Ramsay felt an instant tension and a bristling anger, and he knew now that he should have connected two incidents. The man who had written to him and offered him a job in the Three Points tannery had signed his name 'Devlin Chadbourne.' Devlin Chadbourne—Devil Chad—and Ramsay took a backward step. Never before had he met a man so capable of arousing in him a cordial dislike that was almost an urge to start fighting immediately.

"Where's the Holter?" Devil Chad demanded.

"I sent her back to Milwaukee after Captain Schultz let me off here," Ramsay said sarcastically.

"Don't get smart with me, boy." Devil Chad glowered. "You was on the Holter when she sailed."

"Where were you?" Ramsay demanded.

"I'll ask the questions here!" Devil Chad's thick lips curled in an ugly oblong. "Where's the Holter?"

"At the bottom of Lake Michigan!" Ramsay flared. "Captain Schultz and one of your deck hands are lying drowned on the beach! I don't know where the others are."

Devil Chad's glass balls of eyes glinted. His face twisted into a horrible glare, and every inch of his big frame seemed to shrink and swell with the rage that consumed him. "You mean to tell me," he demanded furiously, "that all them hides was lost?"

"Men were lost," Ramsay pointed out.

"You mean to tell me," Devil Chad repeated, as though he had not heard Ramsay, "that all them hides was lost?"

"Swim out and get 'em," Ramsay invited. "I'll show you the place where I landed, and the Holter can't be more than a couple of miles out in the lake."

"What did Schultz do?" Devil Chad demanded.

"Drowned."

"You're pretty flip, boy," Devil Chad warned, "an' I don't put up with flip people. You tell me what happened."

"Your greasy tub was carrying one third more than ever should have been put on her, her equipment was no good, we ran into a storm and the engines quit."

"All them hides lost." Devil Chad was overwhelmed by this personal tragedy and could think of nothing else. "Couldn't you of done somethin'?"

"It wasn't my ship and they weren't my hides. What are you going to do for the families of the men who were lost?"

"Why should I do anything? They knew when they signed on that they was runnin' risks." Devil Chad turned his unreadable eyes squarely on Ramsay. "What do you want here?"

"Nothing."

"Ain't you the boy who wrote me from New York, an' asked me for a job?"

The man at the vat continued working and others stayed at their tasks, but Ramsay was aware of a rippling under-current. There was an uneasiness among the men, and a fear; and in spite of the fact that they kept busy they turned covert eyes on Ramsay and Devil Chad. The boy felt a flashing anger. Who was this man, and what was he, that so many others could live in almost craven fear of him?

"If you are," Devil Chad continued, still holding Ramsay in the cage of his eyes, "you can have the job but I hold back twenty-five cents a day until them hides are paid for."

"Take your job!" Ramsay exploded, "and go plumb to the bottom of the lake with it!"

"I warned you, boy," Devil Chad was talking softly now. "I warned you. I don't put up with flip people, an' now I'm goin' to teach you the lesson that I should of given you on the Holter."

"Why didn't you sail on the Holter?" Ramsay demanded.

Devil Chad made no answer. He was in a half-crouch, his huge head bent to his chest and his fists knotted so tightly that the knuckles were whitened. His shaggy hair tumbled forward on his forehead, and his eyes still held no expression.

Ramsay raised his voice so all in the building could hear. "You filthy pup! You lily-livered slug! You knew the Holter was going to the bottom some day! Even your deck hand knew it! You sent other men out to die, but didn't risk yourself! You haven't got enough money to hire me to work for you!"

Devil Chad was inching forward, his head still bent; and when he had advanced a foot, he sprang. It was the rush of a bull, but not a cumbersome bull. He flung out both arms, intending to crush Ramsay to his chest and break his ribs. It was the only way Devil Chad knew how to fight, but the boy knew other tricks.

When the bigger, heavier man launched his charge, Ramsay stood still. He saw those massive stretched arms, and knew their purpose, but he did not move until Devil Chad flung them out for his crushing embrace. Then, and only then, did Ramsay act.

He flitted aside, balancing himself on the balls of his feet and whirling even as he evaded the other's lunge. Like a snapping whip his clenched right fist flicked in to deliver a stinging blow to the side of his enemy's head. But the blow did little except spin Devil Chad around and arouse a mighty bellow in the depths of his enormous chest.

