by Zane Grey
“Can’t you see when a feller’s on a fish?” went on Garry, loudly, as Keven made as if he had just that instant hauled the Chinook aboard.
“Hey yourself,” replied the fisherman gruffly. “Hev you been foolin’ round my——” He plainly was going to say net, but he checked himself and added, “hyar?”
“Naw, we haven’t been foolin’ round nuthin’,” replied Garry, just as gruffly. “We was landin’ this Chinook an’ thought you’d run us down.”
Keven dropped the fish with a great flop, and then flopped down himself. No easy task had it been to hold up that weight. He gazed from the magnificent salmon to the grim Garry.
“Lucky catch, pard?”
“Ump-umm! Damn unlucky.”
“But why?” gasped Keven.
“Lemme think, you dinged amatoor fishin’ detective.”
Keven let him alone then and tried to compose his whirling thoughts to some clarifying order. Dusk had settled down over the river when they arrived at their mooring. Flares of lightning showed the bold peaks of the Cascades. Storm threatened. The river slid by, gleaming and melancholy. Leaping ashore, Keven hurried to camp and started a fire, while Garry attended to the catch. Sometimes he made a deal with Stemm to dispose of it. Soon he came slopping up the path, to sit down before the tent and kick off his rubber boots.
“Seventy-one pounds,” he announced.
“You weighed him? Say, didn’t I tell you? What wouldn’t I have given to catch that Chinook on a rod! Seventy-one pounds!”
“Never could have licked him. Stemm’s scales weigh under, too, you can gamble on thet…. Kev, I’m in the need of a stiff swag of likker. But as I can’t have it, a cup of strong coffee might settle my nerves.”
Between them they got supper with little or no unnecessary conversation. Keven waited patiently for his partner to speak, but that did not happen until the meal was finished, the chores done, and Garry was smoking by the campfire.
“One way or another we got it on them!” suddenly Garry burst out.
“Ahuh!” agreed Keven. That was exactly what his conclusion had been.
“Pard, I swear I’ve long suspected that very thing, but honest—I never seen a net like thet before,” declared Garry. “Might only be one. Might belong to a half-breed who was ketchin’ steelhead to smoke fer winter use. Might not have any connection with the canneries. Might be a lot of things.”
“Ahuh,” continued Keven.
“An’ then again it might not!”
“But Garry—what do you think?”
“Think? A hell of a lot. An’ now I know why big steelhead seldom or never show up the river till after October first. I mean the fourteen- an’ sixteen-pounders we used to ketch…. I think mebbe there’s many such nets. I think Mulligan an’ his crew are back of thet. Mebbe the whole damned ring. I think they sell every little fish they ketch—an’ not to the natives up in the hills to smoke fer winter. Ho! Ho! Not hardly…. I think it’s crookeder than hell. I think it’s rottener than hell.”
“My, what a stink it will make! What a row up the river! Garry, I’m tickled pink,” raved Keven.
“Kev, we can’t lay thet onto the canneries. It could never be proved. They’d make the fishermen the goats. But thet’s nuthin’.”
“We don’t need to implicate the canneries,” declared Keven intensely. “All we need is to show evidence why the salmon and steelhead run fewer up the river.”
“By Gord, Kev, you’re right. If we can steal thet net full of small jacks an’ silversides an’ steelhead, we’ll raise such hell thet it’ll ring all over Oregon. Blackwood is honest. He couldn’t be bought. If we steal thet net with fish in it, by gosh, he’ll make it hot for these fishermen. He’d stand by us. He’d blow thet news far an’ wide. Then the big holler would come.”
“Whew!” whistled Keven, loosening his collar. “What’ll we do?”
“Watch thet net day an’ night,” returned Garry, his eyes narrowing to slits. “An’ the first time the coast is clear we’ll steal it. A net with a small mesh like thet will have fish in it—even an hour after it has been picked over. When our chance comes we’ll cut the anchors loose, keepin’ the buoy, an’ we’ll pile the net into the skiff an’ beat it fer shore. All we gotta do is to keep from bein’ ketched in the act…. Kev, we’re broke an’ pore as church mice, but we’re settin’ pretty this minnit.”
