Rogue River Feud

by Zane Grey

  With slow and deliberate action the sheriff tore up the telegram. “I don’t know any Keven Bell…. An’ I do happen to know Mister Atwell. He’s no stranger hereabouts.”

  “Then—then you’re not going to pinch me?” asked Keven, trembling.

  “Not on the strength of that…. But you keep it under your hat.”

  “Oh—thanks—sheriff. I—you——” Keven suddenly sustained an unaccountable emotional upset. He who could have laughed sheriffs and jail to scorn felt weak as water before unexpected kindness.

  “I met Garry last night,” went on the sheriff, ignoring Keven’s agitation. “Early in the evenin’. Garry an’ me are not bad friends. He told me he had a new pard. ‘Prince of a feller,’ Garry said. An’ he was tellin’ me about you when he was interrupted. Later I had to go on Garry’s trail. He’d got drunk an’ beat up one of Brandeth’s pet fishermen. An’ Austrian. I dragged Garry out. But instead of pinchin’ him I led him out of town an’ told him to go sleep it off.”

  “He didn’t come back to camp,” returned Keven anxiously.

  “Wal, he might have got slugged by one of these roustabouts. Bad blood here, Bell, as you’ll find out. But Garry is cute, drunk or sober. He’s safe in the woods, somewhere. Don’t worry about him.”

  “What’s your name, sheriff?” asked Keven.

  “Blackwood. I’m from up the river myself. Ashland. Born on the Rogue. But you needn’t blow that around,” rejoined the officer, grinning at the last. “We’re bound to get acquainted. So drop in to see me. Not on Saturday, though. That’s my busy day.”

  Keven went out, confronted by two unfamiliar conditions of mind—gratitude, and a reversion of bitter, set opinion. All the world was not against the returned, broken soldier. He would have to reconstruct his opinions. This kindly, sad-eyed sheriff added another to the slowly growing number of persons who reached to the frozen depths of Keven Bell. He was going to have another kind of fight to contend with presently. It made him uneasy. He would rather have remained callous, hopeless, defiant, aloof, and therefore lost.

  In front of the busy-appearing hotel, where cars were parked, and people passed in and out, a slim, fox-faced man accosted Keven.

  “Are you the young man who helped Garry Lord make that salmon haul?” he queried.

  “Yes, sir. I’m he.”

  “What might your name be?”

  “It might be Jeff Davis or Jesse James—only it isn’t,” returned Keven tartly. He had recalled Blackwood’s remark about his name.

  “No call to be funny. But your name doesn’t matter,” said the man conciliatingly. “Any relation of Lord’s?”

  “Just a fishing partner.”

  “Do you know he isn’t liked here?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard that no upriver fishermen are.”

  “That’s a fact. They are independent fishermen. They buck the game.”

  “Ahuh. Is there a labor union of fishermen here at Gold Beach?” inquired Keven curiously.

  “No. But there’s an inside ring which you want to join. You agree to sell your fish to one buyer.”

  “But Garry and I prefer to be free to sell to anyone,” replied Keven sturdily. “Whoever offers the most will get our fish. I understand there are two canneries now, besides the large one which Brandeth operates. That’ll surely make better prices for all fishermen.”

  “It looks that way to a newcomer. And probably will fetch more money at the start. But you’ll find yourself out of it altogether, when the big run’s on.”

  “Bunk. That doesn’t sound American to me,” declared Keven, with more force than elegance.

  “Lord and his former mate bucked us with high hand last season,” rejoined the man. “We don’t intend to let him get away with it this year. He won’t have any sale for his fish. And that’s why I’m giving you a hint.”

  “Thanks,” replied Keven dryly. “But I think it’s a bluff.”

  “You’ll soon find out it’s no bluff. You’ll be out in the cold.”

  “But look here! Isn’t this a free country? Can’t a man get his wages for honest work?” shot back Keven, growing nettled. “I’ll bet two bits you want me to join a clique to freeze out upriver fishermen. And probably this new rival cannery.”

  “Take it or leave it,” snapped the other crisply. From his face a mask of persuasion dropped to expose craft and, less clearly, menace.

  “Whom do you represent?” inquired Keven.

