His burning anger became tempered with pleasant wonder. This was a harsh land, but there was room for tenderness. He was a stranger and had been in Three Points only long enough to get himself kicked into insensibility, but there were those in Three Points who knew compassion and friendship. Otherwise, he would not now be lying in some unknown man's house and being ministered to by that man's wife. Pierre—Ramsay strove to recall the last name and could not. He fell into a quiet slumber.
The next time he awakened, the candle on his table was burning and his host—vaguely Ramsay remembered seeing him move hides about the tannery—was standing near. Like his wife, he was small and gentle, with a manner that belied the fierce little black mustache clinging to his upper lip. He was too small and gentle, Ramsay thought, ever to fit into a town such as Three Points. But certainly he was kind and good. He smiled, revealing flashing white teeth, and when he did Ramsay remembered the name, Pierre LeDou.
"How do you feel?" he asked briskly.
"Better." Ramsay grinned.
"He beat you," Pierre LeDou said. "Sacre!But he beat you!" The little man's eyes roved about the room, as though seeking the solution to a problem which he must solve, and Ramsay knew that he, too, hated Devil Chad. "He kicked you!" Pierre LeDou said.
"I know, and some day I'll pay him back for that."
Interest brightened in the little Frenchman's eyes. "You think so, M'sieu—M'sieu ..."
"Cartou," Ramsay said. "Ramsay Cartou. And I will not kill anybody unless I have to. But one day this Devil Chad will pay, ten times over, for everything he did to me."
"He is very hard man." Pierre LeDou sighed.
"So am I!" Ramsay gritted, and again anger rose within him. "Why should so many people tremble in their boots when he comes around?"
Pierre LeDou shrugged eloquently. "The job. A man has to have the job."
"I see. And Devil Chad controls 'the job'?"
"Not all," Pierre LeDou explained. "He does not walk so freely where the fishermen and farmers are."
"I'm beginning to like these fishermen and farmers more and more."
"They are nice," Pierre agreed, "but wild. Especially the fishermen. Oh, so wild! Out in the lake they go, afraid of nothing; but those that do not drown return with multitudes of fish."
"Do many drown?"
"Very many, but you cannot kill a fisherman. They say that the lake sends back two for every one it takes, and maybe that is so. At any rate, when a fisherman drowns, two more always appear. I would go fishing myself were it not that I am afraid. Are you hungry, M'sieu?"
"Yes," Ramsay answered frankly.
"Then I will get you something to eat."
Pierre LeDou disappeared. Ramsay lay back on the bed to think. Now this half-wild, half-tame country into which he had come was assuming a definite pattern. Some, like Pierre LeDou, had been attracted by the endless wealth offered, and had found only a back-breaking job with Devil Chad or his counterpart. Others, and Ramsay thought of Hans Van Doorst and Pieter Van Hooven, were finding wealth.
It was not wealth that could be measured in terms of money; probably the crazy Dutch fisherman and Pieter Van Hooven had little money, but just the same it was wealth. Rather than toil meekly for someone else and obey a master's every wish, they had chosen to discover for themselves the true richness of this endlessly rich land and they were discovering it. So some were afraid and some were not; and those who were not seemed to enjoy life at its fullest. And, as usual, there was the arrogant overlord, Devil Chad, who wanted everything for himself and who would take it if he could. He did not care what he did or whom he killed, as long as he got what he wanted.
Pierre LeDou came back, bearing a bowl on a wooden platter. Ramsay sniffed hungrily. The bowl was old and cracked, but like everything else in the house it was scrupulously clean, and the odors wafted from it would tempt the appetite of a dying man. Pierre put the bowl and a wooden spoon down where Ramsay could reach them, and Ramsay saw a meat stew in which fluffy dumplings floated.
"It is not much," the little Frenchman apologized. "Venison stew with dumplings, and that is all. Would you like some spirits to go with it?"
"Uh!" Ramsay remembered the fiery liquor. "No thanks. I would like some water."
"I can offer you milk."
"That will be fine."
Pierre disappeared, and returned with a bowl of milk and a beaker of the strong whisky. He gave the bowl to Ramsay and held the whisky aloft.
"Your health, M'sieu," he said.
He drained the beaker without even quivering, and Ramsay suppressed a shudder. Dipping the spoon in his venison stew, he tasted it. It was rich, with all the expertness of French cuisine behind it, and delicious. Ramsay took a chunk of venison in his mouth and chewed it with relish. Venison, fish and whatever else they could get out of the country doubtless meant much to the people who lived here.
"How long have you worked in the tannery?" he asked Pierre.
"Five years," the little Frenchman said. "Five long years. I shall work there much longer if God is kind."
"May He always be kind to you!" Ramsay said feelingly.
"My thanks to you, M'sieu Ramsay. And now, with your permission, I shall retire. I suggest that you sleep, for you look very weary. Should you want anything you have only to call."
Ramsay fell into a restful slumber from which he was awakened by the sound of people stirring. The early morning sun, just rising, caressed the curtained window softly and a sleepy bird twittered outside the window. There was the sound of lifted stove lids and of people stirring. Ramsay dozed off, then sprang guiltily awake and jumped out of bed.
He felt good, with only an occasional twinge of pain here and there. Hastily he pulled on his trousers and shirt, laced his shoes and smoothed his rumpled hair with his hand. When he had made himself as presentable as he could, he went into the other room.
Though the hour was still early and the sun not yet fairly up, Pierre LeDou had already left for his work in the tannery. His pleasant wife was pouring hot water from a pan on the stove into a big wooden bowl, evidently the receptacle in which dishes were washed. She turned around.
"Good morning!" Ramsay said cheerfully.
"Good morning, M'sieu." Then she cautioned him. "Should you be out of bed?"
"I feel fine." Ramsay grinned. "Strong as a bull and twice as hungry."
"Then I will prepare you something to eat. If M'sieu cares to do so, he may wash just outside the door."
"Thanks."
Ramsay went out the door. To one side, in front of the house, there was a big wooden bowl and two wooden pails filled with water. A well-worn trail threading away from the door obviously led to a well or spring. Hanging on a wooden peg driven into a hole, drilled in the cabin's wall, were a clean towel and washcloth. Even the door's hinges, cleverly carved pins that turned on holes drilled into wooden blocks attached to the cabin's wall, were wood. Evidently, in this country, wood substituted for metal.
Ramsay filled the bowl with water, washed himself and went back into the cabin. Pierre LeDou's wife was bending over a skillet from which came the smell of frying fish. Ramsay sniffed hungrily, and licked his lips. She turned the fish, let it cook a little while longer, and put it on the table, along with feather-light biscuits, butter and cold milk. Ramsay ate hungrily, but tried to curb his appetite so he would also eat decently, and as he ate he talked.
"Why," he asked Pierre LeDou's wife, "did your husband bring me here?"
"You were hurt and needed help," she said simply.
In sudden haste Ramsay felt his pocket, and discovered that the two silver dollars were gone. He remembered that he had lost them while he fought with Devil Chad, and a flood of embarrassment almost overwhelmed him.
