Poor Man's Rock

by Bertrand W. Sinclair

  CHAPTER VIII

  Vested Rights

  A small balcony over the porch of Gower's summer cottage commanded awide sweep of the Gulf south and east. That was one reason he had builtthere. He liked to overlook the sea, the waters out of which he hadtaken a fortune, the highway of his collecting boats. He had to keep intouch with the Folly Bay cannery while the rush of the pack was on. Buthe was getting more fastidious as he grew older, and he no longerrelished the odors of the cannery. There were other places nearer thecannery than Cradle Bay, if none more sightly, where he could have builta summer house. People wondered why he chose the point that frowned overPoor Man's Rock. Even his own family had questioned his judgment.Particularly his wife. She complained of the isolation. She insisted ona houseful of people when she was there, and as Vancouver was full ofeligible week-enders of both sexes her wish was always gratified. And noone except Betty Gower ever knew that merely to sit looking out on theGulf from that vantage point afforded her father some inscrutablesatisfaction.

  On a day in mid-July Horace Gower stepped out on this balcony. Hecarried in his hand a pair of prism binoculars. He took a casual lookaround. Then he put the glasses to his eyes and scanned the Gulf with aslow, searching sweep. At first sight it seemed empty. Then fareastward toward Vancouver his glass picked up two formless dots whichalternately showed and disappeared.

  Gower put down the glasses, seated himself in a grass chair, lighted acigar and leaned back, looking impersonally down on Point Old and theRock. A big, slow swell rolled up off the Gulf, breaking with aprecisely spaced _boom_ along the cliffs. For forty-eight hours asoutheaster had swept the sea, that rare phenomenon of a summer galewhich did not blow itself out between suns. This had been a wildtantrum, driving everything of small tonnage to the nearest shelter,even delaying the big coasters.

  One of these, trailing black smoke from two funnels, lifting whitesuperstructure of cabins high above her main deck, standing bold andclear in the mellow sunshine, steamed out of the fairway between Squittyand Vancouver Island. But she gained scant heed from Gower. His eyeskept turning to where those distant specks showed briefly betweenperiods in the hollows of the sea. They drew nearer. Gower finished hiscigar in leisurely fashion. He focused the glass again. He gruntedsomething unintelligible. They were what he fully expected to behold assoon as the southeaster ceased to whip the Gulf,--the _Bluebird_ and the_Blackbird_, Jack MacRae's two salmon carriers. They were walking up toSquitty in eight-knot boots. Through his glass Gower watched them liftand fall, lurch and yaw, running with short bursts of speed on the crestof a wave, laboring heavily in the trough, plowing steadily up throughuneasy waters to take the salmon that should go to feed the hungrymachines at Folly Bay.

  Gower laid aside the glasses. He smoked a second cigar down to a stub,resting his plump hands on his plump stomach. He resembled a thoughtfulBilliken in white flannels, a round-faced, florid, middle-aged Billiken.By that time the two _Bird_ boats had come up and parted on the head ofSquitty. The _Bluebird_, captained by Vin Ferrara, headed into the Cove.The _Blackbird_, slashing along with a bone in her teeth, rounded PoorMan's Rock, cut across the mouth of Cradle Bay, and stood on up thewestern shore.

  "He knows every pot-hole where a troller can lie. He's not afraid ofwind or sea or work. No wonder he gets the fish. Those damned--"

  Gower cut his soliloquy off in the middle to watch the _Blackbird_ slideout of sight behind a point. He knew all about Jack MacRae's operations,the wide swath he was cutting in the matter of blueback salmon. TheFolly Bay showing to date was a pointed reminder. Gower's canneryforeman and fish collectors gave him profane accounts of MacRae'sindefatigable raiding,--as it suited them to regard his operations. WhatGower did not know he made it his business to find out. He sat now inhis grass chair, a short, compact body of a man, with a heavy-jawed,powerful face frowning in abstraction. Gower looked younger than hisfifty-six years. There was little gray in his light-brown hair. His blueeyes were clear and piercing. The thick roundness of his body was notaltogether composed of useless tissue. Even considered superficially helooked what he really was, what he had been for many years,--a manaccustomed to getting things done according to his desire. He did notlook like a man who would fight with crude weapons--such as a pikepole--but nevertheless there was the undeniable impression of latentforce, of aggressive possibilities, of the will and the ability torudely dispose of things which might become obstacles in his way. Andthe current history of him in the Gulf of Georgia did not belie such animpression.

