The Silver Horde Part 46

A HAND IN THE DARK

While they were talking a tug-boat towing a pile-driver came into view.

Boyd asked the meaning of its presence in this part of the river.

"I don't know," answered Big George, staring intently. "Yonder looks like another one behind it, with a raft of piles."

"I thought all the Company traps were up-stream."

"So they are. I can't tell what they're up to."

A half-hour later, when the new flotilla had come to anchor a short distance below, Emerson's companion began to swear.

"I might have known it."

"What?"

"Marsh aims to 'cork' us."

"What is that?"

"He's going to build a trap on each side of this one and cut off our fish."

"Good Lord! Can he do that?"

"Sure. Why not? The law gives us six hundred yards both ways. As long as he stays outside of that limit he can do anything he wants to."

"Then of what use is our trap? The salmon follow definite courses close to the sh.o.r.e, and if he intercepts them before they reach us--why, then we'll get only what he lets through."

"That's his plan," said Big George, sourly, "It's an old game, but it don't always work. You can't tell what salmon will do till they do it.

I've studied this point of land for five years, and I know more about it than anybody else except G.o.d 'lmighty. If the fish hug the sh.o.r.e, then we're up against it, but I think they strike in about here; that's why I chose this site. We can't tell, though, till the run starts. All we can do now is see that them people keep their distance."

The "lead" of a salmon-trap consists of a row of web-hung piling that runs out from the sh.o.r.e for many hundred feet, forming a high, stout fence that turns the schools of fish and leads them into cunningly contrived enclosures, or "pounds," at the outer extremity, from which they are "brailed" as needed. These corrals are so built that once the fish are inside they cannot escape. The entire structure is devised upon the principle that the salmon will not make a short turn, but will swim as nearly as possible in a straight line. It looked to Boyd as if Marsh, by blocking the line of progress above and below, had virtually destroyed the efficiency of the new trap, rendering the cost of its construction a total loss.

"Sometimes you can cork a trap and sometimes you can't," Balt went on. "It all depends on the currents, the lay of the bars, and a lot of things we don't know nothing about. I've spent years in trying to locate the point where them fish strike in, and I think it's just below here. It'll all depend on how good I guessed."

"Exactly! And if you guessed wrong--"

"Then we'll fish with nets, like we used to before there was any traps."

That evening, when he had seen the night-shift started, Emerson decided to walk up to Cherry's house, for he was worried over the day's developments and felt that an hour of the girl's society might serve to clear his thoughts. His nerves were high-strung from the tension of the past weeks, and he knew himself in the condition of an athlete trained to the minute.

In his earlier days he had frequently felt the same nervousness, the same intense mental activity, just prior to an important race or game, and he was familiar with those disquieting, panicky moments when, for no apparent reason, his heart thumped and a physical sickness mastered him. He knew that the fever would leave him, once the salmon began to run, just as it had always vanished at the crack of the starter's pistol or the shrill note of the referee's whistle. He was eager for action, eager to find himself possessed of that gloating, gruelling fury that drives men through to the finish line. Meanwhile, he was anxious to divert his mind into other channels.

Cherry's house was situated a short distance above the cannery which served as Willis Marsh's headquarters, and Boyd's path necessarily took him past his enemy's very stronghold. Finding the tide too high to permit of pa.s.sing beneath the dock, he turned up among the buildings, where, to his surprise, he encountered his own day-foreman talking earnestly with a stranger.

The fisherman started guiltily as he saw him, and Boyd questioned him sharply.

"What are you doing here, La.r.s.en?"

"I just walked up after supper to have a talk with an old mate."

"Who is he?" Boyd glanced suspiciously at La.r.s.en's companion.

"He's Mr. Marsh's foreman."

"Emerson spoke out bluntly: "See here. I don't like this. These people have caused me a lot of trouble already, and I don't want my men hanging around here."

"Oh, that's all right," said La.r.s.en, carelessly. "Him and me used to fish together." And as if this were a sufficient explanation, he turned back to his conversation, leaving Emerson to proceed on his way, vaguely displeased at the episode, yet reflecting that heretofore he had never had occasion to doubt La.r.s.en's loyalty.

He found Cherry at home, and, flinging himself into one of her easy- chairs, relieved his mind of the day's occurrences.

"Marsh is building those traps purely out of spite," she declared, indignantly, when he had finished. "He doesn't need any more fish--he has plenty of traps farther up the river."

"To be sure! It looks as if we might have to depend upon the gill- netters."

"We will know before long. If the fish strike in where George expects, Marsh will be out a pretty penny."

"And if they don't strike in where George expects, we will be out all the expense of building that trap."

"Exactly! It's a fascinating business, isn't it? It's a business in which the unexpected is forever happening. But the stakes are high and--I know you will succeed."

Boyd smiled at her comforting a.s.surance, her belief in him was always stimulating.

"By-the-way," she continued, "have you heard the historic story about the pink salmon?"

He shook his head.

"Well, there was a certain shrewd old cannery-man in Washington State whose catch consisted almost wholly of pink fish. As you know, that variety does not bring as high a price as red salmon, like these. Well, finding that he could not sell his catch, owing to the popular prejudice about color, this man printed a lot of striking can-labels, which read, 'Best Grade Pink Salmon, Warranted not to Turn Red in the Can.' They tell me it worked like a charm."

"No wonder!" Boyd laughed, beginning to feel the tension of his nerves relax at the restfulness of her influence. As usual, he fell at once into the mood she desired for him. He saw that her brows were furrowed and her rosy lips drawn into an unconscious pout as she said, more to herself than to him:

"I wish I were a man. I'd like to engage in a business of this sort, something that would require ingenuity and daring. I'd like to handle big affairs."

"It seems to me that you are in a business of that sort. You are one of us."

"Oh, but you and George are doing it all."

"There is your copper-mine. You surely handled that very cleverly."

Cherry's expression altered, and she shot a quick glance at him as he went on:

"How is it coming along, by-the-way? I haven't heard you mention it lately?"

"Very well, I believe. The men were down the other day, and told me it was a big thing."

"I'm delighted. How does it seem, to be rich?"