"I—I have no money to pay you," he said awkwardly.
For the first time she looked reprovingly at him. "We did not ask for money, M'sieu. One does not."
Ramsay knew another awkward moment and a little shame. "It is very good of you," he said.
She said, "One does not neglect a fellow human."
Ramsay finished eating and pushed his dishes back. Pierre LeDou's wife, who had already finished washing the rest of the dishes, put Ramsay's in the dish water and left them there. She smiled at him. "It would be well if you rested."
"I'm not tired. Really I'm not."
"You should rest. Badly were you hurt."
"Let me sit here a while."
"As long as you sit."
She went to a cupboard and took from it a big ball of strong linen thread. From the table she caught up a small board. Wrapping the thread twice around the board, she knotted it. Slipping the thread from the board, she hung the loop she had made on a wooden peg and made a new loop. Her hands flew so swiftly that in a few moments she had seventeen of the meshes, all joined together.
"What are you doing?" Ramsay inquired interestedly.
"Making a gill net," she explained. "It was ordered by Baptiste LeClair, a fisherman, and is to have a four and a half-inch mesh. So we use a mesh board that is exactly two and a quarter inches wide and wrap the thread twice around. Now I have seventeen. See?"
"I see."
She strung the seventeen meshes on a wooden rod, placed two chairs far enough apart so that the meshes stretched, tied the rod to them and began knitting on the net she had started. "The net is to be seventeen meshes, or seventy-six and one-half inches, wide. Now I lengthen it."
Under the boy's interested eyes the gill net grew swiftly, and as it lengthened she wrapped it around the rod. Ramsay watched every move. "How long will it be?" he queried.
"One net," she told him, "is about two hundred and fifty feet long. But usually several are tied together to form a box of nets. A box is about fourteen hundred feet."
"Isn't that a lot?"
She smiled. "A crew of three good men, like Hans Van Doorst or Baptiste LeClair, with a good Mackinaw boat can handle two boxes."
"Could you make this net longer if you wished to?"
"Oh, yes. It could be many miles long. Two hundred and fifty feet is a good length for one net because, if it is torn by strong water or heavy fish, it may be untied and repaired while the rest may still be used."
"What else must you do?"
"After the net is two hundred and fifty feet long, I will use fifteen- or sixteen-thread twine through from three to six meshes on the outer edge. This, in turn, will be tied to ninety-thread twine which extends the full length."
Ramsay was amazed at the way this quiet little woman reeled off these figures, as though she were reciting a well-learned lesson. But he wanted to know even more. "How do they set such a net?"
"The fishermen gather small, flat stones, about three to the pound, and cut a groove around them so that they can be suspended from a rope. These are called sinkers, and are tied to the net about nine feet apart. For floats they use cedar blocks, about two feet long by one-quarter of an inch thick and an inch and a quarter wide. They bore a small hole one inch from the end, then split the block to the bored hole. The floats—and the number they use depends on the depth to which they sink the net—are pushed over the ninety-thread twine."
"Let me try!" Ramsay was beginning to feel the effects of idleness and wanted action.
"But of course, M'sieu."
Ramsay took the mesh board in his hand and, as he had seen her do, wrapped the thread twice around it. But, though it had looked simple when she did it, there was a distinct knack to doing it right. The mesh board slipped from his fingers and the twine unwound. Madame LeDou laughed. "Let me show you."
Patiently, carefully, she guided his fingers through the knitting of a mesh, then another and a third and fourth. Ramsay felt a rising elation. He had liked theSpraywhen he saw her and now he liked this. Fishing, from the making of the nets to setting them, seemed more than ever a craft that was almost an art. He knitted a row of meshes across the gill net, and happily surveyed his work.
At the same time he remained aware of the fact that she could knit three times as fast as he. Ramsay thrust his tongue into his cheek and grimly continued at his work.
After an hour Madame LeDou said soberly, "You do right well, M'sieu. But should you not rest now?"
Ramsay said, "This is fun."
"It is well that you enjoy yourself. Would you consider it uncivil if I left you for a while?"
"Please do what you must."
She left, and Ramsay continued to work on the net. As he did, his skill improved. Though he was still unable to knit as swiftly as Madame LeDou, he could make a good net. And there was a feel, a tension, to the thread. Within itself the thread had life and being. It was supple, strong and would not fail a fisherman who depended upon it.
Madame LeDou returned, smiled at him and went unobtrusively about the task of preparing a lunch. So absorbed was he in his net-making that he scarcely tasted the food. All afternoon he worked on the net.
Madame LeDou said approvingly, "You make a good net, M'sieu. You have knitted almost four pounds of thread into this one. The most skilled net-makers, those who have had years of experience, cannot knit more than six or seven pounds in one day."
Twilight shadows were lengthening when Pierre LeDou returned. The little man, as always, was courteous. But behind his inherited Gallic grace and manners lay a troubled under-current. Pierre spoke in rapid French to his wife, and she turned worried eyes on their guest. Ramsay stopped knitting the net.
All afternoon there had been growing upon him an awareness that he could not continue indefinitely to accept the LeDou's hospitality, and now he knew that he must go. The pattern had definite shape, and the reason behind Pierre's uneasiness was not hard to fathom. Devil Chad was the ruler, and Devil Chad must rule. Who harbored his enemy must be his enemy, and Pierre LeDou needed the job in the tannery. Should he lose it, the LeDous could not live.
With an air of spontaneity, anxious not to cause his host and hostess any embarrassment, Ramsay rose and smiled. "It has been a most enjoyable stay at your home," he said. "But of course it cannot continue. I have work to find. If you will be kind enough to shelter me again tonight, I will go tomorrow, and I shall never forget the LeDous."
Early the next morning, when Pierre departed for work, Ramsay bade farewell to Madame LeDou and left their house with his kind host. He did so with a little reluctance, now that all his money was gone and the future loomed more uncertainly than ever. At the same time there was about him a rising eagerness and an unfulfilled expectation.
It seemed to him that, since swimming ashore from the sinkingHolter, he had ceased to be a boy and had become a man. And a man must know that all desirable things had their undesirable aspects. This country was wonderful. If, to stay in it, he must come to grips with other men—men as strong and as cruel as Devil Chad—and with nature too, Ramsay felt himself willing to do that.
As soon as the two were fifty yards from the LeDou home he purposely dropped behind Pierre and leaned against a huge hemlock until the little man was out of sight. Pierre had said nothing and Ramsay had not asked, but the latter knew Devil Chad had told the Frenchman that, if he valued his job in the tannery, he must no longer shelter Ramsay. The boy had no wish to further embarrass his host or to jeopardize his job by being seen with him. Therefore he leaned against the tree until Pierre had had time to reach and enter the tannery.
Slowly Ramsay left his tree and walked down the same path that Pierre had followed. Badly as he needed a job, it was useless to try to get one in the tannery. He slowed his pace even more as he walked past the building. He had been beaten by Devil Chad, and he might be beaten a second time should they fight again; but he was not afraid to try. His body had been hurt, but not his courage.