  “That’s none of your business. If you signify your willingness to quit Garry Lord and join the ring, then——”

  “Say,” interrupted Keven. “You look like a crook and you talk like a crook. Go to hell!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BY June the season was at full blast at Gold Beach. Likewise life at the Sock-eye.

  The element foreign to the town, except during the salmon runs, constituted its clientele. Keven Bell dropped in there often, first in a futile attempt to hang onto Garry, and then through a habit that formed. Money was Garry’s downfall. He would slave for days and nights when a run of fish was on, only to squander his earnings on the bottle and the cards. A master fisherman at his trade, he was a poor and unlucky gambler, and he could not stand liquor. Yet he was withal such a splendid fellow that Keven grew deeply attached to him and sought to influence him.

  The Sock-eye roared that Saturday night. On flood tide the night before, and at flood the morning after, a magnificent run of salmon had swamped the fishermen. Wherefore they had plenty of money and most of it, if not all, was flooding back to the source whence it had come.

  Keven bought cigarettes at the cigar stand, where Brander, the manager, who had shown rather a liking for Keven, said close to his ear: “Get Garry out of here if you can. He’s drunk an’ Mulligan is lookin’ for him.”

  Mulligan was a hulking figure on the river, and he and Garry had clashed. There was a strong and underhand movement afoot to oust Garry. But for the rival canneries he could not have sold his fish for a pittance.

  The long poolroom reeked and smoked. A blue haze clouded the scene of jostling, lounging men, of the pool players at the tables, of the glancing colored balls. A continuous clicking sound mingled with raucous voices and laughs. Rubber boots and waterproof coats and the heavy, bright-barred woolen blouses of the North were strikingly in evidence. The odor of fish was as marked as that of smoke, and many a wet foot track showed on the floor.

  Keven made his cautious way down the hall and back, without seeing Garry. He was now known to most of the fishermen as Garry Lord’s upriver partner, and cordially hated. One lean-faced, unshaven gamester, who obviously got his cue into contact with Keven as he passed, called out viciously:

  “I’ll knock you on the knob.”

  “Your fault. You play pool like you fish,” retorted Keven, as he passed on.

  “These upriver——ought to be driv out,” said the fisherman to his comrades.

  It was Keven’s candid opinion that eventually he and Garry, as well as the several other men from the upper Rogue, would be compelled to leave Gold Beach. Fishing for them was growing less profitable and exceedingly more difficult. Glad indeed was Keven that he had been able to pay his father what he owed him, and the goodhearted Minton. Keven’s dream of saving enough money to buy a fruit farm had long been dispelled.

  He made his way upstairs to the gambling rooms. No one on guard, no doorkeeper! Any person could come and go. Comparative quiet reigned up there, the noise from below filtering through the walls. Half a dozen games of poker were on. And at one table sat Garry, hunched over his cards. Keven approached.

  For once his partner appeared to be ahead of the game. Five other players participated here, and one of these was Mulligan, a bullet-headed Irishman, with a shock of red hair and a face like a bull. He was a loser, and the way he glowered at Garry boded no good for that worthy. Moreover several of Mulligan’s cronies also sat in the game.

  Keven felt suddenly wrathful with Garry. Why did he court trouble?
But it was Garry’s perverse habit to tackle the worst jobs and the toughest men. Keven racked his wits. How could he get Garry to leave? Poker players did not take kindly to a winner quitting the game before an allotted hour. Here at the Sock-eye, however, all games were cutthroat and the ethics of gambling were not followed.

  “Excuse me for butting in,” spoke up Keven, to the players generally. Then he addressed his partner. “Come out of this, Garry.”

  “Wot’s eatin’ you, Kev?” queried Lord, in surprise. He was not very drunk.

  “I’ve got a good reason. Come on.”

  “But can’t you see I’m ’way ahead of the game?”

  “Well, it’s the first time, that’s a cinch. Beat it now. There’s a Grant’s Pass cop hunting for you.”

  “Hell with him. Kev, you’re annoyin’ of me most scandalous,” complained Garry.

  “Sorry, but it’s important. Brander gave me a hunch, too. He wants to tip you off.”