Ramsay remained poised, alert for the next charge, and an almost grim satisfaction drove other thoughts from his mind. He had not wanted this fight and had not forced it, but within him there was a curious feeling that it was fore-ordained, and now that it was here, he relished it. Devil Chad was not a man. He was an animal who thought as an animal thinks. Other men, other human beings, had lost their lives in his overloaded, unseaworthy ship, and all this brute could think of was the fact that he had lost his cargo.

Devil Chad's eyes, even in the heat of battle, remained opaque and strangely without expression. It was only his face, like a rubber mask expertly molded to form an expression of rage, that betrayed his fury. He swung heavily, running forward even as he launched his blow, and Ramsay ducked beneath it. He came up to land a hard left and a right on Devil Chad's jaw.

He might as well have struck a granite boulder. Devil Chad did not even flinch and the boy knew a moment's uncertainty. His enemy was a bull, but bulls were felled with pole-axes, not with fists. Ramsay backed lightly away.

All about now, knowing that Devil Chad was engrossed in the fight and had no time for them, men had openly stopped work and were staring at the battlers. On the faces of some was written incredulity. Some looked on with delighted interest, and an expectant smile lighted the swarthy features of a little Frenchman who had stopped moving cattle hides to watch Ramsay weave away from Devil Chad. There was no man here who, in some silent way, did not cheer the boy on, but there were none who expected him to win. All knew their master.

Devil Chad rushed again, swinging his fists like pistons as he did so, and again Ramsay side-stepped. He landed a fierce blow squarely on the other's nose and was gratified to see a crimson stream of blood spout forth to mingle darkly with his antagonist's black beard and mustache. A cold uncertainty rose within Ramsay.

He had fought before, many times, and he had defeated his opponents and had been defeated, but never before had he fought a man just like this one. Devil Chad, apparently, was able to absorb an endless amount of punishment with no effect whatever on himself. He was as tough as one of the trees that grew on the outskirts of Three Points.

Ramsay risked a fleeting backward glance to see where he was going, and edged away from the wall. He was breathing hard because of the tremendous physical effort he had exerted, but he was far from exhausted and he knew that, as long as he could keep the battle in the open, he could avoid the other's charges. But the certainty that he could not win this battle solidified. It seemed possible to pound Devil Chad all day long without hurting him at all.

"Kill him!" an excited man shouted.

Devil Chad paused just long enough to locate and identify this rash employee who dared encourage his enemy, and Ramsay felt a nausea in the pit of his stomach. When the battle ended, no matter who won, at least one man would have some explaining to do and probably a beating to take. The boy kept his eyes on Devil Chad, anticipating the other's next move.

Then he tripped over an unseen and unsuspected block of wood and fell backward.

Even as he fell he tried to pick himself up and scoot out of the way. But a bludgeon, the toe of Devil Chad's heavy boot, collided soddenly with his ribs and a sickening pain shot through his entire body. He turned, snatching furiously at the boot as it was raised again and still trying to wriggle away. His arm flipped convulsively as Devil Chad kicked him squarely on the wrist, and he felt a creeping numbness that began there and spread to his shoulder.

He rolled to escape his tormentor, rolled again, and struggled to his hands and knees. Vaguely, as though he were viewing it in some fantastic dream, he saw the big black boot flying at his head. The boot was a huge thing and so clearly-outlined that Ramsay saw every tiny wrinkle in it. He was aware of the stitching where the ponderous sole joined the upper leather, and he knew that he must get away. But that was a vague and misty thought, one he seemed unable to carry farther. A mighty rage flared within him.

No more than a split second elapsed before the boot struck, but it seemed like hours. Ramsay was aware of the fact that his two silver dollars, his last money, rolled out of his pockets and across the tannery's floor. A thousand colored lights danced in his head, and then he was back on the lake.

He had loved the lake, he remembered, and there was something wonderfully cool and refreshing about returning to it. A small boat with a crazy Dutch fisherman at her tiller danced out of the lake's gray stretches and sported gracefully before him. On top of the mast was a tame sea gull that clicked his mandibles and fluttered his wings. Ramsay even saw the boat's name written in fine script across her bows. She was the Spray.