Almost insolently Ramsay stopped where he could be seen from the tannery's open door, and waited there. He was aware of curious, half-embarrassed glances from men hurrying into the place, and then they avoided looking at him. Finally a man stopped. He spoke to a man who halted beside him.
"All right, Jules. Get in an' start to work."
He was a straw boss or foreman, Ramsay decided, and his voice betrayed his New England forebears. An older man, with hair completely gray, like all the rest he was wrinkled and weathered. Physically he was lean and tough, but he did not seem belligerent or even unkind. When the last worker had entered the tannery, he turned to Ramsay.
"You needn't be afraid, son. Mr. Chadbourne went to Milwaukee last night."
"I'm not afraid. I was just wondering if he wouldn't come out for a second start."
"Look, son," the other's air was that of an older and wiser person trying to reason with an impetuous boy, "you haven't got a chance. The best thing you can do is get out of town before Mr. Chadbourne comes back."
"Maybe I like this town."
"You can only cause trouble by staying here."
"I've been in trouble before, too."
The older man shrugged, as though he had discharged his full responsibility in warning Ramsay, and said, "It's your funeral, my boy. Stay away from the tannery."
"You needn't worry."
Ramsay strolled on down the dusty street, and in spite of himself he was a little relieved. If Devil Chad had gone to Milwaukee, probably to arrange for another shipload of hides, it was unlikely that he would be back before night at the earliest. Ramsay would not have to fight again today; presumably he was free to do as he pleased without any fear of interruption. He thrust his hands into empty pockets and, to cheer himself up, started to whistle.
A fat Indian, dressed in ragged trousers, which some white man had thrown out, and an equally-tattered black coat which he could not button across his immense, naked stomach, grinned at him. Ramsay grinned back and winked. His friends in New York had been awe-stricken at the very thought of venturing into the wild Midwest where, they thought, scalping parties occurred every few hours and no white man was safe from the savages. Ramsay had enjoyed himself by elaborating on the part he would play when such a war party came along. But he had discovered for himself, before he left Chicago, that the Indians in this section of Wisconsin were harmless. When they could they sold bead work and basketry to the settlers and they were not above stealing. But they were not warlike.
Ramsay strode past another building, a big one with two separate floors and an attic. Its chimney belched smoke, and from within came the whine of saws and other machinery. In front of the building were stacked a great number of barrels, made of white pine and with hoops formed from the black ash tree. Ramsay hesitated a moment and entered.
Three Points was obviously a raw frontier town, but definitely it was not as raw as Ramsay had expected it to be. Obviously there was at least one industrial plant in addition to the tannery. It seemed to be a cooper's shop, engaged in the production of barrels, and it might hold a job for him. He stopped just inside the door, trying to adjust his ears to the scream of a big circular saw that was powered by a steam engine. Beyond were lathes and various other machines, and a great many wooden pails were piled against the far wall. This factory, then, made both barrels and pails.
Presently a middle-aged man, with the neatest clothing Ramsay had yet seen in Three Points, came out of an office and walked toward him. He shouted to make himself heard above the screaming saw, "Yes?"
"Are you the manager here?" Ramsay shouted back.
"Yes."
"Need any men?"
"What?"
Ramsay grinned faintly. The factory, if not bedlam, was close to it. It was incredible that anyone at all could carry on an intelligent, or even an intelligible, conversation inside it. Ramsay shouted, "Let's go outside!"
The other followed him out, and far enough from the door so they could hear each other. Ramsay turned to his companion, "My name's Ramsay Cartou and I'm looking for a job. Do you have any to offer?"
The manager looked soberly at Ramsay's battered face, then with the toe of his shoe he began tracing a circle in the dirt. He hesitated. Then, "I'm afraid not."
Ramsay felt a stirring anger. Definitely there was more work in Three Points than there were men to do it. The town had need of strong workers. For a moment he looked steadily at the manager, who looked away. Then he swallowed and tried a new tack, "What do you do with all the barrels?"
"Most of them go to fishermen who use them to ship their catches to Chicago. The pails are shipped by boat to wherever there is a market for them."
"And you can't give me a job?"
"That's right."
"Why?" Ramsay challenged.
"We—we have a full crew."
"I see. Now will you answer one question?"
"Certainly."
"Does 'Mister' Chadbourne own this place too?"
"He has a financial interest ..." The other stopped short. "See here, young man! I have told you that I cannot offer you a job and that should be sufficient!"
"I just wanted to know why," Ramsay said.
He turned and walked away from the cooper's shop. His chin was high, and anger seethed within him. Devil Chad, apparently, owned most of Three Points and a lot of other things between that and Milwaukee. If there was an opportunity to earn a dollar, honest or dishonest, Devil Chad was seizing that opportunity. Obviously the manager of the cooper's shop had heard of his fight with Ramsay—in a small community like this everyone would have heard of it—and was afraid to give him a job. Ramsay resumed his tuneless whistling.
Plainly he was going to get nowhere in Three Points. But definitely he had no intention of running away with his tail between his legs, like a whipped puppy. He liked this lakeshore country and he intended to stay in it. If he had to fight to do that, then he would fight.
Between the rugged trunks of tall hemlock trees he caught a glimpse of the lake, sparkling blue in the sunshine and gently ruffled by a soft south wind. He turned his steps toward it, and now he walked eagerly. The lake was magic, a world in itself which never had been tamed and never would be tamed. He shivered ecstatically. This was what he had come west to find. Devil Chad and his tannery, the town of Three Points, and even Milwaukee paled into nothingness when compared to the lake. He broke from the last trees and saw Lake Michigan clearly.
A heavy wooden pier extended out onto it, and a sailing vessel was tied up at one side. Ramsay read her name. She was theBrilliant, from Ludington, Michigan, and a line of men were toiling up a gangplank with heavy bags which they were stacking on the pier. On the pier's other side a steamer, a side-wheeler like theHolter, was loading leather from Devil Chad's tannery. She was theJackson, a freighter that carried assorted cargoes between Three Points, Milwaukee and Chicago.
Ramsay strolled out on the pier and brightened when the cold lake air struck his face. It was impossible to be on the lake, or near it, and feel stolid or dull. It provided its own freshness, and Ramsay thought it also furnished a constant inspiration. He watched the sweating men continue to bring loaded bags up from the sailing vessel and approached near enough to ask a burly deck hand, "What's this cargo?"
The man looked surlily at him. "What's it look like?"
"Diamonds." Ramsay grinned.
"Well, it ain't. It's salt."
"What the blazes will anyone do with so much salt?"
"Eat it," the deck hand grunted. "People hereabouts like salt." Then he, too, grinned. "Naw, it's for fishermen. They got to have somethin' to salt their catches in."
"Oh. I see."
Ramsay added this bit of information to the lore he had already gathered. Obviously fishing consisted of more than just catching fish. Actually taking the fish, of course, was the most exciting and romantic part. But the fishermen could not ply their trade at all without women like Madame LeDou who made their nets, a shop like the Three Points' cooper's shop which provided the barrels into which the fish were packed, or vessels like theBrilliantwhich brought salt that kept the fish from spoiling.