It turned out during the next few days that that particular fishing locality in which Keven and Garry were especially interested was never without fishermen on it. At dawn boats were everywhere; during the day no safe opportunity presented; from sunset to dark appeared to be the time in which they were going to get their chance.
They fished early and late and, contrary to their expectations, caught as many salmon as the trolling Indians. This was killing two birds with one stone, and they were jubilant. But one morning Garry returned from the canneries to inform Keven that they no longer had any market for their fish, unless they would sell to Priddy for ten cents a fish.
“Think of thet. A dime fer a big salmon,” declared Garry wrath fully. “A measly ten cents fer an hour’s hard work! … Kev, it’s plain as print. The little cannery is broke. They’ll take our fish if we’ll trust ’em to pay. I heerd Atwell has now got interest in the Smith factory. An’ of course Priddy’s offer is jest an insult. What’ll we do, pard?”
“What do you think?”
“Let’s shoot the whole works. Let’s burn them two big canneries to the water. Then Smith will come into his.”
“No. We can’t do that, Garry,” replied Keven gravely. “Take our fish to Smith. It’s no matter whether he pays us or not. But we don’t want these fishermen to see us out there, trolling day in and day out, with absolutely no market for our fish. That’d give us away.”
Garry agreed, and now in settled conviction of the wrong done them, and in growing wrath, they returned to their profitless work. Garry drank steadily. He always had a bottle, from what source Keven did not know. And Keven drank, too, more than usual, and more than was good for him. Garry had long been without money, and Keven’s was fast disappearing. Their supplies were low and they had no credit because the store belonged to the interests that were hounding them off the river.
“We can’t hold out much longer. We gotta swipe thet net quick,” Garry kept saying.
All this strain had worn severely upon Keven. He grew no longer capable of the keen, patient watching for opportunity. And once more that dark, bitter mood fastened upon him, until at last he was desperate.
One August afternoon storm clouds appeared over the mountains. The sultry atmosphere heralded rain, but it was slow in coming. Sunset had a red, smoky, sinister aspect.
“Kev, we’re gonna git our chance,” averred Garry, as they shoved off. “The tide’s runnin’ hell-bent fer election. An’ there’ll be a storm bustin’ soon.”
“High time we had one. Rain has been as scarce here as loose change with us,” replied Keven.
“Row straight across,” directed Garry, as he took up the coiled trolling line. “Kev, I don’t see a damn boat. But the light’s queer. Did you ever see the like of thet? … An’ listen. There’s thunder thet ain’t from the surf.”
A gold-red glow suffused the western sky and was reflected in the quiet waters of the bay. Northward, up the river, the sky was black as ink, illumined now and then by flares of lightning.
“There’s one boat, with two fellers,” said Garry, pointing. “Rowin’ in…. Kev, pull easy, like we was trollin’. I tell you, our chance has come. There’s been pore fishin’ lately, the tide’s runnin’ out, an’ a storm’s a-comin’. There won’t be no fishermen out there a-tall.”
“We’ll grab that net tonight even if there are fishermen on the bay,” rasped Keven.
He had reached the end of his rope, the limit of endurance. Yet never had he been so passionately determined to secure evidence against these crooked fishermen.
“Pard, drink to our success,�
� said Garry, offering a bottle. “Only a little left. Save one fer me.”
Like fiery flame the liquor seemed to course through Keven. Then he watched Garry tilt and drain the bottle. His form showed black against the golden gleam of the bay. “Aggh!” he ejaculated huskily and flipped the bottle into the water. It sank, sending up bubbles.
A darkening of the afterglow, sudden and striking, changed the beautiful effect of sky and water. The lights were dying. An ominous calm, a menacing silence, lay like a blanket over the country. It was broken by low muttering thunder from the mountains and the answering roar of the sea. Then again the muffling silence. Keven’s oars dipped noiselessly, as if in oil. Garry had the posture of a hawk, peering over the shimmering bay. Soon the shore line, except on the western side, vanished in the gathering gloom. Wavering and dark the sand dunes began to loom against that fast-fading dusky gold in the west.
“Pretty black under them dunes,” whispered Garry. “A boat could be hid along there. But we ain’t got time to look…. Coast is clear…. Turn now, Kev, an’ pull…. There. We’re in line with our landmark.”
