Excerpt
CHAPTER I FORBIDDEN WATERS
Richard Gregory stirred restlessly in his sleep vaguely aware of an unfamiliar sound, a faint tapping, insistent, disturbing. He wakened sharply and sat bolt upright, conscious of the fact that he was fully dressed. Then he remembered.
"All right, Bill," he called softly. "Coming."
It took but a minute to shove his automatic into his pocket and secure his rifle from the corner. Groping his way to the door he stood shivering on the threshold, staring into the thick gray fog which enveloped him.
A hand touched his shoulder. Strong fingers tightened on his arm.
"This way," a low voice directed. "Careful, don't scuff."
Gregory started to speak but a warning pressure of the big fingers restrained him. His companion led the way. He followed in silence. Through the winding streets of the little fishing village they went, the familiar landmarks about them looming grotesque and mystical in the low-hanging fog. At length the acrid air of the sea assailed their nostrils and the silence of the night was broken by the noisy splashing of a marsh-loon.
Bill Lang stopped suddenly. Faintly through the gray void came the muffled gulping of an under-water exhaust. Huddled together they stood listening. To Richard Gregory the sound indicated only the slow approach of a motor-boat. To the trained ear of the fisherman it meant that Mexican Joe was on time with the Sea Gull.
Lang led on down the loosely boarded wharf piled high with ill-smelling fish-boxes and paused at the head of a narrow gangway, looking back, listening. Close by the dock Gregory discerned the outline of a fishing-boat, magnified by the fog into whimsical proportions. Descending cautiously, he followed Lang aboard and groped his way into the protecting shelter of the engine-house. The cold mist clung to his flesh and he drew his coat closer about him. The soft breathing of the heavy-duty motor became more pronounced, more labored. The clutch was in. They were backing out into the stream. He glanced above him at the stay where the starboard side-lamp hung. But the grayness was unbroken by a single ray of green.
Lang was running dark.
It was taking a long chance on such a night as this, Gregory reflected. But then the whole business was a long chance. And Lang knew his business.
Imbued with a fisherman's sixth sense of feeling his way along familiar channels rendered unfamiliar by fog, Bill Lang piloted his craft skilfully down the silent bay in the direction of the open sea.
Crouching in the bow, Mexican Joe sought with cat-like eyes to pierce the gray veil of blinding fog. Narrowly averting collision with unlighted harbor-boats, bumping at times over sandy shoals, plowing through grass-grown mud-flats and skirting dangerous reefs with only the smallest margin of safety, they came at last to the jettied outlet of Crescent Bay.
The roar of the breakers sounded ominously close through the gray canopy of fog. The little craft rocked briskly in the trough of the swell as Lang threw the wheel over and headed out to sea. Flashing a small light over the compass, which served as an improvised binnacle, he peered intently at the instrument. Then he spoke softly to the man forward.
"Take the wheel, Joe."
When the Mexican had relieved him Lang bent low over the compass and examined his watch. Then he joined Gregory.
"Twelve o'clock," he announced. "We've got to make Diablo before daybreak. Sixty-five miles in less than four hours. That means hurry in weather like this."
He turned to the man at the wheel.
"Crowd her, Joe," he called. "We're taking chances to-night. If we hit anybody we might as well hit hard."
"Do you think we got out without being seen?"
Lang shook his head sagely in the darkness.
"Not much of a chance," he answered after a moment. "Couldn't have had a better night, though....