Ramsay stayed on the pier until theBrilliantwas unloaded, and licked his lips while he watched her crew eating thick sandwiches. They took a whole loaf of bread, sliced it lengthwise, packed the center with meat, cheese, fish and anything else they could lay their hands on, and, according to their taste, washed it down with cold lake water or beakers of whisky. Ramsay looked away.
Madame LeDou had provided him with a substantial breakfast, but this was an invigorating country wherein one soon became hungry again. Ramsay patted his empty stomach.
Probably Madame LeDou would give him something to eat should he go back there, but he had already posed enough problems for the LeDous. Besides, he did not like the idea of asking for food. He left the pier to walk past the Lake House, Three Points' only hotel. Savory odors of cooking food wafted to his nostrils and made him drool. He walked past the Lake House, then turned to walk back. He trotted up the steps and sat down at a table spread with a white cloth.
A hard-eyed woman, wearing a brown dress over which she had tied a neat white apron, came up to him. Ramsay leaned back. He had decided to make his play, and he might as well play it to the end.
"What does the menu offer?" he asked almost haughtily.
"Whitefish at fifteen cents, venison at fifteen cents, a boiled dinner at ten cents."
"What? No steak?"
"The steak dinner," the woman said, "costs thirty cents. With it you get potatoes, coffee, salad and apple pie."
"Bring it to me," Ramsay said. "And please be prompt. My time is valuable."
"As soon as possible," the woman said.
Ramsay relaxed in his chair. A half-hour later the waitress brought him a broiled sirloin, so big that it overflowed the platter on which it rested. There were crisp fried potatoes, coffee—a rare beverage in this country—cream, a salad and a huge wedge of apple pie. Ramsay ate hungrily, then the waitress approached him.
"Will you pay now?"
"It is a lot," said Ramsay, who could not have swallowed another crust, "to pay for such a puny meal."
"I told you the price before you ordered."
"It doesn't matter," Ramsay waved a languid hand. "Especially since I have no money. What do we do now?"
Ramsay stood in the kitchen of the Lake House, and by the light of an oil lamp piled the last of what had been a mountain of dishes, into warm water. There must, he thought, have been thousands of them, but there were only a few more and he dropped one of those. Instantly the woman who had served him popped into the kitchen.
"Must you be so clumsy?"
"It is the only dish I have broken out of all I have washed," Ramsay said. "Don't you think I have paid off my dinner by this time?"
"You knew the price before you ordered."
"The way you've had me working since, I earned the whole cow. Haven't I repaid you, with perhaps a bonus of a sandwich for supper?"
"Sit down, kid," the woman said gruffly.
She brought him a sandwich, huge slices of fluffy homemade bread between which thick slices of beef nestled, and a bowl of milk. Ramsay ate hungrily, and after he had finished his hostess talked to him. "You're the youngster Devil Chad beat up, aren't you?"
"I tripped," Ramsay said grimly.
"Devil Chad trips 'em all. You're crazy if you think you can get away with anything. Best thing you can do is leave."
Ramsay said, "I guess I'm just naturally crazy."
The woman shrugged. "I'm tellin' you for your own good, kid. You'll get nowhere in Three Points as long as Chad don't like you. Why not be a smart little boy and beat it back to wherever you came from?"
Ramsay said, "That isn't a good idea."
"You're a stubborn kid, ain't you?"
"Mule-headed," Ramsay agreed. "Even worse than a mule."
"Well, if you won't take good advice, there's not much I can do. Would you like to sleep here tonight?"
"Nope. I'll be going now, and thanks for the steak."
"Well ... Good luck, kid."
"Thanks."
Ramsay walked out into the darkness and drew his jacket tightly about him. The lake shore was cold by day, much colder by night when there was no sun to warm it. He had brought extra clothing, but all his personal belongings had gone down with theHolter. He looked dismally at the dark town—Three Points seemed to go to bed with the setting sun—and wandered forlornly down toward the lake front. Both the sailing vessel from Ludington and theJacksonwere gone.
A little wind was driving wavelets gently against the shore, and the lap-lap of their rising and falling made pleasant music in the night. Ramsay wandered out on the pier, where the stacked bags of salt were covered with tarpaulins. He looked furtively around.
Nobody else was on or even near the pier, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would come. He curled up close to the bags of salt and drew the flowing end of a tarpaulin over his body. He pillowed his head on a protruding bag and snuggled very near to the stack.
The pier was hard, but he had slept on hard beds before and the barrier of salt broke the wind's force. The tarpaulin, of heavy duck, made a warm blanket. In spite of the odds he faced, Ramsay felt a wonderful sense of well-being and peace. He went quietly to sleep.
When he awakened, soft gray dawn was stealing like a fawn out of the summer sky. Three Points, not yet awake, slumbered in the dim morning. Ramsay crawled out from beneath the tarpaulin and rose to look at the town.
Nobody gave up any battles; but nobody knocked his head against a stone wall or strove against hopeless odds. Even the little black horse had not done that. He might just as well see things as they were. Devil Chad ruled Three Points and, with his present resources, Ramsay could not fight Devil Chad. But it was certain that Chad could not rule all of Milwaukee, too, and Milwaukee would need workers. He could go back there, get a job and plan his future after he had it.
A sudden inspiration seemed to fall right out of the brightening sky.
The Van Hoovens! Pieter Van Hooven had told him to come back should he fail to find what he expected in Three Points, and Pierre LeDou had assured him that Devil Chad did not walk so freely among the farmers and fishermen. Maybe Pieter could give him a job, at least something that would offer security until he was able to get himself oriented; and if he could, Ramsay wanted to stay in this part of the country. It was better than Milwaukee.
Briskly he left the pier and struck down the sand beach. Now that he had decided to take this step, he felt lighter and happier. Maybe he would and maybe he would not have liked working in the tannery, even if that had been ruled by some other man than Devil Chad, but he knew that he would like the Van Hoovens and their way of life.
He moved fast, staying far enough up on the beach so he need not step in wet sand but near enough the water so he could walk on sun-baked sand over which high water had already rolled. That was packed hard, almost to the consistency of concrete.
The sun was well up when he came again to the Van Hooven's pleasant home. Resolutely he walked up and knocked on the back door.
A second later it opened, and Marta Van Hooven flashed a warm smile of welcome. "Oh! Come in."
Pieter, who had already finished his milking and was now seated at the breakfast table, said, "Hello."
"Hello," Ramsay said. "I thought I'd stop in and see you on ..." He fumbled. "On my way back to Milwaukee."
Pieter looked seriously at him. "You're not going to work in Three Points?"
"No," Ramsay said bluntly. "Mr. Chadbourne and I did not see eye to eye. In fact, three minutes after we met our fists were flying in each other's eyes."
"You fought Devil Chad?"
"I did, and got well-beaten."
Pieter said quietly, "Some day somebody will kill him."
"Some day somebody might."