  He left the balcony at last. He appeared next moving, with the stumpy,ungraceful stride peculiar to the short and thick-bodied, down the walkto a float. From this he hailed the _Arrow_, and a boy came in, rowing adinghy.

  When Gower reached the cruiser's deck he cocked his ear at voices in theafter cabin. He put his head through the companion hatch. Betty Gowerand Nelly Abbott were curled up on a berth, chuckling to each other oversome exchange of confidences.

  "Thought you were ashore," Gower grunted.

  "Oh, the rest of the crowd went off on a hike into the woods, so we cameout here to look around. Nelly hasn't seen the _Arrow_ inside since itwas done over," Betty replied.

  "I'm going to Folly Bay," Gower said. "Will you go ashore?"

  "Far from such," Betty returned. "I'd as soon go to the cannery asanywhere. Can't we, daddy?"

  "Oh, yes. Bit of a swell though. You may be sick."

  Betty laughed. That was a standing joke between them. She had never beenseasick. Nelly Abbott declared that if there was anything she loved itwas to ride the dead swell that ran after a storm. They came up out ofthe cabin to watch the mooring line cast off, and to wave handkerchiefsat the empty cottage porches as the _Arrow_ backed and straightened andswept out of the bay.

  The _Arrow_ was engined to justify her name. But the swell was heavierthan it looked from shore. No craft, even a sixty-footer built forspeed, finds her speed lines a thing of comfort in heavy going. Untilthe _Arrow_ passed into the lee of an island group halfway alongSquitty she made less time than a fishing boat, and she rolled andtwisted uncomfortably. If Horace Gower had a mind to reach Folly Baybefore the _Blackbird_ he could not have done so. However, he gave nohint of such intention. He kept to the deck. The girls stayed belowuntil the big cruiser struck easier going and a faster gait. Then theyjoined Gower.

  The three of them stood by the rail just abaft the pilot house when the_Arrow_ turned into the half-mile breadth of Folly Bay. The canneryloomed white on shore, with a couple of purse seiners and a tender ortwo tied at the slips. And four hundred yards off the cannery wharf the_Blackbird_ had dropped anchor and lay now, a dozen trolling boatsclustered about her to deliver fish.

  "Slow up and stop abreast of that buyer," Gower ordered.

  The _Arrow's_ skipper brought his vessel to a standstill within aboat-length of the _Blackbird_.

  "Why, that's Jack MacRae," Nelly Abbott exclaimed. "Hoo-hoo, Johnny!"

  She waved both hands for good measure. MacRae, bareheaded, sleevesrolled above his elbows, standing in hip boots of rubber on a deck wetand slippery with water and fish slime, amid piles of gleaming salmon,recognized her easily enough. He waved greeting, but his gaze only forthat one recognizing instant left the salmon that were landing _flop,flop_ on the _Blackbird's_ deck out of a troller's fish well. He madeout a slip, handed the troller some currency. There was a brief exchangeof words between them. The man nodded, pushed off his boat. Instantlyanother edged into the vacant place. Salmon began to fall on the deck,heaved up on a picaroon. At the other end of the fish hold another ofthe Ferrara boys was tallying in fish.

  "Old crab," Nelly Abbott murmured. "He doesn't even look at us."

  "He's counting salmon, silly," Betty explained. "How can he?"

  There was no particular inflection in her voice. Nevertheless HoraceGower shot a sidelong glance at his daughter. She also waved a handpleasantly to Jack MacRae, who had faced about now.

