by Zane Grey
Nothing happened however, that day or the next. But after the third night, when he and Garry made the best haul for a good while, their fish were refused at the large factory, and they were compelled to sacrifice them at lesser price than was paid to any fishermen on the river. They saw Atwell’s hand in this. But instead of disheartening them, it had the effect of making Garry sullen and dangerous, and Keven determined and fiery.
Days passed. The salmon run was at its height. Yet poor luck dogged Garry and Keven. Added to this was a fact that did not at first dawn significantly upon them. Half a dozen crews, each working with two boats, were always in front of Garry and Keven, between them and the fish. They relayed their sets, jockeyed Garry out of position, blocked the incoming tide, as it were, and slowly but surely so hampered their fishing by night that only stubbornness kept them at it. Mulligan and his two cronies were the chief factors, in this campaign.
“We’re done, Garry,” Keven said quietly.
“Done nothin’. An’ if we are I’m gonna get even,” growled his partner.
“Well, from now on I’m going to spend more time snooping around.”
“What fer?”
“I want to find out why big steelhead don’t get up the river until after October first.”
“Hell!” Garry’s accustomed expletive had more than its usual connotation. He knew more than he told. Perhaps he really did not want Keven to know something; perhaps he thought there was no good in creating excitement and rancor over a condition which could not be proved. Right then and there Keven conceived the idea that these market fishermen kept crooked things to themselves, even if they were honest. Possibly, some years before, when the upriver men were numerous and prosperous, Garry Lord himself had broken the law.
Keven, once yielding to the urge to get to the bottom of this complex market-fishing situation, regained the thrill and interest with which he had formerly worked. Sometimes, on dark nights, while Garry sat in the flatboat, holding a net rope, Keven would paddle around in his skiff. It was admirable for this sort of thing, easy to row, noiseless, and difficult to discern. Seldom did fishermen leave their nets, which fact in no wise disconcerted Keven. He ran close, especially when he saw a net being hauled, and peered hard at the fishermen, particularly at the net and salmon. He made these movements of his appear unobtrusive and, in cases where he ran over a net, merely accidental. More than once he got roundly cursed. More than once he espied fishermen picking steelhead out of a net, to throw them back. At least they did so while he passed. But Keven wanted to look into these boats. After several encounters with Mulligan and his partners at work Keven was recognized.
“It’s thet——cub of Lord’s,” gruffly called out Mulligan, with a word of significance.
Whereupon Keven rowed close to the boat, peering with all his eyes.
“Got any whisky?” he asked. “My pardner is sick.”
“Haw! Haw!” came a derisive laugh.
But Mulligan stood up with a long boat look. “Git out of hyar, you sneak, er I’ll sink thet skiff.”
“Hullo,” replied Keven. “I didn’t know it was you, Mulligan. Excuse me.”
“About time you was knowin’ me. Keep out of my way.”
“Say, you’re all-fired touchy. Don’t want any upriver fellows around when you’re fishing, huh?” taunted Keven, rowing quickly away.
But Mulligan’s deep and heavy voice carried far. “I told you, Bill. They’re spyin on us. Thet young Bell ain’t no market fisherman. It’s high time they was run out.”
“Shet up, you loud-mouthed fool,” came the reply. “We don’t own this river…. An’ don’t play into …”
Keven heard no more, but that hardly seemed necessary. It was obvious there were reasons why Mulligan’s crew did not care to be watched. All market fishermen were cranky about disclosing their methods, or having their particular places encroached upon. But was this Mulligan’s displeasure? Keven rowed back to Garry and related his experience.
“You stay away from thet gang, or I’ll have to kill somebody,” declared Garry. “You won’t do no good, an’ you won’t find out nuthin’.”
Keven vowed he would find out something, if there were anything. He had ascertained that the hauls of some fishermen, those high in favor, were disposed of at night, right after they were made, or at latest in the very early morning. He and Garry had never approached any of the cannery docks until after breakfast, and then sometimes they had to wait. This was before they had become practically ostracized.
