El Diablo Part 45

The questions multiplied with the smoke-wreaths and in the blue haze which enveloped him, Kenneth Gregory beheld his vague and intangible suspicions gradually crystallizing into three fundamental hypotheses: Something crooked was being pulled off at Diablo. Rock and Bandrist were back of it. The isolation of the island was threatened by the increasing activities of the American fleet in that vicinity. Mascola's opportunity was only a means to an end.

Gregory's frown deepened. What Rock and Bandrist were doing at Diablo concerned him in itself, not at all. In so far as it related to Mascola's interference, however, it was all-important. Mascola was the one man who stood between him and his cherished dreams. If Rock and Bandrist were behind Mascola, as he imagined, would it not be pursuing a "cart before horse" policy to continue his expensive militant opposition to the Italian? Why not fathom the motive which lay behind Mascola's action? If Diablo held a secret, the guarding of which threatened his business existence, why should he not as an American citizen take the initiative and----

His meditations were disturbed by a soft tap on the office door. d.i.c.kie Lang entered.

"I knew I'd find you here," she said. "Smoking yourself to death and worrying gray. I've come to take you outside for a while. You'll be sick if you go on like this. Forget for a while and come with me. The boys are having a mussel-bake on the beach and they've sent for you. If you have ever eaten kelp-baked mussels you'll not wait to be urged. The grunion should run to-night too, and I want you to see them."

Gregory drew his fingers through his tousled hair and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But I can't go. I'm waiting for a radio from Diablo."

"Bos.h.!.+" the girl interrupted. "It won't take one of the boys five minutes to bring you the message if it comes while you're gone." She came closer and placed a hand on his arm. "Please come," she said.

"Just to please me."

Gregory had no alternative. Leaving word with one of the night men to send him any radio despatch at once, he followed d.i.c.kie to the beach, where the service men sat cross-legged about a blazing fire of drift-wood. Gregory sank to the sand beside the dark mound of dampened kelp and watched the operations of the chef as he busied himself in removing the heavy pieces of canvas which covered the sea-gra.s.s.

"It's nature's fireless-cooker," explained the girl as she took her place beside him. "You can cook most anything in an oven like that if you know how. It's simple enough too. All you have to do is to scoop out a hole in the sand and line it with rocks to hold in the heat. Then build your fire and let it burn for a couple of hours to get a good bed of coals. Cover them with a thin layer of damp kelp and put in the potatoes. Another layer of sea-weed, then the roasting-ears. After that come the fish, wrapped in paper. Then the mussels, clams or anything else you want. When you get them all in, cover the whole thing with a lot of heavy kelp and batten it down with a big piece of canvas. The whole trick is knowing just when to open the oven. Nothing can burn so it's better to leave it too long than to try to hurry things."

Gregory took the tin-plate, piled high with its smoking delicacies, and leisurely freed a succulent mussel from its sh.e.l.l. As he placed it in his mouth his eyes lit up with genuine pleasure and the anxious lines slowly disappeared from his face.

"What do you think of them?"

He could only gasp his appreciation. d.i.c.kie smiled at the rapidly disappearing contents of his plate. He looked like a new man already.

Nothing like a mussel-bake in the open air to make people forget their troubles.

About the dying drift-wood fire, the service men drew closer together and began to sing.

"There's a long, long trail a-winding Into the land of my dreams."

As their voices rose above the dull boom of the surf, Gregory's thoughts turned to the words of the song. The trail had been long. How long and how devious, he had never quite before realized. Perhaps it was because he was tired and the firelight made him think. The "land of his dreams"

was still far ahead. Blocked from his vision for the time being by an intangible something which lay like a dark shadow across the path.

"_Over there. Over there._"

He started and looked involuntarily toward the phosph.o.r.escent line of breakers. Over there? Once it had meant France. Now it came to him with a new meaning. Beyond the gleaming waves he fancied he could see the jagged sh.o.r.e-line of El Diablo.

"And we won't come back, Till it's over, over there."

