From the Petrel's sloping deck they saw the horsemen appear in bold silhouette against the sky-line. Swinging from their saddles they walked to meet a white-shirted rider who galloped over the ridge and drew rein among them.

The newcomer remained astride his horse. Resting an arm on the horn of his saddle, he stared into the little cove through his binoculars. Satisfied apparently by what he saw, he dismounted and walked rapidly toward the trail leading to the beach, the men following after him. As they took their way down the cliff Gregory noticed that some of the men carried rifles. When they reached the beach the white-shirted man walked on alone, and without a backward glance, traversed the rocks in the direction of the wreck.

"He walks like a king," commented Dickie Lang. "I wonder if that is Bandrist."

Gregory noted the clean-cut figure of the stranger carefully. The man was about his own height though of slighter build, the spareness of his figure being emphasized by the close-fitting riding-trousers and the thin silk shirt which fluttered about him as he strode along. The fair-haired stranger stopped abruptly when he reached the Petrel's side. Flinging an arm upward with a careless gesture, and looking straight at the girl, he said quietly:

"I am unarmed. May I come aboard your vessel?"

Only the slightest trace of the foreigner was discernible in his speech.

Dickie Lang nodded. "Come ahead," she said. "Whoever you are, you can speak English at least."

The visitor smiled as he caught the mast-stay and drew himself gracefully over the rail.

"I am Leo Bandrist," he introduced. "I fear my men have caused you some annoyance. I am sorry."

Dickie rehearsed the incidents leading up to the trouble with the natives and when she had concluded, Bandrist's forehead wrinkled in a frown.

"I am very sorry," he repeated. "My men, you see, are very stupid. Very ignorant. They understand but little English. Then, too, I have been annoyed by others. You see, I have many sheep and wild goats upon the island. Hunters come to shoot the goats, but they often mistake my sheep for them. Fishermen also have caused me great trouble. I have fenced my lands to keep them out; put up the signs the law tells me I must to protect myself. But no, they disregard my rights. So I give my men instructions to keep them out. When my rangers are opposed they grow ugly. One of them tells me that one of your number began the attack. That angered them, you see, and they fought back. It was but natural. However, I am sorry. I trust that none of your party has been seriously injured."

"Small thanks to you," Dickie snapped. "Your men tried hard enough to commit murder." Nodding in the direction of the unconscious islander, she added: "There's one of your outfit stretched out over there. Another was half-drowned. The third tried to knife Mr. Gregory. I hit him in the head with a monkey-wrench. They both got away or were washed off the ledge."

Bandrist shot a quick glance at Gregory as the girl mentioned the cannery owner's name. At the girl's reference to her part in the affair his eyes lighted with interest. Then the frown came again to his face.

"That is the trouble," he said quickly. "My men do not understand. They know only one way to fight. That is to win. If you will permit me, I shall summon the others to care for their companion."

He waited for the girl's consent. Then he waved his hand to the men on the beach. When they were within ear-shot, Bandrist addressed them rapidly, nodding toward the spot indicated by Dickie Lang. As the men hurried away, he explained:

"They come to me from many countries. Some of them are bad and cause me much trouble. It is so lonesome out here that I can not keep good men. I tell my fence-riders only to keep people away so that they will not kill my sheep. Some of them I arm as you see, because those who hunt also carry guns and are sometimes ugly."

He spread out his slender fingers apologetically.

"Again I am sorry," he said. "If you desire to work now I will see that you are undisturbed, if you will promise to leave the island when you are through. You see I do not want any more trouble," he concluded with frank emphasis. "My men will be very angry when they find their wounded comrade. Sometimes it is difficult for me to restrain them."

The excited jargon of the islanders as they came upon their disabled fellow confirmed the truth of his words. Jabbering to themselves, and casting sullen glances in the direction of the Petrel, they carried the man over the ledge to the beach.

"Mr. Bandrist," said Dickie clearly. "I've as much right to be here as you have. You can't legally keep me from taking the engine out of this boat. She's on tide and you haven't any more claim to that than I have. You know that as well as I do. I'm going to take my time. When I get through, I'll go. And not before. If you are on the square you'll stay here until I do. We don't want trouble any more than you do. But we're not going to be bluffed out on this deal or any other."