Whereupon Keven, sometimes late at night, left Garry to row back to camp while he went ashore, and made his stealthy way around the bay to the docks. Boatload after boatload of salmon did he espy, moored at the foot of the steps. All about them appeared regular and aboveboard. But on the third attempt, almost at dawn, he discovered another place where boats discharged their cargo. He heard the thud of fish falling upon the floor of the cannery. They were being pitched up from the boats. It was too light to risk wading out among the piles that furnished foundation for the building. But Keven listened. Some of the fish fell suddenly, indicating plainly considerable weight. On the other hand the great majority struck lightly. These were not heavy fish. Keven found himself calculating weights, according to the sound. And when he stole back into the woods, to retrace his steps toward camp, he believed he had found out something. Yet in the light of day he had to confess to himself that he had not actually seen anything which could incriminate market fishermen. He knew he was imaginative, given to exaggeration, governed by feeling instead of logic and fact. It was imperative that he substantiate his suspicions by tangible proofs.
CHAPTER NINE
KEVEN did not roll out until late next morning, and then he had to awaken Garry and pretend a cheerfulness he did not feel. Garry brooded these days.
Summer had come to the coast, and a rich thick amber light flooded down from the mountains. The gulls screamed, the cormorants fought, the fish hawks soared, and sometimes an eagle sailed across from the heights. Keven wondered how it was that he did not seem glad to be alive. Undoubtedly this strenuous labor of market fishing had broken him down for the first month, but he had now begun to pick up. It seemed possible that if the conditions here had been free from worry and disappointment he might improve in health.
“Where’d you go this mornin’ early?” asked Garry at breakfast.
“I was snooping around the canneries.”
“Humph. Didn’t I tell you to lay off thet stuff? You ain’t figgerin’ these breeds an’ riffraff. You’re gonna git your everlastin’.”
“Not if I see ’em first,” quoth Keven. “Garry, I’m sure on the track of something. And if I nail it—well, believe me, old man, I’ll sure be a hero up the river.”
“You will like hell,” returned Garry bitterly. “The only hero at the Pass is the potbellied guy with the dough. He gits the gallery, the cake, an’ the girl. An’ I reckon thet’s what makes me sick.”
“He can have her and welcome. I’ll bet she’ll be a mouthful.”
“Ahuh…. Kev, look who’s a-comin’.”
Keven glanced around to see two men get out of an automobile back on the road. One of them was the sheriff, Blackwood, who appeared to be talking forcibly to a thickset man wearing a wide hat. They approached the river camp.
“Thet’s Rollins with Blacky,” spoke up Garry, and cursed under his breath.
“Who’s Rollins?” queried Keven blankly. He sensed a dismaying, long-looked-for event.
“Rollins? He’s the Grant’s Pass constable, an’ a—— ——if I ever knowed one.”
“Well…. Must be looking for your fishing partner, Garry. Here’s where I do get it.”
No more was said while the two officers approached. Blackwood wore a serious aspect. The other, a broad-featured man, lined of face and calculating of eye, roused distinct resentment in Keven, merely by his step and look. But as they reached the camp Blackwood took the lead.
“Bell, sorry to s
ay I’ve got to put you under arrest,” he said.
“All—right,” replied Keven slowly, as he arose. “What’s the charge?”
“Assault with intent to kill,” announced Rollins, in a loud voice, producing handcuffs. “Stick ’em out.”
Blackwood waved them aside.
“See here, Rollins,” he said brusquely. “No irons needed on this boy.”
“Is that so? I’m not goin’ to risk bein’ hit over the head.”
“Mr. Blackwood, who’s having me arrested?” asked Keven quickly.
“Order from Grant’s Pass chief of police,” replied Blackwood, producing a warrant.
Rollins made a movement to slide a handcuff upon Keven, who gave him a violent shove.
“I’ll go. What do you want next? To make a show of me?” queried Keven passionately.
“Don’t get fresh with me, young fellow,” rejoined the other gruffly.
“Rollins, I’m puttin’ Bell under arrest.”
“Wal, all right. But I’m takin’ him home on the stage.”
“Are you? Not till you show papers. This order is for me to arrest Bell. I’m doin’ it. An’ I’ll hold him till I get authority to do otherwise.”