The Spray hove to very close to Ramsay, and her skipper looked at him. He was a tall man, very powerful, and he was blond and easily laughing. There was no grimness about him, only grace and light spirit. Several men had gone sailing on a raft made of cattle hides, he told Ramsay, and they were in great trouble out on the lake. Did Ramsay care to go with him and help bring the unfortunates safely back? The sea gull, of course, would help too.

When Ramsay pretended not to hear, the crazy Dutch fisherman obligingly repeated his information. Again Ramsay pretended not to hear; whereupon the Dutch fisherman caught up a wooden bucket, dipped it into the lake and showered him with ice-cold water. He held the bucket waist-high, as though wondering whether more water was necessary, and the twinkle remained in his eyes and the laugh on his lips. It was impossible to be angry with him. Laughing back, Ramsay agreed to go help the foolish men who had sailed away on the cattle hides.

Then he awakened, to find a woman bathing his face with cold water.

For a moment she was a distorted picture, a hazy vision that advanced toward him and retreated far away. Again Ramsay almost lost himself in the dim world into which Devil Chad's boots had kicked him. The cold cloth on his face brought him back, and he opened his eyes to see the woman very clearly.

She was small, with a worn face, so weary from endless toil that the skin was drawn tightly over it. But her eyes were the brownest, the softest and the gentlest Ramsay had ever seen. Black hair was combed smoothly back on her head and caught in a knot at the base of her neck. Again she laid the cold cloth on his face, and the boy closed his eyes at the luxury of such a thing. Then he spoke, "Where am I?"

"Sh-h. Don't try to talk, M'sieu."

The woman, unmistakably French, rose and went into another room. Ramsay looked about him.

The room in which he lay was walled with rough, unplaned boards, and the ceiling was made of the same material. Only the floor, scrubbed so carefully that it glowed like a polished diamond, was of smooth boards. Light was admitted by a single small pane of glass, and the light reflected on a crucifix that hung on the far wall. There were a few pictures, yellow with age, a table over which a deer skin was gracefully draped, and a candle-holder with a half-burned candle. Everything was neat and spotlessly clean.

The woman came back bearing a hollowed-out gourd. She passed an arm around Ramsay's shoulders—despite her small size she was surprisingly strong—and assisted him to a half-sitting position. She held the gourd to his lips.

Ramsay drank deeply, and fell back sputtering. The gourd was partly-filled with cold water and partly with a whisky, so strong and violent that it burned his mouth and lips. He lay blinking, while tears welled in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. The whisky, doubtless homemade, was strong enough to choke a horse. But, after a half-minute, it made itself felt. A warm glow spread from the roots of Ramsay's hair to the tips of his toes. Some of his many aches and pains lessened.

"More?" the woman inquired softly.

"Uh ... No—no thank you."

She put the gourd on the table and came over to lay a hand on his forehead. It was a calloused and work-hardened hand, but so gentle was she that her caress was scarcely a feather's touch. Ramsay smiled his thanks.

"How did I get here?" he asked again.

"My man, Pierre LeDou, he brought you. But now you must rest, M'sieu, and try to sleep. Badly have you been hurt."

The woman drew an exquisite, hand-sewn lace curtain, an incongruous thing in these rough surroundings, over the window, and semi-gloom reigned in the room. She tiptoed out, closing the door behind her, and Ramsay was left alone with his thoughts.

That mighty rage mounted within him again. He had been fighting with Devil Chad, he remembered, and not doing badly until he fell over some unseen object. Then he had been kicked into—into this. Experimentally Ramsay tried to move his legs, and found that he could do so. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and there in the half-light of an unknown room, in a stranger's house, he made a solemn vow. One day, no matter what else happened, he and Devil Chad would meet again. Devil Chad would pay, in full, for every twinge Ramsay suffered. In that moment Ramsay knew that he was not afraid.

His burning anger became tempered with pleasant wonder. This was a harsh land, but there was room for tenderness. He was a stranger and had been in Three Points only long enough to get himself kicked into insensibility, but there were those in Three Points who knew compassion and friendship. Otherwise, he would not now be lying in some unknown man's house and being ministered to by that man's wife. Pierre—Ramsay strove to recall the last name and could not. He fell into a quiet slumber.