Keven sent the skiff gliding swiftly. He faced to east and north, while Garry faced the west. An unearthly glow came from the last fire in the heavens. Weirdly it lighted the surface of the bay, magnifying the floating bits of driftwood and the widening circles made by fish. Driftwood was a sure sign of a rise in the river. A faint soft breeze struck Keven’s heated face. It bore the burden of the sultry, oppressed air, and a deeper rumble of thunder. Jagged forks of lightning shot down from that black pall to the north.
“Slow. I see the buoy,” whispered Garry. “Left—a little. Now stop…. Slip the oars behind you, so you can grab them quick…. Quiet, Kev! Sound carries far a night like this.”
Keven had thumped the gunwale with an oar. The skiff glided smoothly. Garry reached far out. Then Keven saw him catch the buoy.
“Cut her free, Kev, while I haul,” went on Garry, standing up.
Grasping the big fish knife, Keven leaned forward behind Garry and slashed the anchor rope. It twanged. It let go. Garry lifted the buoy into the skiff and began to drag the net likewise.
“Let ’er swing, Kev…. Gee! What you make of thet?”
The net held many wiggling steelhead, just gilled, and salmon under size. Garry hauled powerfully, dropping the wet folds into the skiff. Keven laid the knife down to help. While they slowly drifted with the tide, downstream and inshore, they gathered in net and fish, to pile them at their feet. Soon they were standing on the thick folds and squirming, gasping fish.
“Here’s the end. Kev. Cut the rope…. By Gord, the job’s done.”
Keven straightened up, knife in hand, his back to the shadow cast by the sand dunes. His heart beat high. Exultantly he gazed out across the pale bay toward the canneries. On the instant a flare spread across the sky, lighting the hills, the trees. It appeared to augment the unreal, opaque gleaming surface of the bay. He was about to second Garry’s husky whisper of triumph when a slight noise froze him. The skiff was drifting. Garry had just lifted the trailing anchor rope aboard. Had he been accountable for that sound? A gurgling, sucking dip? It had been made by an oar. Warily Keven sought to turn.
“Look out, Kev!” shouted Garry, with piercing suddenness.
He leaped to shove Keven back. His upflung arms went protectingly above Keven’s head.
“Ketched you net thieves!” rasped out a voice, thick with fury.
“Aye, Mulligan—you blackhearted half-breed!” returned Garry fiercely.
A boat thumped hard against the skiff. Then came a swish. Keven saw a dark descending object, over him. A terrible sodden thud! Garry fell over the seat into the bow.
“Take thet, you upriver——!”
Mulligan’s boat bumped against the skiff, bringing the burly fisherman somewhat forward of Keven, yet within reach. Mulligan lifted the long oar over the prostrate Garry. Like a tiger Keven leaped. With all his might he swung the fish knife. He drove it into Mulligan’s burly neck. Hot blood squirted over his hand before he could let go. A horrible hoarse, strangled cry rent the air. Mulligan plunged overboard, his oar striking the boat and sliding off.
Keven had lost his equilibrium. The skiff had been overbalanced. Water was pouring in over the net. Then he plunged, face forward, into the bay. The icy shock, succeeding the awful rush of fire through his veins, aided rather than hindered his desperate lunging up, to where he could breathe again and see.
The skiff had righted, but the gunwale was only a few inches above water. He dared not attempt to clamber aboard. It had been caught by the current. Keven grasped the bow and held on.
Then as he peered back a lightning flash showed the other boat, black on the white water, drifting down. There was no sign of Mulligan. He had sunk. A fiendish primitive glee danced in the cold marrow of Keven’s bones.
Keven saw one of Garry’s arms hanging limp over the gunwale. Holding fast, keeping the skiff trim, Keven peered about. They had drifted from the bay into the mouth of the river. Like a millrace the outgoing tide carried the skiff toward the outlet. Nearer sounded the crash of the breakers. Keven began to kick, and to paddle with his free arm. Gradually the skiff swung toward the sandpit. He could discern the pale gray point, lashed by that sliding tide.