Bandrist's eyes shone with unconcealed admiration. He inclined his head in response to her suggestion and exclaimed: "I shall be only too glad to remain here until you are ready to leave."

Dickie Lang turned quickly to Howard. "You keep off your feet, Tom," she said. "I might as well start in. The boys from the Curlew ought to have been here long before this."

Gregory pressed forward. "Tell me what to do," he said.

The girl regarded him approvingly. "You can loosen the stud-bolts on the motor first. Come on," she said. "I'll show you."

Bandrist followed after them. "May I help?" he asked.

She shook her head with decision. "Two's as many as can conveniently work around the engine," she answered.

The work of tearing down the motor began at once. Gregory wore the skin from his knuckles in loosening the stud-bolts while Howard instructed him from the doorway how to take off the carburetor and rip up the feed-line. As they worked the girl made a rapid survey of the parts she desired to salvage.

"Some more of your friends?"

Bandrist pointed seaward where a dory was rounding the point and heading shoreward.

The girl acknowledged his words with a curt nod.

"Here come the boys from the Curlew," she announced.

When the landing party reached the Petrel's side, Jones and Sorenson stared in silence at the white-shirted man leaning against the rail.

"Got things fixed up, Jones? You were a long time coming."

The skipper of the Curlew climbed aboard before replying. Drawing the girl to one side, he said quietly: "Thing's pretty well shot, miss. Took her down and found this."

He extended a blackened handkerchief covered with fine dust. Dickie Lang examined it carefully, rubbing the particles of black grit between her fingers.

"Emery dust?"

Jones nodded. "She's full of it," he answered. "Don't dare and start her up. She'd cut herself to pieces."

Silently regarding the blackened particles, the girl asked: "Carlin was with you yesterday you said, didn't you?"

"Yes. Him and Jacobs."

"Carlin's enough. I knew he was a dub. But I didn't think he had brains enough to be a crook. I know now. Well, we've got enough trouble right here for a while without bothering about your boat. You rip up the motor and Sorenson and Mr. Gregory can strip the deck. We've got to hustle. It will begin to rough up soon. Then we'll have to run with what we have. She'll break up on the flood by the looks of things."

Pausing for a moment to partake of a meager lunch which Dickie discovered had been overlooked by the robber of the Petrel, all hands turned again to the work of salvaging the motor.

Through the long afternoon they worked in silence. As Gregory stripped the iron chaulks from the deck and removed the stays, he noticed that Bandrist leaned idly against the rail with his blue eyes following the movements of Dickie Lang with great interest. Once, before Gregory could surmise his purpose, he sprang to the girl's side and assisted her with a piece of shaft and the ease with which he handled the heavy brass caused the young man to marvel.

A queer specimen of man was Bandrist, he reflected, to be marooned in such a spot as this. Gregory's work gave him a chance to study the islander without being observed. He was a figure who merited more than a passing glance. He would challenge attention in any environment. While he twisted the galvanized turn-buckles, rusted by the salt-air, Gregory appraised the man carefully.

Trained to the minute and hard as nails, he catalogued the slender figure. The long smooth-lying muscles were those of an athlete. He could see them rippling at the open-throat and on the islander's wrist when he raised his arm. The features too were worthy of notice. Line by line he studied them. From the high forehead which bulged over the clear blue eyes, to the delicately ovaled chin. The face was emotionless. Only the curve of the thin lips showed the man beneath the mask. The lips were cruel as death.

The tall crags cast their irregular shadows athwart the cove and a sudden puff of wind, which had freshened as the day wore on, ruffled the quiet waters and caused them to slap angrily at the base of the ledge. Dickie Lang cast a weather-eye to seaward and shook her head.

"Time we were getting in the clear, boys," she said. "The tide's beginning to set in strong and the breeze is freshening. We've got about all we dare fool with. I want to get clear of the Diablo coast before the fog drifts any closer."

