duty is to protect this town."

Hans' voice softened even more. "I am asking you again to come with us."

The constable's right thumb slipped from his belt and his hand dropped
to the butt of the revolver. His fingers curled around it. As though by
accident, Pieter stumbled forward. Strong enough to stop a bull in its
tracks, Pieter wrapped his own steel fingers around the constable's
right wrist, and when they disengaged the pistol was in Pieter's hand.

"Excuse me!" he said contritely. "I am so clumsy!"

"Well?" Hans inquired.

Jake Hillis looked from one to the other. He was like a drum which
almost always must sound the cadence someone else beats. Strength was
the only force he recognized, and now he saw himself surrounded by
strong, determined men. For a moment he struggled with himself. Then
"I'll go," he said.

Hans responded graciously, "Thank you. We knew that you would come as
soon as you understood the reason in it."

"Here's your pistol." Pieter extended the weapon.

"I got to warn you," the constable pronounced, "that I am going to hold
you responsible for anything that happens here while I am away. And I
better tell you that I won't put up with any law-breaking."

"Good!" Hans said. "You are a conscientious man!"

The mist dipped and twisted about them as they started down the sand
beach toward Pieter's farm. Ramsay tried to find answers to the many
questions in his mind. Certainly somebody had lured them away from their
fishing gear. Who had done so? Was Devil Chad involved? If so, why did
Jake Hillis accompany them at all? Certainly the servant would not
willingly provoke a fight with the master. If Devil Chad was the leader
of the pirates, did he trust his minion so little that he had told him
nothing?

Ramsay shrugged: they would have to wait and find out.

Reaching the farm, Pieter entered the house to get the shotgun and a
pair of exquisitely carved pistols which Ramsay had never seen before.
Dueling pistols, they looked like, and Ramsay glanced curiously at
Pieter. The man was anything except stolid, yet he never spoke of his
past and of what had really brought him across the Atlantic Ocean to
this wild inland sea. Ramsay dismissed the thought. In this country it
was often just as well to forget a man's past or that he had ever had a
past.

Jake Hillis looked narrowly as Pieter handed Hans a pistol, kept one for
himself and gave the shotgun to Ramsay. "I don't hold with shooting
scrapes!" he said. "And I don't want any part of 'em!"

"There'll be none," Hans assured him, "unless we are shot at first."

They launched a pound boat, and Hans took the rower's seat. Jake Hillis
sat beside Pieter and Ramsay crouched to one side. A shiver ran through
him. The mist seemed to be settling in even more thickly; they had
scarcely left the shore when they were unable to see it. From the top of
the house, the bedraggled Captain Klaus squawked his protest at such
weather.

Hans rowed swiftly but there was no trace of hesitation in his manner,
and Ramsay marveled. The mist was heavy enough to cut visibility to
almost nothing, but Hans steered as certainly as he would have on the
sunniest of days. He seemed to know the lake so intimately that, no
matter what happened, he could still find his way. They reached the
first pound net, rowed around it. Ramsay sighed with relief.

If pirates had come to raid, they had not yet touched this net. Ramsay
shifted his position, and Jake Hillis stirred uneasily. Then, almost
beside the boat, the water rippled and the White Sturgeon surfaced for
a moment. Nearly the color of the mist, he lay quietly on top of the
water, then dived.

Hans' low laughter rippled. "We have a friend!" he said.

They were near the second pound net now, and Ramsay gripped his shotgun
fiercely. He could see nothing, but something seemed to be present. It
was a half-sensed threat, like an unseen tiger crouching in the darkness
beside a campfire. They saw the spiles of the second pound net rising
like a ghost's fingers. Slowly Hans started rowing around it.

Then Ramsay glanced behind him and snapped the shotgun to his shoulder.
From shorewards another mist-wreathed craft appeared. It was a Mackinaw
boat, like the _Spray_, and the men on her were only half seen in the
heavy overcast. Ramsay breathed a warning, "Watch it!"

Hans let the boat drift and took the pistol in his hand. Almost
carelessly, as though there was no hurry about anything at all, Pieter
did likewise. Jake Hillis drew his breath sharply. The two boats came
closer together, and Ramsay recognized Joe Mannis. There were also three
nondescript loafers of the riff-raff type who are always found on any
frontier and who will do anything for money. But Ramsay centered his
gaze on the fifth man in the Mackinaw boat.

There could be no mistaking him, even in the mist. It was Devil Chad.

The other boat came nearer and was much easier to see. Ramsay felt a
cold chill seize him. All the men in the boat were armed with shotguns,
and they could sweep the pound boat from one end to the other if there
was to be a fight. Ramsay glanced at Jake Hillis. The constable was
sitting quietly, tense and strained, but he did not seem to be afraid.

Devil Chad's bellow blasted, "What are you doin' here?"

Ramsay heard Hans' low laugh and his quiet, "The man is most uncivil."

"Don't get smart with me!" Devil Chad threatened. "You come to rob our
net, didn't you?"

Hans, surprised, made a momentary slip. "Your net?"

"Yes, our net! You come to rob it like you robbed all the rest!" Chad's
expressionless eyes pierced Jake Hillis like daggers. "What are you
doin' here?"

Hans answered calmly. "He is here as our guest, and at our invitation.
Now let us hear some more about 'your' net."

"You know what I mean! Touch it an' we start shootin'!"

"But we haven't touched anything," Hans said smilingly. He turned to
Jake Hillis. "Have we?"

Jake Hillis, too dull-witted for quick evasion, said, "No, you haven't."

Cold rage mounted within Ramsay. He swung his shotgun so that the muzzle
centered squarely on Devil Chad. If it came to a gun battle, he decided
grimly, his arch-enemy would at least be shot at.