The next time he awakened, the candle on his table was burning and his host—vaguely Ramsay remembered seeing him move hides about the tannery—was standing near. Like his wife, he was small and gentle, with a manner that belied the fierce little black mustache clinging to his upper lip. He was too small and gentle, Ramsay thought, ever to fit into a town such as Three Points. But certainly he was kind and good. He smiled, revealing flashing white teeth, and when he did Ramsay remembered the name, Pierre LeDou.

"How do you feel?" he asked briskly.

"Better." Ramsay grinned.

"He beat you," Pierre LeDou said. "Sacre! But he beat you!" The little man's eyes roved about the room, as though seeking the solution to a problem which he must solve, and Ramsay knew that he, too, hated Devil Chad. "He kicked you!" Pierre LeDou said.

"I know, and some day I'll pay him back for that."

Interest brightened in the little Frenchman's eyes. "You think so, M'sieu—M'sieu ..."

"Cartou," Ramsay said. "Ramsay Cartou. And I will not kill anybody unless I have to. But one day this Devil Chad will pay, ten times over, for everything he did to me."

"He is very hard man." Pierre LeDou sighed.

"So am I!" Ramsay gritted, and again anger rose within him. "Why should so many people tremble in their boots when he comes around?"

Pierre LeDou shrugged eloquently. "The job. A man has to have the job."

"I see. And Devil Chad controls 'the job'?"

"Not all," Pierre LeDou explained. "He does not walk so freely where the fishermen and farmers are."

"I'm beginning to like these fishermen and farmers more and more."

"They are nice," Pierre agreed, "but wild. Especially the fishermen. Oh, so wild! Out in the lake they go, afraid of nothing; but those that do not drown return with multitudes of fish."

"Do many drown?"

"Very many, but you cannot kill a fisherman. They say that the lake sends back two for every one it takes, and maybe that is so. At any rate, when a fisherman drowns, two more always appear. I would go fishing myself were it not that I am afraid. Are you hungry, M'sieu?"

"Yes," Ramsay answered frankly.

"Then I will get you something to eat."

Pierre LeDou disappeared. Ramsay lay back on the bed to think. Now this half-wild, half-tame country into which he had come was assuming a definite pattern. Some, like Pierre LeDou, had been attracted by the endless wealth offered, and had found only a back-breaking job with Devil Chad or his counterpart. Others, and Ramsay thought of Hans Van Doorst and Pieter Van Hooven, were finding wealth.

It was not wealth that could be measured in terms of money; probably the crazy Dutch fisherman and Pieter Van Hooven had little money, but just the same it was wealth. Rather than toil meekly for someone else and obey a master's every wish, they had chosen to discover for themselves the true richness of this endlessly rich land and they were discovering it. So some were afraid and some were not; and those who were not seemed to enjoy life at its fullest. And, as usual, there was the arrogant overlord, Devil Chad, who wanted everything for himself and who would take it if he could. He did not care what he did or whom he killed, as long as he got what he wanted.

Pierre LeDou came back, bearing a bowl on a wooden platter. Ramsay sniffed hungrily. The bowl was old and cracked, but like everything else in the house it was scrupulously clean, and the odors wafted from it would tempt the appetite of a dying man. Pierre put the bowl and a wooden spoon down where Ramsay could reach them, and Ramsay saw a meat stew in which fluffy dumplings floated.

"It is not much," the little Frenchman apologized. "Venison stew with dumplings, and that is all. Would you like some spirits to go with it?"

"Uh!" Ramsay remembered the fiery liquor. "No thanks. I would like some water."

"I can offer you milk."

"That will be fine."

Pierre disappeared, and returned with a bowl of milk and a beaker of the strong whisky. He gave the bowl to Ramsay and held the whisky aloft.

"Your health, M'sieu," he said.

He drained the beaker without even quivering, and Ramsay suppressed a shudder. Dipping the spoon in his venison stew, he tasted it. It was rich, with all the expertness of French cuisine behind it, and delicious. Ramsay took a chunk of venison in his mouth and chewed it with relish. Venison, fish and whatever else they could get out of the country doubtless meant much to the people who lived here.