Suddenly his feet touched bottom. He waded, desperately clinging to the bow. The skiff swung broadside. Then the tremendous current tore it from his grasp. He lunged, meaning to catch it again, and go with Garry. But too late! The current beat him. The boat gleamed against the dim white waves—swept on—disappeared. And the tide dragged at him. Frantically he plunged and clawed his way out on the sandspit, where he fell.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
OVERCOME by horror and exertion, Keven lay on the sand, his face upturned to the oncoming storm. At length he sat up, panting, wet, trembling. The river swept by, out into the darkness whence pounded and threshed the surf.
“Oh, my—God!” he cried, in dreadful realization. “He saved—me! … He’s gone! … Garry! Garry!”
Even if Garry were alive when the skiff drifted out he would soon be drowned in those wild waters. Mulligan had sunk. He would drift out to sea. But the sea gave up its dead. It would cast the half-breed up with that knife stuck in his neck. Keven would be branded a murderer.
The instinct to escape arose in him. Staggering up, he gazed fearfully at the pale sand beach, across the gloomy bay toward the town. Thunder was crashing nearer. The storm would soon break. When the lightning flashed he saw boats with the dark figures of men. Fishermen at their nets! They might find Mulligan’s drifting empty boat. He slunk over on the seaside of the beach until he drew under cover of the wooded hill, when he swung around to the bay shore again. As he hurried on he gathered strength. No person saw him reach camp.
It was in his mind to go up the river. He packed a small bag of biscuits, cooked meat, dried fruit. He donned his rubber coat, which had the wool lining. Then he removed it and also his wet shirt. Finding his remaining one, he put that on, and the coat over it. But he would not leave the wet shirt behind. It might somehow be a clue. What else would he take? As he stripped off a blanket from the bed, Garry’s gun fell out from under the pillow. Keven heard it, then felt it. The cold steel sent a shiver through him, followed by a swift gust of hot blood. He would make his way up the river trail to Grant’s Pass and kill Atwell before he was caught. That was what he would do. All the passion and hate, the bitter consciousness of foul wrong done him, welled up to fix in grim, unalterable decision. Rolling the blanket lengthwise, he slung it over his shoulder. The shirt he stuffed in the bag. Then he thought of his watch, comb and brush, his little mirror, and other small articles, which he stowed in his pockets. He was ready. But he turned back once more for his tackle.
He peered through the gloom. A dim light shone in Stemm’s cabin. Keven strode off silently, his nerves taut, his eyes roving everywhere, his throat contracted. He got by the few remaining fishermen’s shacks.
>
It would be necessary to cross the river. On the opposite side a road led up some miles, he did not know how many, to the government trail. He could cross in one of the Indians’ boats, but he rejected that idea because it might direct attention to his flight. The river was rising; however, it had been low, and a few inches or even a foot would not prevent him from crossing at a wide rocky island bar some distance upstream.
Flashes of lightning aided him to make his way along the shore. Drops of rain splashed on his face. How slow the storm in coming! But if it were as heavy as the roll of thunder portended, if it raised the river overnight-—that might be well for him. He found the rocky bar and made out the island. The river was rising and salmon were running. As he waded across the wide shallow channel he heard the big Chinook thumping and ranting upstream. Not now did they have power to thrill him! The Rogue had ruined him, betrayed him.
He crossed without difficulty, but had trouble over the boulders and through the brush. He pressed on to come out into the road. Then the thunder crashed and the clouds burst. Heavy, warm rain flooded down. He welcomed it. His tracks would be washed out.
Exhaustion had left him. He felt strong, enduring, swift. He could have run. The blanket and bag hung easily on his shoulders. He carried the rod in his hand. The reel had been stowed in one of his pockets. Funny he would not leave them behind! He strode on, free, through the downpour, with the lightning flashes blinding him, the rolling, booming thunder deafening him. This was no passing shower, but a mountain cloudburst. The Rogue would rise as if by magic. Midnight would see it in flood. By dawn there would be no fishermen on the bay. Keven had no hope of ultimate escape. All he asked were days enough to make the long tramp up the river and to consummate his revenge. Then let what would happen! But freedom tasted sweet. He would die before surrendering, to be thrown behind bars, to languish and wait for worse than death. He might even escape after killing Atwell, to flee into the fastnesses of the Rogue wilderness, where he could never be apprehended and captured. Bloodhounds could not trail him through the fir forests and the canyons along the river.