"Eat," Pieter invited. He pushed a platter of eggs at the boy and forked a thick slice of home-cured ham onto his plate. Then he placed the dish of yellow butter where Ramsay could help himself and put a plate of feather-light fresh-baked rolls where he was able to reach it. Marta came softly in from the kitchen with a bowl of cold milk.
Ramsay ate, primly at first, then gave way to his enormous appetite. Pieter served him another slice of ham. The boy took two more eggs and another roll, which he spread lavishly with butter. Sighing, unable to swallow another crumb, he pushed his plate back. Pieter looked gravely at him. "Do you have to go to Milwaukee?"
"No, I just thought I might find a job there."
"You can," Pieter assured him. "But if a job is what you want, a job is what I can give you. I can't pay you any money, at least until we have sold our fall crops, because we haven't any. But I can give you all you can eat, a good bed to sleep in, and I have some clothes that will fit you."
Ramsay said deliberately, "Devil Chad won't like you for that."
"Around here," and there was no air of braggadocio in Pieter's words, "we don't much care what Devil Chad likes."
Ramsay looked hard at his host, and then the two young men grinned at each other.
"You've got yourself a man," Ramsay said. "What do we do first?"
Hidden from the house by a jutting shoulder of land, Ramsay stood beside the small lake on Pieter Van Hooven's property and peeled off his clothes. All day long, interrupted in mid-morning by Marta, who brought him a substantial lunch, at noon by a huge and delicious dinner and again in mid-afternoon with a lunch, he had toiled in Pieter Van Hooven's sprouting corn.
All day long the sun had beaten down and, though the lake shore was cool enough, a man doing hard physical labor could easily work up a sweat. But it was good. Ramsay had felt the sun's rays penetrate to and warm the very marrow of his bones. In spite of the hard labor he had been doing, few times in his life had he felt as agile and supple and wholly alive as this.
He plunged headlong into the lake and came up gasping. The water was cold, though not nearly as cold as the big lake; and after Ramsay's body was adjusted to it, a delicious glow ran through his whole physical being. He dived again, then climbed up on the soft grass to let the lowering sun dry him before he put his clothes on.
He dressed slowly, happily, and now all his cares were behind him. This was the place for him, and no longer did he have the slightest doubt that he was going to like everything about it. Fresh and vigorous, the day's toil washed away, he walked slowly down to Lake Michigan and stared across it. Supper in half an hour, Pieter had said when he had advised Ramsay to stop work and have a swim, and no more than half that time had elapsed. The rest could profitably be spent in just looking at this endlessly fascinating water.
Ramsay stared across the lake. More than ever it seemed a live creature and one of many moods. Ramsay had seen it roaring-mad, and now he saw it gentle as a lamb. There was scarcely a ripple anywhere. Absorbed in the lake, Ramsay was aware of nothing else until a horse snorted very close to him. When he whirled, he knew that he had seen the same horse and rider before.
It was the body-watcher, Joe Mannis, and he was riding the black-and-white horse which he had ridden when he had warned Ramsay away from the drowned Captain Schultz and the deck hand. The huge cowboy hat tilted precariously on his head and the blue jeans, apparently unwashed in a good many months, clung tightly to his legs. Thick black hair escaped from beneath the hat, and he looked Ramsay up and down. "What are you doin' here?"
"What's it to you?"
"Well, nothin' I expect. Nothin' at all. But just don't bother me again when I'm workin' at my trade."
"I won't," Ramsay promised, "unless I have a couple of pistols, too."
"Just don't bother me when I'm workin' at my trade," the other repeated, "an' we'll get along fine."
"You think so?" Ramsay snapped.
Missing the challenge implied in Ramsay's words, Joe Mannis trotted his horse up the sand beach toward Three Points. Ramsay looked without interest at his retreating back. Joe Mannis was an unsavory man, he decided, but unlike Devil Chad, he was a stupid man. Only when backed by his pistols would Joe be much of a threat.
Ramsay pushed his drying hair back with his hands and went around to the rear of the Van Hooven house. That was also a custom, it seemed. Formal visitors, if there were any, might enter by the front door; but everyone else went around to the rear. Obviously the visitor who had arrived while Ramsay bathed and stood on the shore, was not formal.
He was a tall, gaunt man with a thin face and a hooked nose. Except for a white shirt, the collar of which was adorned by a bright ribbon that could hardly be called a tie, from his stovepipe hat to his shoes he was dressed entirely in black. An outlandish rig, a four-wheeled cart with a fringed top supported on four posts, stood in the yard. Its curtains were rolled up, and the cart seemed to contain everything from wash tubs to pins. Pieter and the stranger were unhitching a gray horse that stood patiently between the cart's shafts.
Pieter called the boy over, "Ramsay, this is Mr. Hammersly."
Mr. Hammersly, so-called, turned and thrust forth a huge hand. "Tradin' Jack," he amended. "Tradin' Jack Hammersly. You need anythin', I got it. Fairer prices as you'll find in Three Points, Chicago, or Milwaukee. Need a box of candy for that girl of yours, Ramsay?"
"I haven't any girl," Ramsay said.
"You'll have one," Tradin' Jack declared. "Every young buck like you needs a pert doe. Can't get along without 'em, I always say. Yup, you'll have one. When you get one, remember Tradin' Jack."
"I will," Ramsay promised.
While Tradin' Jack washed up at the stand beside the back door, Pieter led the gray horse to the barn, stripped it of its harness and loosed it with the little black horse. The two animals touched friendly noses.
Pieter returned, and all three went in to the groaning table which Marta had ready. It seemed a natural thing here, Ramsay observed, to expect all passing wayfarers to share whatever there was to be had. Gracefully Tradin' Jack lifted the tails of his long black coat and sat down.
"Left Milwaukee day before yesterday," he said. "Stopped off to see the Blounts, down at Blounts' Landin'...."
Marta and Pieter Van Hooven gave rapt attention, and even Ramsay found himself interested. Aside from being a trader, it appeared that Tradin' Jack Hammersly was also a walking newspaper. He knew everything about everybody between Three Points and Milwaukee, and between Milwaukee and Kenosha. Endlessly he related tales of new babies, new weddings and new engagements. Tradin' Jack knew that Wilhelm Schmidt's horse had the colic but probably would recover, and that Mrs. Darmstedt, that would be the wife of Pete Darmstedt, had shot a black bear right in her own front yard.
There was nothing about the people he did not know and not much that he was unwilling to tell. Finished, he got down to business. "Any eggs for me, Marta?"
"Twenty dozen," she said, "all fresh."
"Fourteen cents a dozen," Tradin' Jack said promptly.
"Yaah," Marta, too, was bargaining now, "I can get that in Three Points."
"Take it in trade an' I'll allow you fifteen," Tradin' Jack said. "Got to keep my customers sweet."
Before he went to bed Tradin' Jack arranged with Pieter to have a butchered pig ready for him when he returned from Three Points the day after tomorrow. Two and a half cents a pound he would pay, or two and three-quarters if Pieter would take it in trade. He left with the Van Hoovens a tempting array of calico, ribbons, needles, pins, a new axe and hammer, a box of nails and other things which were always useful and always needed.
