule Cannery a large crowd of curious village-folk collected on the dock.
The consensus of opinion, in Silvanus Rock's absence, was expressed by the local postmaster. There had been another fight at El Diablo and "Uncle Sam had stepped in and 'pinched' the whole darned bunch." To that opinion, the crowd for the most part concurred though there were some who thought otherwise.
It remained for Silvanus Rock himself to upset the truth of the postmaster's statement. Scarcely able to credit their sight, the villagers saw the magnate of Legonia led forth from the Golden Rule Cannery in the custody of strangers. Strangers who spoke and acted with an air of authority and displayed shining badges to part the crowd as they walked with their prisoner to meet the small boat from the cutter. Then came Blankovitch wearing hand-cuffs.
It was some time before the truth leaked out through the lips of a newspaperman who was aboard theBennington. Even then there were some who doubted.
Mascola killed by Bandrist? Impossible. Bill Lang and Richard Gregory murdered at El Diablo and Mexican Joe who had been with them, found on the island?
Silvanus Rock a smuggler? Why the very thought was absurd.
But the postmaster was gifted with more sagacity. With an ear trained to catch the slightest drift ofpublic opinion, he declaimed after hearing all the evidence:
"I ain't much surprised. Kind o' had my suspicions of old Rock all along though I never said nothin'. But I allays did say that young Gregory was a comin' citizen."
Purple dusk settled closely about Legonia at the close of the most memorable day in the history of the village. For a time the streets were deserted as the fishermen sought their homes at supper-time to retail the latest bits of gossip which were current in the saloons.
Kenneth Gregory's name was upon every lip. No story was complete unless he figured in it. The Golden Rule Cannery had been closed until further notice. Gregory had bought all the fish brought in by the alien fleet. His wharves were piled high with fish-boxes. His vats were full of albacore. He was going to give everybody a chance if they "shot square" and became American citizens. Rock and Blankovitch had been taken with the men from Diablo Island to the jail at the county-seat. The body of Mascola was still in the custody of the local undertaker and Bandrist had been removed to a hospital. But of the men themselves little was said. An era of universal friendliness prevailed throughout the village.
At the Lang cottage Aunt Mary was striving vainly to assemble her guests about the table for the evening meal.
"The biscuits will be ruined," she pleaded. "Leave the talk go. You've all talked yourselves half-sick now."
Jack McCoy protested as Miss Lang led him to the table.
"Remember, I wasn't there," he said. "And I've got a lot to find out before I get caught up."
Hawkins slid into a chair by McCoy.
"Well that's about all there is to it, Mac," he said. "Except that theGray Ghostmade a clean get-away in the fog. You see the Custom House has been wise to her for a long time but they never could catch her with the goods. For some time there has been a lot of dope floating around in tuna cans so they kind of laid it to some fish cannery. In talking it over with Cap. I began to look this fellow, Rock, up. And I found among other things, that he didn't have a dollar until a few years ago. He made his money quick, and as far as we knew, right here in town. Then, this Diablo stuff gave me a hunch."
Gregory looked up quickly at the mention of the island.
"Easy on the Diablo stuff, Bill," he cautioned. "Aunt Mary doesn't know much about that."
When supper was over, Jack McCoy rose hastily.
"I must be getting back," he said. "We have a big night-shift and fish to burn. And they will burn unless I'm on the job."
Gregory followed him to the door.
"I'll be down pretty quick, Jack," he said. "I want to see Miss Lang a minute before I go."
A crooked little smile twisted the corners of McCoy's mouth and for a moment he looked deep into Gregory's eyes.
"I suppose congratulations are in order," he began somewhat uncertainly, and seeing that Gregory made no denial, he put out his hand. "I hope you'll both be happy," he said slowly.
Then he turned quickly and hurried out the door. Hawkins hurried after him.
"I guess I'll go down with McCoy," he explained. "I want to keep near a phone." Then he turned to Aunt Mary. "In to-morrow'sTimesyou'll get the latest details of the secret of El Diablo," he said as he bade her good night.
When Hawkins had gone out and Aunt Mary had retired to the kitchen, Gregory exclaimed to Dickie Lang in a low voice:
"There's one secret she won't get inThe Times. She won't have to wait that long. For I'm going to tell her now."
"You'd better not," answered the girl. "You would have to shout. She's unusually deaf to-night. All the neighbors would hear."
"That's what I want," Gregory cried as he walked to the kitchen with Dickie following close behind.
In the semi-darkness of the little pantry-closet he took the girl in his arms.
"It's the only secret I'd never be able to keep," he confessed. "And I want the whole world to hear it."
Pushing aside the swinging-door, he went into the kitchen to tell Aunt Mary.
In the semi-darkness of the little pantry-closet
In the semi-darkness of the little pantry-closet
The End
Transcriber's NotesIllustrations (excepting frontispiece) have been moved from their original page locations to the paragraph which they illustrate.Obvious punctuation errors have been corrected and hyphen usage made consistent. Printer errors have been changed, and they are indicated witha mouse-hover. Errors in foreign language spelling (Gracious a DiosandSangre de Christo) have been retained.