"How long have you worked in the tannery?" he asked Pierre.

"Five years," the little Frenchman said. "Five long years. I shall work there much longer if God is kind."

"May He always be kind to you!" Ramsay said feelingly.

"My thanks to you, M'sieu Ramsay. And now, with your permission, I shall retire. I suggest that you sleep, for you look very weary. Should you want anything you have only to call."

Ramsay fell into a restful slumber from which he was awakened by the sound of people stirring. The early morning sun, just rising, caressed the curtained window softly and a sleepy bird twittered outside the window. There was the sound of lifted stove lids and of people stirring. Ramsay dozed off, then sprang guiltily awake and jumped out of bed.

He felt good, with only an occasional twinge of pain here and there. Hastily he pulled on his trousers and shirt, laced his shoes and smoothed his rumpled hair with his hand. When he had made himself as presentable as he could, he went into the other room.

Though the hour was still early and the sun not yet fairly up, Pierre LeDou had already left for his work in the tannery. His pleasant wife was pouring hot water from a pan on the stove into a big wooden bowl, evidently the receptacle in which dishes were washed. She turned around.

"Good morning!" Ramsay said cheerfully.

"Good morning, M'sieu." Then she cautioned him. "Should you be out of bed?"

"I feel fine." Ramsay grinned. "Strong as a bull and twice as hungry."

"Then I will prepare you something to eat. If M'sieu cares to do so, he may wash just outside the door."

"Thanks."

Ramsay went out the door. To one side, in front of the house, there was a big wooden bowl and two wooden pails filled with water. A well-worn trail threading away from the door obviously led to a well or spring. Hanging on a wooden peg driven into a hole, drilled in the cabin's wall, were a clean towel and washcloth. Even the door's hinges, cleverly carved pins that turned on holes drilled into wooden blocks attached to the cabin's wall, were wood. Evidently, in this country, wood substituted for metal.

Ramsay filled the bowl with water, washed himself and went back into the cabin. Pierre LeDou's wife was bending over a skillet from which came the smell of frying fish. Ramsay sniffed hungrily, and licked his lips. She turned the fish, let it cook a little while longer, and put it on the table, along with feather-light biscuits, butter and cold milk. Ramsay ate hungrily, but tried to curb his appetite so he would also eat decently, and as he ate he talked.

"Why," he asked Pierre LeDou's wife, "did your husband bring me here?"

"You were hurt and needed help," she said simply.

In sudden haste Ramsay felt his pocket, and discovered that the two silver dollars were gone. He remembered that he had lost them while he fought with Devil Chad, and a flood of embarrassment almost overwhelmed him.

"I—I have no money to pay you," he said awkwardly.

For the first time she looked reprovingly at him. "We did not ask for money, M'sieu. One does not."

Ramsay knew another awkward moment and a little shame. "It is very good of you," he said.

She said, "One does not neglect a fellow human."

Ramsay finished eating and pushed his dishes back. Pierre LeDou's wife, who had already finished washing the rest of the dishes, put Ramsay's in the dish water and left them there. She smiled at him. "It would be well if you rested."

"I'm not tired. Really I'm not."

"You should rest. Badly were you hurt."

"Let me sit here a while."

"As long as you sit."

She went to a cupboard and took from it a big ball of strong linen thread. From the table she caught up a small board. Wrapping the thread twice around the board, she knotted it. Slipping the thread from the board, she hung the loop she had made on a wooden peg and made a new loop. Her hands flew so swiftly that in a few moments she had seventeen of the meshes, all joined together.

"What are you doing?" Ramsay inquired interestedly.

"Making a gill net," she explained. "It was ordered by Baptiste LeClair, a fisherman, and is to have a four and a half-inch mesh. So we use a mesh board that is exactly two and a quarter inches wide and wrap the thread twice around. Now I have seventeen. See?"

"I see."

She strung the seventeen meshes on a wooden rod, placed two chairs far enough apart so that the meshes stretched, tied the rod to them and began knitting on the net she had started. "The net is to be seventeen meshes, or seventy-six and one-half inches, wide. Now I lengthen it."