Gregory's eyes narrowed. When "it was over, over there," perhaps it would be over everywhere. Then, and only then, would he reach "the land of his dreams." He looked guiltily at d.i.c.kie Lang and was glad that she could not read his thoughts concerning the end of the long trail.

"What were you thinking of, just then? I never saw you look like that before."

It was the eternal feminine speaking.

Gregory shook his head. "I never did look like that before," he said.

"Because I never thought quite that far. Some day perhaps I'll tell you what I was thinking."

The moon, which had shyly appeared over the low brown hills, grew bolder and mingled its rays with those of the fire in crowding back the shadows. Then a shout came from the water.

"Grunion."

The singing ceased abruptly and the service men scrambled to their feet and raced down the beach.

d.i.c.kie made haste to follow.

"Come on," she cried to Gregory. "And I'll show you the sight of your life."

Following the girl to the wet sands, Gregory was amazed at the spectacle. The silver waves were alive with glistening fish. Borne high on the crest of the tumbling breakers, they surged to the beach by thousands and lay quivering like quick-silver, stranded in the sand by the back-wash. With a deafening shout men scrambled to the water's edge and scooped them up in their hands. d.i.c.kie rushed to the water and returned with a small fish, somewhat resembling a sardine.

"Grunion," she announced. "They come up at certain seasons of the year to sp.a.w.n. There are only three places on the coast south of the Golden Gate where they run. For three or four nights now while the tide is high and the moon full they'll be swept up on this beach and left to lay their eggs in the wet sand. If you get closer you can see them standing on their tails. You'll never believe it unless you do see it. You've got to work fast to get them for they hop along the beach only for a second.

Then the next breaker takes them out."

Handing him one of the little fish, she continued: "Take him up to the fire and look at him. Against a good light you can see clear though them. If you had a skillet hot on the coals and threw in a handful of grunion you could never have a finer dish. But they won't hardly keep over night. For that reason they are good for nothing, commercially."

She paused abruptly and listened. "I thought I heard some one calling,"

she said.

Turning about they saw three men standing by the fire.

"Maybe it's some word from the boys," Gregory exclaimed. "Let's go and see."

At the fireside they came upon Hawkins with two strangers, whom he introduced as brothers of his craft. Drawing Gregory aside while d.i.c.kie conversed with Slade and Billings, he said:

"Listen, Cap. I want a boat and a man to run it who knows Diablo from the water-line up. I'm on the trail of the biggest kind of a scoop. I can't give you all the dope but I can tell you a few things that will open your eyes."

The two men drew farther into the shadows and conferred in low-pitched voices, broken now and then by Gregory's muttered exclamations. While they talked one of the night men from the cannery hurried on to the scene.

"Message for Mr. Gregory," he called.

Gregory took the message and drew nearer the coals. In the red glow of the fire, he read:

From: Launch _Snipe_

At Sea. Five miles off h.e.l.l-Hole.

Got into fight with Mascola about an hour ago. His boats drove ours from island. His men drunk and armed with shotguns. Some of boys pretty well filled up. _Curlew_ lagged with engine trouble and was cut in two off h.e.l.l-Hole Isthmus. Sunk in five minutes by some big boat, running dark. _Albatross_ picked up crew. All saved. Wire what to do. Twelve boats here. Others at Cavalan for repairs.

Jones.

d.i.c.kie's eyes shone angrily at the message. "d.a.m.n them!" she cried.

"They got my _Curlew_." Grasping Gregory's arm, she exclaimed: "There's a bunch of the fleet off San Anselmo on the mainland side. There's some more a few miles down the coast from Cavalan. They can all make Diablo in two hours if you wire them right away. We can go over in the _Richard_ and round them up and smash Mascola's whole fleet. What if they have shotguns? We have rifles. Come on. What are you waiting for?"

d.i.c.kie Lang was breathless. Her cheeks glowed. Her eyes were s.h.i.+ning.

Gregory shook his head slowly and looked at Hawkins.

"The _Gray Ghost_ ran the _Curlew_ down about an hour ago off the h.e.l.l-Hole Isthmus," he said.

The two strangers drew closer and listened intently to the news while d.i.c.kie chafed at Gregory's failure to get under way.