  "Why don't you say you're glad to see us, old dear?
" Nelly Abbottsuggested bluntly, and smiling so that all her white teeth gleamed andher eyes twinkled mischievously.

  "Tickled to death," MacRae called back. He went through the pantomime ofshaking hands with himself. His lips parted in a smile. "But I'm thebusiest thing afloat right now. See you later."

  "Nerve," Horace Gower muttered under his breath.

  "Not if we see you first," Nelly Abbott retorted.

  "It's not likely you will," MacRae laughed.

  He turned back to his work. The fisherman alongside was tall and surlylooking, a leathery-faced individual with a marked scowl. He heaved halfa dozen salmon up on the _Blackbird_. Then he climbed up himself. Hetowered over Jack MacRae, and MacRae was not exactly a small man. Hesaid something, his hands on his hips. MacRae looked at him. He seemedto be making some reply. And he stepped back from the man. Every otherfisherman turned his face toward the _Blackbird's_ deck. Theirclattering talk stopped short.

  The man leaned forward. His hands left his hips, drew into doubledfists, extended threateningly. He took a step toward MacRae.

  And MacRae suddenly lunged forward, as if propelled by some invisiblespring of tremendous force. With incredible swiftness his left hand andthen his right shot at the man's face. The two blows sounded like twoopen-handed smacks. But the fisherman sagged, went lurching backward.His heels caught on the _Blackbird's_ bulwark and he pitched backwardhead-first into the hold of his own boat.

  MacRae picked up the salmon and flung them one by one after the man,with no great haste, but with little care where they fell, for one ortwo spattered against the fellow's face as he clawed up out of his ownhold. There was a smear of red on his lips.

  "Oh! My goodness gracious, sakes alive!"

  Nelly Abbott grasped Betty by the arm and murmured these expletives asmuch in a spirit of deviltry as of shock. Her eyes danced.

  "Did you see that?" she whispered. "I never saw two men fight before.I'd hate to have Jack MacRae hit _me_."

  But Betty was holding her breath, for MacRae had picked up a twelve-footpike pole, a thing with an ugly point and a hook of iron on its tip. Heonly used it, however, to shove away the boat containing the man he hadso savagely smashed. And while he did that Gower curtly issued an order,and the _Arrow_ slid on to the cannery wharf.

  Nelly went below for something. Betty stood by the rail, staring backthoughtfully, unaware that her father was keenly watching the look onher face, with an odd expression in his own eyes.

  "You saw quite a lot of young MacRae last spring, didn't you?" he askedabruptly. "Do you like him?"

  A faint touch of color leaped into her cheeks. She met her father'sglance with an inquiring one of her own.

  "Well--yes. Rather," she said at last. "He's a nice boy."

  "Better not," Gower rumbled. His frown grew deeper. His teeth clamped acigar in one corner of his mouth at an aggressive angle. "Granted thathe is what you call a nice boy. I'll admit he's good-looking and that hedances well. And he seems to pack a punch up his sleeve. I'd suggestthat you don't cultivate any romantic fancy for him. Because he's makinghimself a nuisance in my business--and I'm going to smash him."

  Gower turned away. If he had lingered he might have observedunmistakable signs of temper. Betty flew storm signals from cheek andeye. She looked after her father with something akin to defiance,likewise with an air of astonishment.

  "As if I--" she left the whispered sentence unfinished.

  She perched herself on the mahogany-capped rail, and while she waitedfor Nelly Abbott she gave herself up to thinking of herself and herfather and her father's amazing warning which carried a veiledthreat,--an open threat so far as Jack MacRae was concerned. Why shouldhe cut loose like that on her?

  She stared thoughtfully at the _Blackbird_, marked the trollers slippingin from the grounds and clustering around the chunky carrier.

  It might have interested Mr. Horace Gower could he have received averbatim report of his daughter's reflections for the next five minutes.But whether it would have pleased him it is hard to say.