The next morning Ramsay roused himself out of bed at dawn to find Tradin' Jack already gone. He had sensed the storm that was approaching, Pieter said, and, if possible, he wanted to get into Three Points before it struck. Ramsay felt a strange uneasiness and an unrest. Going outside, he saw that yesterday's blue skies had given way to ominous masses of gray clouds. His uneasiness mounted.
Something terrible was being brewed within the giant lake, and shortly it would erupt. A strong wind sent high waves leaping up onto the shore. They fell back, only to be replaced with more waves. Ramsay shuddered.
If there was terror in this, there was also grandeur. The lake, angered, was a fearful and wonderful spectacle. It was a gargantuan thing which seemed to writhe in an agony which, somehow, was created by itself. A few drops of rain pattered down. The wind blew harder.
Pieter and Ramsay went to the barn to repair tools, and neither spoke as they stared through the barn's open door. The waves were raging now, launching endless attacks on the shore and always rolling back.
Suddenly Ramsay leaped to his feet and stifled a cry. Far out in the lake's surging gray masses he thought that he had seen something pure white. But he could not be sure. A moment later he saw it again. A sail! Then he was able clearly to identify a little peanut shell of a boat.
She was theSpray, and she was in serious trouble.
A fresh gust of wind sent the waves leaping higher, and for a moment only the furious lake could be seen. Ramsay rose, and Pieter rose beside him; and both went to the barn door. They stood alert, still not speaking and not even certain of what they had seen. Then they saw it again.
Beyond any possible doubt it was theSpray, and she was working valiantly to get into shore. Ramsay swallowed a lump in his throat. He had first seen theSprayas a dancing bit of gaiety on a lake as stormy as this one, and then she had seemed so sure of herself and so capable. Now she was like a shot-wounded duck which, no longer able to rise in graceful flight, must lie on the water and flutter desperate wings. For another tense moment Ramsay and Pieter stood side by side.
By inches theSpraywas fighting her way toward shore, but a glance was sufficient to reveal the tremendous odds against her ever making safety. Still, even in this terrible dilemma, there was a spirit about her which theHolternever had and never could have. The two men on theSpray—and did not the crazy Dutch fisherman usually carry a crew of four?—seemed to be working calmly and easily. There was, from this distance, no trace of the near-panic that had reigned when theHolterwent down.
Ramsay knew a moment's intense gratification. This was part of the dream, part of the picture he had engraved in his heart when he first saw theSprayand her skipper. When they challenged the lake, they accepted it in all its aspects. Now they were behaving as all fishermen should behave. Before they could even begin to follow their trade they must make an unbreakable pact with their fortune on the water, be it good or bad.
Then the trance was broken. Out on the lake, within sight of Pieter and Ramsay, men were about to die. They must not die if there was any way to help them. As though their eyes were guided by one common impulse, both men looked toward Pieter's small boat.
It was a clumsy craft, strongly-built of heavy timbers which Pieter himself had hand-sawed in his spare time. Usually, when Pieter wasn't using the boat, it was pulled high enough on the beach so storm-driven battering rams of waves could not touch it, and so it was now. Side by side, with no need to speak, Pieter and Ramsay left the barn and raced toward the boat.
Wind-driven rain soaked their clothing before they had gone ten feet, but they paid no attention to it. Kneeling, one on either side of the fourteen-foot boat, they strove to push it back into the lake. Pieter shouted to make himself heard above the roar of the wind and the smashing waves. "Wait!"
Ramsay stopped pushing while Pieter took the long oars out of their locks and laid them lengthwise in the boat. The boy nodded approvingly. As things were, it seemed all but impossible to launch the boat. If they launched it and lost an oar in the high seas, they were doomed to disaster, anyhow.
"Now!" Pieter shouted.
The boat scraped a deep furrow in the wet sand as, with a concerted effort, they pushed it backwards. Not looking at the savage combers, Ramsay gave all his attention to the boat. They would have to work with all possible speed to get it into the lake and the oars in place, because the waves were rising to enormous heights now. He felt the boat's square stern touch water.
Then an irresistible giant, a force that would bear no interference, took hold and shoved the little craft almost as far up on the beach as it had been when they tried to launch it. Leaving the boat half-filled with water, the smashing wave washed away from the wet sand.
Ramsay stood erect to catch his breath. They had given all their strength to backing the boat into the lake, and as they were about to succeed it had been plucked from their hands as easily as a strong man might snatch a flower from the hands of a baby. He glanced out across the water to assure himself that theSpraywas still floating, then looked desperately at Pieter.
"Nose first!" Pieter said. "Turn it around!"
He shouted to make himself heard, but there was about him an almost maddening calmness as he worked. Ramsay restrained his impatience. They must not lose a second's time; but if they were going to do this at all, it must be done exactly right. Both on one side of the boat, they raised it to let the water spill out.
In spite of his drenched clothing and the cold air that blew in from the lake, Ramsay was sweating. Pieter's boat had been built by a farmer, not a fisherman. It was all right on a calm day when Pieter wanted to go fishing, but certainly it had never been built to weather storms. So heavy was the craft that the combined strength of two men was needed to tip the water from it.
They let the boat drop heavily back on its side, and the oars fell out. Still calmly, refusing to become excited, Pieter picked them up and placed them in the oar locks. Again Ramsay understood. Both men knew this for a furious storm but both had underestimated its fury. At the best, should they be able to get the boat into the lake, they would have a split second to float her and the oars had to be ready. It was better to take a chance on losing an oar than to have the boat driven back onto the beach.
Kneeling, Ramsay felt his muscles stand out like stretched cords as he gave every ounce of strength to turning the boat around. He was sweating again—and short of breath. Only the pressing urgency and the great need for immediate action gave him the strength to continue.
Then the craft seemed to move a little easier, and Ramsay glanced around to see Marta working beside them. Noting them from the house, and understanding their mission, she had thrown a shawl about her shoulders and raced out to help. With almost maddening slowness the boat turned until its curved nose faced the lake.
Ramsay on one side and Pieter on the other slid it down the wet sand toward the water. The boy bit his lip fiercely to help keep control of himself. Nothing must go amiss here, and a wrong or panic-stricken move could mean disaster. Because this launching demanded machine-like precision, Ramsay fought to control the fire in his brain. Carefully he thought out each exact step.
Get the boat into the lake until it floated. Then leap in beside Pieter, grab an oar and time his strokes to Pieter's. Fight their way out to the strickenSprayand rescue those aboard her.
It seemed a simple matter, but never before in his whole life had Ramsay faced anything more complex. It couldn't be done, his mind said, while at the same time something else told him that it could and must be done. He glanced around and curiously, as though the picture were registering somewhere other than in his own eyes, he saw Marta Van Hooven.