The fishermen issued from the engine-house at her words and began to gather up the parts of the dissembled motor and carry them to the waiting skiffs. Then they assisted Howard to the dory. In a few moments they were ready to shove off. Dickie stepped into the dory of the Pelican which Jones shoved into the water.

"I want to get Tom to the launch and have her ready to get under way," she explained to Gregory. "Will you stay and help Sorenson load the rest of the motor?"

Gregory nodded and set to work. Bandrist's eyes followed the departing skiff until it disappeared around the point. Then he motioned Gregory to one side and began to speak: "Do not let her come out here again," he said in a low voice. "Diablo is not a safe place for fishermen, much less a woman. My men will not forget you. I was able to control them to-day. The next time I might not be so fortunate."

However well meant the warning might have been, it rankled in Gregory's breast. He felt his instinctive dislike of Bandrist grow with the man's words. Meeting the islander's eyes squarely, he said in a voice which only Bandrist could hear:

"If it is necessary for us to come to Diablo again, Mr. Bandrist, we will come. If you are unable to handle your men, that will be up to you."

For a moment the two men appraised each other in silence. Then Gregory turned and walked to the waiting dory.

In the purpling dusk they embarked from Diablo and sped across the rippling water to the launch which lay in the offing. Looking back from the stern-seat, Gregory saw the man on the ledge gazing after them with folded arms.

On the deck of the Pelican the girl was issuing hasty orders for the return to the mainland.

"Kick her over, Jones. Johnson, stand by the hook. Here comes the other skiff. Get your stuff aboard, Sorenson, as quick as you can," she called to the approaching dory, "and swing the boat on deck. We'll beat it out of here and take the Curlew in tow. Make it lively, boys. We've got to be under way."

Swinging wide of the headland the Pelican plunged into the trough of the swell and skirting the coast raced on to pick up the disabled Curlew. Dickie Lang looked back at the dim outline of the cliffs as they shadowed the sea.

"Poor little Pete," she exclaimed softly. "It's tough. But it can't be helped."

Gregory alone heard her words.

"It sure is," he said, feeling that the words were wholly inadequate. "And I'm mighty sorry," he added.

The girl started. "I guess I was thinking aloud," she said. "I didn't know you heard." She set her lips together. "It's all in the game, I know," she went on, "but no one but me knows how I hate to lose the little Petrel."

When they picked up the Curlew the fitful wind died suddenly and the air grew heavy with moisture. The white clouds which scurried across the face of the heavens dropped lower and massing themselves together obscured the stars. Piloting the Pelican and her tow safely to the high seas, the girl relinquished the wheel to Johnson with a sigh of relief.

"I'll rustle something to eat, Bill," she said. "We'll stand two-hour watches. I'll take her next. I want to see if there is anything I can do for Tom. I'll be in the cabin. Call me if you sight anything or it gets thicker."

Turning to Gregory, she exclaimed: "The next thing is to eat. I'm starved myself, and I'll bet you're worse."

Repairing to the cabin where the big fisherman was already asleep on the bunk, they ate their first real meal of the day in silence. There was much that they could have talked about, but one does not follow the sea long without learning that opportunities to eat are sometimes golden, and not lightly to be passed over or interfered with by conversation. It was not until the last morsel of food had been consumed, therefore, that Gregory made an effort to voice his thoughts.

"What do you think of Bandrist?" he asked suddenly.

The girl started, surprised that they should both be thinking of the same man. Her forehead wrinkled slowly as she answered:

"I think he's a crook. I don't know why exactly, but I just do. He's too smooth. Too well educated for a sheep-man. He's up to something at Diablo. Don't know what. Don't know that it is any of my business at that. But I don't like him."

"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."

Dickie 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."

Dickie Lang made no reply but sat with her arms resting on the cabin-table, looking off into space. 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 fishing, 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."

Dickie 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 assailed 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.

Dickie 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 shifting 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?" Dickie 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. Dickie 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 fishing-fleet could be dimly discerned through the shifting mist like a forest of bare-trunked trees.

Dickie 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.

"Hello, 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, Dick. There's a strike on. Carlin's got them all riled up and there's hell to pay."