  “Go away, Kev, an’ lemme alone. I’m gonna bust this bunch.”

  “All right then, you sap. Make me give it away,” retorted Keven, with pretense of anger. “There’s a big run of salmon on.”

  That never had failed to fetch Garry. And it worked now. He pocketed his winnings and, backing his chair, stood up.

  Mulligan glared at him.

  “Go wan, you little bandy-legged mud hen,” he said, in loud derision. “Quit when you’re ahead.”

  “Sure. Thet’s the time to quit. I trimmed you good, for all your slick tricks,” leered Garry.

  Mulligan stood up to lunge at Garry, missing him only because the table intervened. Quick as a flash Garry swung a chair. The other gamesters ducked pell-mell to the floor, while the big Mulligan dodged. But he was too slow to avoid the flying chair, if he did save his head. It struck him square on the back and bounced off to crash through a window. Before the routed gamblers could rise to battle Keven dragged the belligerent and cursing Garry away and down the stairs.

  Outside they ran plump into Blackwood, the sheriff, who manifestly associated their hurry with the row in the hall above.

  “Hey, boys, what’s the occasion for such precipitationess?” he asked, with dry humor.

  “Mulligan and his cronies wanted to fight,” replied Keven. “You know how obliging Garry is.”

  “Fight! Aw, is that all? I thought somethin’ unusual was goin’ on, … Come out, an’ get away from this place.”

  “I’m gonna lick that Mulligan,” declared Garry, drawing back.

  They led him up the street.

  “Reckon I’d better run him in, Bell. Just for safety,” said Blackwood. “And you better get back to camp.”

  “Aw, doggone it, I don’t live at thet jail,” objected Garry. “An’, listen, Blacky, there’s a run of fish. Thet’s what got me comin’.”

  “Garry, I lied to you,” admitted Keven. “I wanted to get you away.”

  “You double-crossin’ water dog,” wailed Garry.

  At the corner of the street Blackwood led them around to the entrance to the jail. “Go in, Garry. You know we’re your best friends.”

  “Hell! Yes, you are … Take my winnin’s, Kev, an’ hide ’em. I’m ahead of the game an’ won’t never gamble no more,” said Garry, then passed into the building.

  Blackwood tarried to speak with Keven.

  “I’ll let him out in the morning’, Bell. I’d consider leavin’ Gold Beach, if I were you. It’s no place for boys of your kind durin’ the salmon fishin’.” Then the sheriff looked around cautiously, as if careful not to be overheard, and whispered. “I happen to know—Lord’s a marked man. He’s a great fisherman, independent, an’ he bucks the combine. So don’t deceive yourself, Bell. There’s a hell of a lot more to this than jealous fishermen…. Get him away. An’ if you can’t, go yourself.”

  “Thanks, Blackwood,” returned Keven, and went his way. There was a dance on at another hall that evening. He had intended to drop in for a while, as he had on another occasion. Young fellows who could dance were at a premium at these affairs. Nevertheless the same aggressive antagonism asserted itself there, of the male contingent, who were mostly fishermen. The better class of inhabitants did not attend, and most of the girls were from outside. This night, however, Keven resisted any further contacts.

  But he trudged down the road toward the river with contrary thoughts and mingled feelings. It might not take much more to draw him into this drinking, brawling mess, and that from indifference as well as resentment. He had kept out of the vortex of it, not so much from principle as a desire to be alone. Antagonism, however, and the shadow of the powers that controlled set harshly upon Keven Bell. It was not conducive to meekness, a virtue which he possessed only in slight degree. He loved Garry Lord and he would fight for him. Minton had spoken truth: this fisherman, who wasted his substance so prodigally, had a heart of gold. Keven felt that he could not desert Garry.

  Down by the Rogue at his camp he cast off something of the oppression of untoward possibilities. It was almost like camping up the river, except for the barking of Indian dogs, the lights on the bay. Loneliness acted wholesomely upon Keven. He had been too used to hordes of soldiers, crowds of visitors, of the hard-boiled, the curious and unsympathetic. Crouched before a little red-embered fire, Keven gazed into its depths and listened to the dogs, the lap of the waves, and the distant thunder from over the sand dunes.