Here Garry slouched up to give his trousers a hitch. Battle gleamed in his eye.
“Say, Mister Rollins, who’s makin’ this charge?”
“None of your business, you loafin’ river rat.”
“He’s my pardner. We’re workin’ together. We’ve got some rights. Here we’ve gone to considerable expense. An’ if you take him away we’re ruined. I gotta right to know who’s behind this.”
Rollins ignored the query, but Blackwood answered: “Reckon you have, Lord. He told me Atwell had preferred the charge an’ to push it to the limit of the law.”
“Ahuh. Sure expected thet,” rejoined Garry, with dark and sinister glance at the constable. Then he sat down as if suddenly helpless. Keven felt sorrier for Garry than for himself. As Blackwood led Keven away toward the car Garry spoke up: “So long, pard. Don’t feel bad. This ain’t nuthin’.”
But for once Keven felt that Garry’s habitual negative was farfetched. He got into the front seat of the Ford, as directed by the sheriff, who evidently was the driver. The disgruntled officer from Grant’s Pass stepped heavily into the back seat. Not a word was exchanged on the way up to the jail. Blackwood led Keven inside, through the office, to lock him in a cell. The ring of that lock struck somberly upon Keven’s heart. Then, hearing the officers arguing, he attended to what they were saying.
“Blackwood, you can let me take Bell with me, if you want to.”
“Reckon I could. An’ I can keep him if I want to, so long as you have no papers. That warrant reads to me. Well, I’ve arrested Bell. An’ so far I’ve done my duty.”
“Curry County, heh?” railed the constable, in a temper. Heerd a lot about your wild pigs, lumberjacks, an’ your laws. Do I have to get special extradition papers from the governor to take this prisoner out of your jurisdiction?”
“I reckon it ain’t so serious. That law refers to the state line. But I’m curious, Rollins. I’ve a hunch this is a trumped-up charge. Bell knocked Atwell down for talkin’ against his good name. Assault with intent to kill! That’s bunk. An’ you know it. Brandeth and Atwell are pretty strong here, but they don’t run this office.”
“Man, you’ll not enjoy your office much longer,” retorted Rollins.
“Is that so? All the more reason to run it to suit myself.”
“What’s the county seat?”
“Gold Beach is the county seat, if that’s anythin’ to you.”
“Who’s the mayor or the chief of police?” fumed Rollins.
“I am.”
“Indeed. You hold a lot of offices, don’t you?” returned the other sarcastically.
“I’m holdin’ down one, without any help from grafters.”
“Then you refuse to give Bell up?”
“Sure, I refuse. I’ve arrested him because it’s customary for a sheriff to act upon an order from another office. But the charge is ridiculous an’——”
“How do you know it is?” interrupted Rollins.
“Because Bell told me what he’d done. An’ because I know Atwell.”
“So that’s the lay of the land. You’ve arrested Bell to keep me from arrestin’ him.”
“You couldn’t arrest him, just for hittin’ a man. Not in my county.”
“The charge is assault. With intent to kill.”
“Rats!” ejaculated Blackwood, at last exasperated. “Go back to Grant’s Pass an’ tell ’em that. When you send me a state warrant for Bell, I’ll give him up. Not before.”
Rollins stamped out of the office.
For a day and a night Keven felt so warmly grateful to this stubborn champion that he scarcely realized the shame of his position. But that came soon enough. Day after day, and week after week, while he waited, he grew more dejected. The sheriff was kind to him, brought him papers and magazines, and kept him isolated, and even out of sight of other prisoners that came and went.
Meanwhile Garry Lord did not put in an appearance, a fact that sat strangely upon Keven. It began to beset him with dread. Every day he looked for his partner to call and never failed to ask for him. Blackwood told Keven that Garry had been seen trolling on the bay, but he was not fishing with a net. It was tough, Keven thought, to handle a net alone.
“Bell, look at this newspaper,” said the sheriff one morning, after Keven had been in jail nearly three weeks. “There’s a hitch over this warrant matter. I reckon they framed you. Atwell can’t prove you did any more than knock him down.”
