El Diablo Part 27

"He's workin' for the Lang girl now," put in another.

Boris snarled and, flinging his tormentors away from him, made his way to the bar, jabbering excitedly in Russian to Pete Ankovitch.

Blagg moved nearer.

"What's he sayin', Pete?" he asked.

Ankovitch laughed.

"He say everybody go to h.e.l.l," he interpreted. "He say he show Mascola he ain't 'fraid of no woman."

Blagg strove to focus his mind on the Russian's words. Boris was sore as a boiled oil, crazy as a coot. And he had it in for the Lang girl for causing him to get the can. The Russian's reference to Mascola caused the furrows in Blagg's brow to deepen. Both of them were sore at the girl. Were they framing up? If they were he'd block the boss's game.

He'd wise her. She'd always shot straight enough with him anyway, and he was a fool to have ever quit her. If Mascola was baiting the Russian to pull off some dirty work he'd----

Blagg paused in his tentative plans for outwitting Mascola as his eye fell on Neilson. There was the man he wanted to see. Swan could swing the Swedes into quitting the dago. All thought of Boris vanished from Blagg's mind as he drew Neilson aside and conferred confidentially with the big Swede in a drunken whisper. When he looked about for the Russian some time later, Boris was gone.

Blagg drained the contents of his last gla.s.s with a wry face, and walked unsteadily to the door. Colliding with a man on the sidewalk, he regained his poise by leaning heavily against a sandwich sign-board.

"h.e.l.lo, Blagg. Seen any of my men inside?"

Blagg shoved back his cap and eyed the speaker with drunken suspicion.

When he recognized the cannery owner, a furtive light crept into his eyes and he beckoned Gregory closer. Gregory noted the mysterious mien and promptly credited it to the man's state of intoxication. He was on the point of hurrying on when Blagg's words stayed him.

"Tell Lang girl t' look out for 'self."

"What do you mean?"

Gregory grasped him by the arm and whirled him about.

"Was in s'loon," Blagg muttered, striving to focus his bleary eyes upon his auditor. "d.a.m.n Russian there, too. Boys's kiddin' him an' Boris tol'

'em he was't 'fraid no woman. Said he'd show 'em."

"Does he live over there?" Gregory asked quickly, pointing toward the Lang hill.

Blagg shook his head and nodded in the opposite direction.

"Down there," he corrected. "Think he----"

But Gregory did not wait to hear what Blagg thought.

Blagg looked after him stupidly. He had had no time to speak of his hatred or suspicion of Mascola. But he'd show the dago yet.

A crowd of fishermen lumbered along the sidewalk toward him, talking excitedly. Leaning against the sign-board, Blagg was able to gather from their conversation that a fight had just occurred at the Red Paint. Some one had tried to get square with the boss and Mascola had knifed him.

Cold sweat broke out on Joe Blagg's forehead. To his whirling brain came other instances he had heard of how Mascola always got square with those who opposed him. Blagg's whiskyfied courage began to ooze. Perhaps he had gone too far. Suppose Neilson, with a desire to get in strong with the boss, should tell Mascola that he, Joe Blagg, was trying to start a strike among the alien fishermen? And a Swede liked to talk too. Why not get out of town for a while till the thing blew over? He wasn't afraid of the dago and his whole crowd. But what was the use of starting a row?

Besides he was ready to move anyway. He reflected suddenly that the midnight train for Frisco stopped at Legonia on signal. That would give him time to throw his stuff together. He had already drawn his money.

Why not hit the grit?

As Jack McCoy took his way down the hillside he was acutely conscious of the fact that the evening had been a distinct disappointment. Why was Gregory there anyway? That talk about his forgetting his papers sounded mighty thin. How many times had the boss been there before? What was the matter with d.i.c.k to-night? She acted kind of funny, didn't seem to care whether he stayed any longer or not.

McCoy stopped by the roadside as he caught sight of a man running hastily along one of the streets leading from the town. Whoever the fellow was he was sure in a hurry the way he was cutting 'cross lots. As the runner came under the rays of the corner arc-light, McCoy started and peered intently after the departing figure.

It sure looked like Gregory. And he was angling in the direction of the Lang hill. The idea clung tenaciously. When he reached his rooming-house it became an obsession. He decided to find out if the runner could have been his employer. Calling up the cannery it was some time before a sleepy voice answered his summons.

"Boss ain't here. Went out at eight and ain't been back since. Want to leave message?"

McCoy snapped up the receiver and walked slowly into his room. So it was Gregory. Where had he been going at this time of night? And on the run, too. The forgetting of the paper was only a frame-up. d.i.c.k had acted funny. Now he knew it was because she wanted to get rid of him.

He sat on the bed, making no effort to remove his clothes. You're a poor fish, something whispered. Why don't you go and find out if they're double-crossing you? McCoy tried not to listen. For a long time he stared moodily at the floor. Then he rose and threw off his coat.

Hastily replaced it and hurried to the door. He was ashamed of his suspicions. But he simply had to find out.

There was a light still burning in the Lang cottage when Gregory turned into the walk. Perhaps he was foolish to have returned. Still it would do no harm to warn the girl.

As he went up the steps he saw Miss Lang walking up and down the little hall. Tapping loudly, he summoned her to the door.

"Could I speak to Miss d.i.c.kie a moment?" he shouted. "It is something important."

Aunt Mary came out on the porch.

"If you wait a moment," she said, "my niece will be back. She left some time ago to take some medicine over to one of our neighbor's sick babies."

Gregory's fears multiplied.

"Where did she go?"

"To the Swanson place just over the hill. It's the first place you'll come to before you reach the Russian Valley."

"I'll go meet her."

He turned quickly and hurried down the path.

Reaching the brow of the hill, he saw the lights of the Swanson cottage and slowed down to a walk. His fears for the girl's safety were apparently groundless. The valley lay before him, steeped in moonlight.

No sound disturbed the stillness save the far-off cry of the screaming gulls and the monotonous murmur of the distant sea. Walking slowly down the road, grown high on both sides with sage and cactus, he caught a glimpse of a bulky figure in the path ahead.

Looking again to the cottage only a few hundred yards down the road, Gregory saw the light flash out from an open door. For a moment it shone brightly, then disappeared.

As the man in the roadway heard the sound of footsteps behind him, he stepped quickly to the brush and faced about. Keeping well in the center of the path, Gregory went steadily on with his eyes fixed upon the clump of sage which sheltered the disappearing figure. It was Boris, without a doubt. No other man about Legonia possessed the giant proportions of the big Russian.

Boris glared sullenly from the brush as he saw the advancing figure hesitate and turn toward him. Then he recognized the young cannery owner. What chance would he have to show Mascola now? The intruder threatened the defeat of his cherished plans. The girl he sought was coming up the hill. A few minutes more and----

"What do you want, Boris?"

The Russian's answer to Gregory's question came in a guttural snarl as he staggered from the sage and flung himself upon the speaker.