Under the boy's interested eyes the gill net grew swiftly, and as it lengthened she wrapped it around the rod. Ramsay watched every move. "How long will it be?" he queried.

"One net," she told him, "is about two hundred and fifty feet long. But usually several are tied together to form a box of nets. A box is about fourteen hundred feet."

"Isn't that a lot?"

She smiled. "A crew of three good men, like Hans Van Doorst or Baptiste LeClair, with a good Mackinaw boat can handle two boxes."

"Could you make this net longer if you wished to?"

"Oh, yes. It could be many miles long. Two hundred and fifty feet is a good length for one net because, if it is torn by strong water or heavy fish, it may be untied and repaired while the rest may still be used."

"What else must you do?"

"After the net is two hundred and fifty feet long, I will use fifteen- or sixteen-thread twine through from three to six meshes on the outer edge. This, in turn, will be tied to ninety-thread twine which extends the full length."

Ramsay was amazed at the way this quiet little woman reeled off these figures, as though she were reciting a well-learned lesson. But he wanted to know even more. "How do they set such a net?"

"The fishermen gather small, flat stones, about three to the pound, and cut a groove around them so that they can be suspended from a rope. These are called sinkers, and are tied to the net about nine feet apart. For floats they use cedar blocks, about two feet long by one-quarter of an inch thick and an inch and a quarter wide. They bore a small hole one inch from the end, then split the block to the bored hole. The floats—and the number they use depends on the depth to which they sink the net—are pushed over the ninety-thread twine."

"Let me try!" Ramsay was beginning to feel the effects of idleness and wanted action.

"But of course, M'sieu."

Ramsay took the mesh board in his hand and, as he had seen her do, wrapped the thread twice around it. But, though it had looked simple when she did it, there was a distinct knack to doing it right. The mesh board slipped from his fingers and the twine unwound. Madame LeDou laughed. "Let me show you."

Patiently, carefully, she guided his fingers through the knitting of a mesh, then another and a third and fourth. Ramsay felt a rising elation. He had liked the Spray when he saw her and now he liked this. Fishing, from the making of the nets to setting them, seemed more than ever a craft that was almost an art. He knitted a row of meshes across the gill net, and happily surveyed his work.

At the same time he remained aware of the fact that she could knit three times as fast as he. Ramsay thrust his tongue into his cheek and grimly continued at his work.

After an hour Madame LeDou said soberly, "You do right well, M'sieu. But should you not rest now?"

Ramsay said, "This is fun."

"It is well that you enjoy yourself. Would you consider it uncivil if I left you for a while?"

"Please do what you must."

She left, and Ramsay continued to work on the net. As he did, his skill improved. Though he was still unable to knit as swiftly as Madame LeDou, he could make a good net. And there was a feel, a tension, to the thread. Within itself the thread had life and being. It was supple, strong and would not fail a fisherman who depended upon it.

Madame LeDou returned, smiled at him and went unobtrusively about the task of preparing a lunch. So absorbed was he in his net-making that he scarcely tasted the food. All afternoon he worked on the net.

Madame LeDou said approvingly, "You make a good net, M'sieu. You have knitted almost four pounds of thread into this one. The most skilled net-makers, those who have had years of experience, cannot knit more than six or seven pounds in one day."

Twilight shadows were lengthening when Pierre LeDou returned. The little man, as always, was courteous. But behind his inherited Gallic grace and manners lay a troubled under-current. Pierre spoke in rapid French to his wife, and she turned worried eyes on their guest. Ramsay stopped knitting the net.

All afternoon there had been growing upon him an awareness that he could not continue indefinitely to accept the LeDou's hospitality, and now he knew that he must go. The pattern had definite shape, and the reason behind Pierre's uneasiness was not hard to fathom. Devil Chad was the ruler, and Devil Chad must rule. Who harbored his enemy must be his enemy, and Pierre LeDou needed the job in the tannery. Should he lose it, the LeDous could not live.

With an air of spontaneity, anxious not to cause his host and hostess any embarrassment, Ramsay rose and smiled. "It has been a most enjoyable stay at your home," he said. "But of course it cannot continue. I have work to find. If you will be kind enough to shelter me again tonight, I will go tomorrow, and I shall never forget the LeDous."