She was standing at the edge of the lake, her dress and shawl sodden-wet and her rain-soaked blond hair clinging like a seal's fur to her head and shoulders. One hand covered her mouth, as though to stifle a cry that was half-born there, and in her eyes were a great pleading and a great prayer as she watched her husband. But the cry did not find life. She uttered no sound. While she did not want Pieter to go, at the same time she knew that he must. Only if help came did anyone left alive on theSprayhave even a faint chance of staying alive.
Then they were in the lake, and a mighty wave burst like a water-filled bomb about them. It staggered Ramsay and sent him reeling, but it did not unnerve him. Because he had practised in his own imagination what he must do from here on in, he could do it.
He felt cold water creeping about his shoes and then up around his knees. The boat which they had been dragging steadied itself as they reached water in which it could float. Through the blinding spray that lashed at them Ramsay looked across at Pieter. He saw him only indistinctly, but it was as though they read each other's thoughts. At exactly the same moment they flung themselves into opposite sides of the rower's seat and each grabbed an oar. The boy bent his back to the man-killing job of rowing.
The boat was sluggish, and again half-filled with water. But it floated, and as soon as they were free of the mighty waves that smashed against the beach it floated a little more easily. Ramsay looked back across the steel-gray turmoil to see the Van Hooven farm, and Marta still on the shore. Then he returned all his attention to the task at hand.
The lake was an insane thing, bent on destruction. They went into the trough of a wave and rose on the next one. Ramsay risked a fleeting backward glance to see theSpray, much nearer the shore and still afloat.
Suddenly they were in an almost-calm stretch of water. Ramsay felt cold fear run up and down his spine. He had met this on the sinkingHolter, and now here it was again. Almost fearfully he glanced sidewise at Pieter, but he could not speak because the screaming wind would have drowned his words as soon as he uttered them. His eyes grew big.
Just behind, and again on the right side, an apparition drifted out of the depths. It was a ghost figure, a thing born of nightmares. Ramsay gasped. The White Sturgeon nosed to the surface, drifted lazily for a moment and disappeared back into the watery depths out of which it had come.
Ramsay risked a sidewise glance at Pieter, whose face remained undisturbed, and he swallowed the lump in his own throat. Sailors might fear the White Sturgeon, but if Pieter did, he was not showing his fear. The boy told himself again that the sturgeon was a fish, nothing more or less than a great fish which, through some freak of nature, was colored white. But it did seem to appear only when death and destruction stalked the lake. He forced such thoughts from his mind.
They were again in storm-lashed water, striving to keep their boat straight and headed toward theSpray. Vast waves bore down upon them, plunging the little craft into their cold troughs and then shooting it up as though it were a plaything. From the crest of the waves Ramsay could still see theSpray. He worried. Now there seemed to be only one man aboard her.
There was a sharp, sickening crack and the sound of splintering wood, that rose above the roar of the wind and the surge of the waves. The boat slewed sideways, and for the first time Pieter Van Hooven's face betrayed emotion. He brought in the stump of oar remaining in his hand and, at the risk of upsetting the little boat, leaned across the seat to snatch Ramsay's oar from its lock. With that in his hand, he made a precarious way to the stern. He thrust the oar over the rear seat, trying to use it as a rudder, and the boy strove to overcome the fear he felt.
The White Sturgeon, the sailors' superstition said, always brought disaster. If you see it, the little deck hand had told Ramsay, you can start praying right afterwards. For one terror-filled moment their predictions seemed correct. Twice Ramsay had seen the White Sturgeon; each time he had been in immediate danger of death. Then superstition subsided and reason came back to his aid.
Crouching in the back seat, with only one oar, Pieter Van Hooven was doing his best to fight the angry lake. Though he was a farmer, obviously he knew something of seamanship.
For a brief moment, just long enough to keep from capsizing, he kept the little boat headed into the onrushing waves. When he turned it, he did so skilfully. Working the oar only with the strength in his hard-muscled arms, he headed back towards shore. A mighty wave smashed the stern, throwing cold water over them and across the tiny craft. Ramsay moved from side to side, doing all he could to help Pieter by shifting his weight to where it was needed most. The boat was three-quarters filled with water. Never made for a heavy sea, now it was an almost dead thing. But so strong were the waves and so powerful the wind, that they were driven at almost motor speed back into the beach. Ramsay had one glimpse of Marta.
Pieter lost the little control he had. Turning sidewise, the boat lifted like a matchstick on the crest of a giant wave and spun dizzily down into the trough. It was lifted again, and just before it turned over Ramsay flung himself clear. As he did, he saw Pieter go over with him.
He dived as deeply as he could, knowing that the boat would come crashing down and knowing also that it would kill him if it struck him on the head. Far into the lake he went, swimming under water and groping his way. He surfaced to see the craft to one side and a bobbing object, which he thought was the head of Pieter Van Hooven. A second later a tremendous wave deposited him on the sandy beach.
He lay gasping, all the breath knocked out of him, and he wished desperately to get out of the path of the waves that were breaking over him. But it seemed impossible to move. His mind urged him to go, but he lacked the physical strength to obey. Then he felt a pair of hands in his armpits, and his body was dragged over the scraping sand. Ramsay looked up to see the frightened face of Marta Van Hooven.
"Can you move?" she pleaded.
"Gi—give me a minute!"
For what seemed an interminable time, but could not have been more than twenty seconds, Ramsay lay still. He turned over so that he lay face down, and lifted himself with his arms. His legs and feet were made of jelly. Vaguely he was aware of Marta and Pieter Van Hooven, one on each side, lifting him to his feet. A second later his strength returned.
Keening in from the lake, the wind made him stagger backwards. Reaching mountainous heights, the breaking waves shattered themselves far up on the beach. Ramsay looked across them. About two hundred yards out, theSpraywas completely crippled. Trailing from her broken mast, the sail bled water into the angry lake. Down at the bows, the fisherman's boat seemed hung up on a rock or reef. Every second wave that washed in broke completely over her and hid her from view. But the single man remaining on board still worked calmly with the broken half of an oar, to free theSprayfrom her prison.
Ramsay allowed himself another split second. The entire dream was coming true. There were some men who, to the last, could meet the challenge of the lake with grace and spirit. The man on theSpray, identified even at this distance as Hans Van Doorst, had not given up.
The boy whirled on Pieter Van Hooven. "A coil of rope!" he ejaculated.
Without waiting to see whether or not Pieter followed his instructions, he raced for the barn. Snatching a bridle from its wooden peg, he went more slowly toward the corral where the little black horse was confined.
This had happened once before and it might happen again. A man's strength was as nothing in the raging lake, but a horse was many times as strong as a man. The black horse had brought him safely in when all the others had drowned.
The little horse arched his neck and flicked his ears when his young friend approached and patted him.
"Easy," Ramsay said reassuringly. "Take it easy, Black."
The little horse rested his head over the boy's shoulder for a moment, then the latter stepped back to slip the bit into Black's mouth, put the bridle over his ears and buckle the throat latch. The horse followed willingly behind him as he pushed the corral's gate aside.