Keven took the newspaper, which bore a Grant’s Pass title and was a marked copy, evidently having arrived on yesterday’s stage. With the blood beginning to beat at his temples he read about his unwarranted attack upon Gustave Atwell, one of the town’s prominent citizens, about his arrest at Gold Beach, and of complications arising that threatened to involve two county governments not any too friendly and co-operative with each other. Then followed an extract from an interview with Atwell:
“The matter is not worth arguing, let alone annoying citizens of two towns who have much in common. Bell is a crippled, half-witted soldier who assaulted me because I made public the fact of his connection with the degredation of a family of five sisters, who lived near our training camp. He is certainly to be pitied. I recall the charge against him, except in case of his return to Grant’s Pass, where I wish to be protected from further danger.”
In slow-gathering weight of horror Keven ended the paragraph and then read it over. His hands shook the paper so quiveringly that he had utmost difficulty in concluding. “I’ll kill him for that,” he cried hoarsely, and with the bursting of that speech a terrible fury possessed him. He plunged face down on the cell pallet. This seemed to be the end of all things for him. Blackwood unlocked the cell and placed a strong hand on his shoulder.
“Bell, don’t take it so hard,” he said. “Pretty rotten, I’d say. But don’t sink under it…. I reckon on the strength of Atwell’s talk I can let you out. I’m goin’ to do it, anyhow. Go back to your fishin’, an’ when the season’s over stay away from Grant’s Pass.”
Keven slunk out of the jail, so crushed that he found no heart to voice his gratitude to this sturdy-minded sheriff. He went to the Sockeye and drank and drank, clouding his brain without mitigating his suffering. Before he fell victim to drunkenness, however, Garry discovered him and dragged him back to camp. There in the darkness of the tent he lay throbbing and spent until sleep intervened.
When Keven awoke a familiar state of consciousness was manifest. A weary, sickening, dull reluctance to see the light of day! But the sun was rising. Shadows of branches moved across the gold of the tent. He could not hold the day back. When he went outside Garry had keen and anxious eyes for him.
“You look kinda thin, an’ pale round the gills,” he said.
“Garry, languishing in j
ail is not the best thing for one’s health. How are you, old fellow? You don’t look so grand yourself.”
“Aw, I’ll be all right now,” replied Garry, with confident cheerfulness. “Set down an’ eat, Kev. There’s fresh eggs an’ ham.”
Keven gazed around, beyond the campfire to the shining river, where at the moment ducks were swimming and salmon rolling. He had only to look once to realize he was human. A great crowding, blessed relief waved over him. He was outside those drab, confining four walls. He could breathe and see. Never again would he be locked in a jail. Death was preferable.
“How have the fish been running, Garry?” he asked presently.
“Fine. Second big run, steady for days. No big hauls made. Jest consistent good fishin’. Bay’s full of steelhead. They’re pilin’ upriver to beat the band. Thet is—them thet git by.”
“Garry, the nets shouldn’t stop steelhead, unless a great wide-backed lunker happened to get stuck.”
“No, they shouldn’t,” said Garry, with noncommittal air.
“I’d give my shirt to go up the river fishing,” declared Keven.
“Better keep your shirt, Kev. You had only three. An’ I borrowed one.”
“You’re welcome.”
“How’d you git out of jail, Kev?”
“Blackwood let me go. Here—read this,” said Keven, handing his partner the piece of newspaper he had torn out.
“Blacky is a good feller.”
Garry scanned the printed page and burst into the profanity of a overman. He indulged himself to a breath-taking limit.
“Much obliged, Pard. That does me good. I haven’t been able to swear.”
Garry shook his uncombed head seriously.
“Kev, you can’t let thet stand,” he said. “If you do, folks will believe it. Not everybody, but ’most everybody. ——tough! Boys an’ girls you growed up with—to read that…. Kev, I reckon if another war’d bust out you’d not be in such a hurry.”
“I’d fight if our country was invaded. A man could not do less than defend his home—and the women. But otherwise I’d see them in hell first…. God, what a ghastly place that training camp was!”