  Garry returned to camp next morning, cheery and repentant, unable to recall or frankly disavowing any dereliction on his part. Keven took occasion to repeat and emphasize Blackwood’s advice.

  “What? Dig out an’ leave the fishin’ to these muckers? It ain’t in me, pard.”

  “Well, then, let’s not loaf around so much,” suggested Keven. “If we keep busy fishing we’re out of mischief. Let’s go to trolling by day and stick at netting by night, runs or no runs. Let’s do differently from these other fishermen. They wait on the tides and the runs. On the mood of the river. But we can catch a few fish all the time. We’ll be that much ahead.”

  “Keven, you’re a bright guy,” declared Garry admiringly. “By gosh, I’m with you. I’ll stay away from town an’ lay off thet Mulligan gang.”

  So they had a day of trolling with large spoons, taking turn about at rowing the skiff. Salmon rose few and far between; nevertheless they caught ten, which fish, at twenty-five cents each, did not aggregate a very satisfactory wage. Garry said the best feature about this trolling by day was that it gave opportunity to figure the river and thus be ready for a run of salmon by night. Certainly they could not fish all day and all night, too. But they satisfied themselves no run would be on soon. Salmon, in lagging numbers, were moving into the bay all the time. The Indians and the half-breeds kept at their daytime fishing with hook and line, probably owing to the fact that they were too improvident to buy nets.

  Towards the close of the third day of trolling Garry’s keen and experienced eye noted a fine sediment in the river. He peered into the water, felt it, tasted it.

  “By gosh, if there ain’t a rise comin’ I’ll eat my hat,” he said. “Let’s beat it to camp, get a snack of grub an’ a little sleep—then come back with the net.”

  Garry did not have to eat his hat. That night late, having the bay to themselves, except for some trolling Indians, they netted two hundred and sixty-three salmon, which they sold to the opposition cannery for fifty cents each.

  This second coup of Garry’s not only heralded the beginning of the big run of salmon, but also raised almost a riot among the fishermen. If black looks and harsh words could have killed, Garry and his young partner would not have lived long. On the three following nights, early and at the first of the flood tide, they made hauls far in excess of the other fishermen.

  Keven had the extreme satisfaction of paying all his debts, and of adding a bonus for his father, and then had a tidy sum left. As for Garry, what might have been expected presently happened. He fell. The lure of the card table gripped him again; and w
hen he lost he began to drink. Still he did not get so far under the influence of the bottle as to interfere seriously with his work. But he played into the hands of his enemies. Finally Keven felt forced to make a stand.

  “Garry, old fellow, I’m sorry,” he said, “but if you don’t cut out the booze, I’m through.”

  The effect was instant and tragic. From amazement Garry passed to misery.

  “My God, Kev, I’ve been sober’n a judge compared to what I was last year,” he ejaculated.

  “Ahuh. Well, you weren’t very sober then. I appreciate that you think you’ve been, Garry. But it doesn’t go with me.”

  “Kev, you jest couldn’t throw me down.”

  “Couldn’t I? You lay off the cards and bootleg stuff, or I’ll show you.”

  Garry was deeply struck. His humiliation was piteous. He made no rash promises, but he seemed shocked into realization that irreparable loss confronted him. In that moment Keven knew he would never go back on Garry, no matter what he did; on the other hand, he believed a cold hard front might be efficacious.

  This incident, however, seemed to mark a change in their good fortunes. They had had their windfall, out of which Keven had squared his debt and saved a little, but Garry was broke. They fished on, day and night, with a steadily growing acquaintance with the goddess of ill fortune. Still the season was young; they would have time and opportunity to recoup.

  One day, on the main street uptown, Keven encountered Atwell, face to face. The erstwhile major looked opulent and important. He gave Keven a malignant look and spoke to his companion, who was no other than the foxfaced superintendent of the leading cannery. Keven intuitively felt disaster in this meeting. And when he passed on and came to a point where he could think about himself, he found he was a bundle of surging blood and rioting nerves. He hurried back to camp and to his work, irrespective of the fishing conditions. He did not like the glimpse he had had of his soul.