El Diablo Part 20

"Neither do I," Gregory admitted. "I sized him up as a mighty clever man. He has a hard outfit out there and he pretends he can't control them. That's the bunk. Did you notice how they took orders from him without even talking back?"

"Yes. And he had most of them armed. With orders to keep people off of the island. Why?" she asked suddenly. "I don't believe it's on account of the sheep."

Gregory shook his head emphatically.

"That was bunk too," he said. "They knew we were not trying to hunt. I suppose they did get pretty sore when we roughed it with them, but that didn't give them any license to pull their knives and try to carve us up. That crazy fool would have had me in another minute if it hadn't been for you."

d.i.c.kie sought to minimize her part in the affair.

"I didn't do much," she said. "I was just lucky. You did all of the hard work. I thought you were never coming up."

"You were dead game," Gregory cut in. "You saved me from that fellow's knife and you know it."

d.i.c.kie Lang made no reply but sat with her arms resting on the cabin-table, looking off into s.p.a.ce. Again she saw herself huddled against the rocks, looking down into the sunlit water of the cove, waiting for the men to come to the surface. What a fight Gregory must have had to have freed himself from that strangle-hold and save the life of the other man as well as his own. How skilfully he had worked over Howard. He seemed to know just what to do. She raised her head sharply.

Not given to living in the past, she wondered why her mind had gone wool-gathering. Perhaps it was because she was beginning to realize that this man was a man among men. And real men were scarce. He was speaking again.

"There's something wrong at Diablo. I'd give a lot to find out what it is."

"It would cost a lot," she answered soberly. "And what business is it of ours? Dad used to say that monkeying with other people's affairs was a luxury he never could afford."

"But if they interfere with fis.h.i.+ng, it is some of our business."

"Yes, but do they?"

"I don't know. That is, not yet," he was forced to admit.

"Neither do I. Until I do, I'm not looking for any more trouble than I can see ahead right now."

Silence for several moments. Then, from the girl:

"Besides, you couldn't find out anything. The fishermen are scared stiff of Diablo as it is. When this gets around, they'll be even worse.

They're not looking for more excitement. They have enough."

To Gregory's mind recurred his plan of manning the girl's boats. Here was an opportunity to justify it.

"The bunch I'm figuring on wouldn't be afraid of it," he said. "In fact I think they would kind of enjoy finding out."

d.i.c.kie smiled. "Aren't you speaking two words for yourself?" she asked.

He smiled too. "I'll admit I have some curiosity," he answered.

The girl laughed. "You've got into the habit of fighting," she retorted.

"But the war is over now."

"Maybe you're right. But at Legonia I've an idea it has just begun."

It was just what she would have had him say. What she would have said herself if she had spoken her mind. She liked a man who wasn't afraid.

They were the kind one could tie to. Gregory's proposal again a.s.sailed her. It had its advantages. She would think it over while she was at the wheel.

"Boat off starboard quarter," a gruff voice announced from the doorway.

d.i.c.kie Lang sprang to her feet and hurried on deck with Gregory following close behind. From the gray gloom came the sharp exhaust of a high-powered motor, running at top speed. As they looked in the direction of the sound, which was fast changing to an angry roar, the s.h.i.+fting wall of filmy fog was pierced by a flash of green.

"Mascola!"

Gregory was barely able to catch the girl's words above the uproar of the gatlin-like exhaust. The next instant the green light flashed by and was swallowed up in the gloom.

"I wonder what he's doing out here running like that?" d.i.c.kie mused.

"How do you know who it was?"

She laughed. "There's only one boat anywhere around here with an exhaust like that," she answered. "That's the _Fuor d'Italia_. She's the fastest craft in southern waters of her kind. And no one ever runs her but Mascola."

Gregory continued to listen to the rapid-fire exhaust as it died away in the distance. Then he pictured himself driving the trim craft, plunging through the waves and hurling the spray into his face as he raced on.

Recalled to himself by the slow-moving _Pelican_ burdened by her tow, he reflected that speed sometimes was everything. If he was going to oppose Mascola he would have to get there first. d.i.c.kie was speaking again.

"Joe Barrows built her up at Port Angeles. Mascola hasn't had her very long and he won't have her much longer if he pounds her like that. I wonder what he's going out to Diablo for in such a hurry."

Gregory could not answer. But he made up his mind if he was ever going to find out, he would have to have a faster boat than the _Fuor d'Italia_. Perhaps Joe Barrows could help him out.

Through the long night the _Pelican_ crept into the thickening fog with the disabled _Curlew_. Daybreak found them at the entrance to Crescent Bay. When they reached the Lang docks the masts of the fis.h.i.+ng-fleet could be dimly discerned through the s.h.i.+fting mist like a forest of bare-trunked trees.

d.i.c.kie frowned.

"The boys are late getting out," she observed. "I wonder what's the matter."

As they drew alongside the wharf it was evident that something unusual was in the air. The pier was thronged with fishermen, gathered together in little groups, leaning idly against the empty fish-boxes. At the landing party's approach the low hum of conversation died away into a faint murmur. A solitary figure, standing apart from the others, hurried forward to meet the girl as she walked up the gangway.

"h.e.l.lo, Jack. What's the trouble?"

McCoy nodded in the direction of the silent fishermen. "Trouble enough,"

he whispered. "I'm mighty glad you've come, d.i.c.k. There's a strike on.

Carlin's got them all riled up and there's h.e.l.l to pay."

CHAPTER XIII

THE STRIKE

A strike at this of all times! And Pete Carlin at the bottom of it! With her nerves frayed raw by two nights of sleepless vigil and the memory of the _Curlew's_ disabled motor rankling within her, d.i.c.kie Lang brushed by a group of men and confronted a bullet-headed man in a loose gray sweater.

"Carlin," she said clearly in a voice which all could hear, "you're fired. You're a crook. If you'd work the clock around I wouldn't have you on the job."

Turning to the fishermen she rapidly related the incident of the finding of the emery-dust in the _Curlew's_ motor.

"It's a lie," Carlin interrupted, "I don't----"