He mounted, and Black reared and pranced, just to prove that he could. Ramsay tried not to look at the lake, but he couldn't help looking. When he did, very lonely in the gray waves, he saw the reef- or rock-boundSpray. The lone fisherman still could be seen, working to free his craft.
Ramsay leaned forward to pat the little horse on the neck. "We can do it," he murmured. "Let's prove it."
He took the bridle reins in his hand and trotted Black toward the foaming lake. Pieter, his eyes grave, tossed him a coil of half-inch rope. Ramsay had one glimpse of Marta's anguished face. He slipped the coil of rope over his shoulder and did not look back.
As they approached the lake, the horse hesitated, to paw the sand with a front hoof. He looked around to eye the rider on his back, and again Ramsay leaned forward. "All right," he said. "Go on."
The horse accepted his words but, more than that, his confidence. Guided by the bridle's touch, he walked willingly into the pounding lake. Another water bomb exploded about them. They submerged, but Black came up swimming strongly. Ramsay kept soft fingers on the bridle reins, not wanting to exert any pressure or do anything else that might divert the horse from the job at hand.
Tossing his head, Black sneezed to empty his nose of water that had washed into it. He was timing himself capably and almost perfectly to meet the waves at their place of least resistance, and he rose and fell with them. From the crests Ramsay could see theSpray. From the troughs he could see nothing. A lump rose in his throat.
TheSpraywas indeed sadly wounded. Only part of her stern showed above water. Hans Van Doorst still worked with a broken oar to free his boat, and as soon as he came near enough Ramsay knew that he had been right.
The Dutch fisherman had been one with the lake when Ramsay first saw him, and he was one with it now. Unafraid, he fought the lake as gracefully as a swordsman. Perched on the broken stump of mast, the sea gull fluttered his wings and clicked his mandibles.
Ramsay gauged the situation as precisely as he could. If he could throw his rope over the strandedSpray, the little horse might be able to pull it from its anchor and back to shore. Ramsay saw Hans Van Doorst turn to watch him. The fisherman waved a friendly hand.
Still guiding Black lightly, imposing no undue strain on the reins or bit, Ramsay steered him across theSpray'ssunken prow. He let the reins hang slackly on the horse's neck and took the coil of rope from his shoulder. As precisely as he could, he cast and watched the rope snake through the air.
A sick feeling arose in the pit of his stomach and he moaned audibly. He had calculated the distance correctly but he had not allowed for the strength of the wind. The rope missed Hans Van Doorst's outstretched hands by two feet and fell into the angry lake. Of his own volition, Black turned back toward shore. Ramsay saw the squawking sea gull bounce a couple of feet into the air and spread his long wings. Grasping the reins, for the first time the boy used strength as he strove to turn the horse back. He glanced over his shoulder to see what might be done next, and gasped.
Hans Van Doorst had gone to the raised stern of his wrecked boat to give himself a running start, and as Ramsay looked, he dived. Leaping as far as possible from theSprayto avoid striking the rock, he hurled himself into the storm-lashed lake, straight at his would-be rescuers. For a few seconds that seemed like hours, he disappeared into the churning depths, but when he surfaced he was squarely behind Ramsay and he used both hands to grasp the horse's tail.
Black turned back toward shore. He swam more strongly now because he was going with the wind instead of against it, and his double burden did not seem unduly heavy. Ramsay saw Pieter and Marta Van Hooven, Pieter's hand protectingly over his wife's shoulder, as they waited to see what would happen.
The last wave burst around them and they were back on shore. Instantly Ramsay slid from the little horse's back and looked around. A nausea seized him. Hans Van Doorst was no longer in sight. Ramsay had tried and failed. He glanced toward theSpray, as though he expected to see the crazy Dutch fisherman still there, and knew only that waves were smashing the boat into kindling wood.
Then, as though he had literally risen from the lake, Hans Van Doorst picked himself up from the wreckage of a breaking wave and walked ashore. His tame sea gull fluttered out of the sky to alight on its master's shoulder. The Dutchman reached up to stroke his pet as he looked at Pieter and Ramsay. "None but me and Captain Klaus?" he asked.
"None, Hans," Pieter said.
For a moment an infinite sadness, a melancholy born thousands of years ago in the first fisherman who had seen his mates lost, pervaded the Dutchman. But it was only for a moment. Pieter and Ramsay walked to his side and offered their assistance. He declined it.
"I'll walk," he said.
Ramsay felt a great warmth for and a vast sympathy with this man who, while daring all and losing all, could remain so very human. Marta hovered solicitously near as they all went up to the house and wore their dripping clothes into her immaculate kitchen. Hans Van Doorst sat down, tried to fold his arms across his chest, and winced.
"You're hurt!" Marta cried.
"It is nothing." The Dutch fisherman looked at the three. "It happened out on the lake. We struck something, I do not know what. Perhaps the half-submerged hull of a sunken ship. Then we were in trouble."
Marta was stooping beside him, gently unbuttoning his soaking-wet shirt. Hans Van Doorst looked fondly down at her wet and bedraggled hair, and he offered no protest as his upper body was bared. There was a vast, ugly scar on the right side of his chest, and when Marta touched him there his ribs moved. The Dutchman sat very straight in his chair. Though he must have felt pain, he showed none.
Ramsay and Pieter stood aside while Marta worked expertly. Ripping one of her snow-white sheets into strips, she wound a bandage tightly around Hans Van Doorst's broken ribs. Ramsay and Pieter looked significantly at each other. Such an injurymighthave resulted when wind or a heavy wave flung the fisherman against something. Probably it had happened when Hans flung himself forward in an effort to rescue a shipmate.
Marta finished her bandaging and stepped back. "You rest now."
He grinned at her. "Fishermen have no time for rest."
"Do as she says, Hans," Pieter urged.
"Come," said Marta. She went to a bedroom, opened the door and waited expectantly.
Hans Van Doorst spread eloquent hands. "Who can argue with a woman?" he asked. "Especially a Dutch woman?"
He rose, went into the room, and closed the door behind him. Ten minutes later, Marta opened the door a crack and peeked in. She entered, and came out with Hans Van Doorst's clothing.
"He sleeps," she announced. "Like a man worn out he sleeps."
Ramsay changed his wet clothes for some dry ones Pieter had given him and went out to catch Black. From the house's ridge pole, Captain Klaus, Hans Van Doorst's tame sea gull, squawked at him. Ramsay grinned back, walked up to the little horse, rubbed him down, and put him back in the corral. He did the rest of his chores, and when he went into the house for dinner Hans Van Doorst was seated at the table.
"I told him!" Marta scolded. "I told him to stay in bed and I would bring him his food. But can I talk reason to a Dutchman?"
"Marta," Hans Van Doorst said softly, "there is fishing to be done."
Eager interest glowed in Pieter's eyes. "Are you going again, Hans?"
"I am a fisherman."
"You are crazy," Marta corrected. "One day you will kill yourself on that lake."
Again the sadness, the inborn melancholy, sat like a mask on the Dutch fisherman. But only for a moment.
"Marta," he said, "fishermen do not die in bed."