Hans, unruffled, took command. "Where is your net? Show us."

"Right here."

Ramsay heard the mockery in Hans' voice. "And I suppose that it is a
gill net?"

"How'd you know that?" Devil Chad challenged.

"I gazed into my crystal ball," Hans said smoothly, "and I discovered
that, when one fisherman wishes to eliminate a competitor, he can
always stretch a gill net across the tunnel of a pound net. There is
certain to be a battle, and whoever survives controls the fishing."

Ramsay began to understand. Fishing on Lake Michigan was governed by no
enforceable law but only by the ethics of the fishermen themselves. Most
of them were ethical; when one found a good fishing ground, others
usually respected his rights. But there was no law that said they had to
respect them. Should one fisherman care to trespass on the rights of
another, he could always find some way to provoke a quarrel. Then,
regardless of anything else that happened, he could say that he was only
trying to protect his property or claim in some other way that his was a
just quarrel. Few people would be able to prove to the contrary.

Then a blue-and-white buoy, a marker used on a gill net, floated into
sight. Hans saw it, too, and again his voice was mocking. "Is that the
net you mean?"

There were subdued voices on the Mackinaw boat. Joe Mannis put his
shotgun down and stepped to the bow of the boat with a gaff hook in his
hand. He lay prone, stabbed with the gaff, and hooked the buoy. Foot by
foot he reeled in thirty yards of tattered gill net. Hans' scornful
laughter rolled like a barrel through the mist and bounded back in
echoes. Ramsay, highly amused, echoed Hans.

"Find your other buoy!" Hans called. "Pull it in, take it home, and
repair your gill net! But do not again set it on our fishing grounds!"

The Mackinaw boat floated into the mist. Ramsay saw the baffled rage on
Devil Chad's face. But mostly he was aware of the contempt of Hans for
Devil Chad.

"Here!" Hans called. "You're missing a man!" He turned to Jake Hillis.
The constable glowered back, like a stupid horse.

"Want to swim over and join your little friends?" Hans invited.

"No."

"Well, we brought you out from the sand. We'll take you back to the
sand."

Hans' shoulders were shaking with silent mirth as he bent his back to
the pound boat's oars. He steered in to the pier they had built, and
expertly nosed the boat in to its landing. A mist-draped wraith, Marta,
awaited them. "What happened?" she queried anxiously.

"Nothing," Pieter assured her.

"A great deal," Hans corrected. "They caught the White Sturgeon, for no
other fish in the lake could have wrecked a net so completely. I told
you we have a friend."

He took a pouch from his pocket, counted five silver dollars from it,
and dropped them into Jake Hillis' hand. Captain Klaus flew down from
the house top to alight on Hans' shoulder. "_Quark!_" he squawked.

As though he understood perfectly, Hans said, "That is right, my little
one." And to Jake Hillis he said, "If you see them, tell them not to
come again."

Deliberately turning his back on the constable, Hans stared out over the
lake. Then Jake Hillis was gone, and somehow it was as though he had
never even been with them. Ramsay waited expectantly. Hans turned away
from his intent study of the lake, and he was frowning as though there
was some complicated problem which he must solve. Yet when he spoke, his
voice betrayed nothing abnormal and there was no sign that he might have
been under the least strain. "Perhaps it would be well not to fish again
today. That is a shame, for the season draws to a close and we cannot
fish much longer, anyway. Still, we have done all that it is necessary
to do, and next year we will be well-situated. We will have gear and
tackle. I go to work on the boat."

Ramsay asked, "Do you think they will come again?"

Hans answered deliberately, "I do not think so, but no man may say for
certain. They are not without determined and intelligent leadership. If
he does come again, he will come hard and directly at us. He will not
bother with the nets. There is no need to keep a patrol on the lake
tonight."

Without another word Hans turned on his heel and strode off to where the
_Spray II_ was supported on its blocks. Ramsay went into the barn,
shouldered a hundred-pound sack of cornmeal, and carried it to the pond
in which he had imprisoned almost countless sturgeon. With both hands he
cast the ground corn into the pool, and returned for another sack, and
another. Then he stood with the last empty sack limp in his hands, idly
watching the pond.

It had been an exciting summer, the most adventurous and most satisfying
he could remember, but it must soon end.

Already there was a hint of frost in the air, and frost meant that the
whitefish would soon spawn. Nothing could persuade Hans to fish in the
spawning season, when every fish caught meant the loss of perhaps ten
that might be. Even if Hans would have fished, autumn meant storms when
none but a fool would venture onto the lake in a small boat.

Ramsay turned slowly away from the pond. He wandered over to where Hans
was working on the _Spray II_. It was to be a Mackinaw boat, somewhat
like a canoe, and it was to be used for setting gill nets. These, Ramsay
understood, could be set almost as soon as the ice went out.

Handy with almost any sort of tool, Hans himself had fashioned a wood
vise that turned on a wooden gear. He had a section of cedar stump
clamped in the vise, and with a rasp and a fine-toothed saw he was
painstakingly fashioning a rib for the _Spray II_. Unhurried, a true
artist, he shaped one side of the rib to the other. When he had
finished, it was a perfect thing, so evenly balanced that a feather's
weight on either side might have unbalanced it. Ramsay wandered away,
satisfied. The _Spray II_ was to be no ordinary vessel. There would not
be another Mackinaw boat on Lake Michigan to match it.

Restlessly Ramsay worked on the seine until Marta called them. He ate,
went to bed, and dropped into his usual instant deep slumber.

At first he was vaguely irritated because noises in the night disturbed
him. Then he identified those sounds as the crying of an alarmed sea
gull. Captain Klaus, on top of the roof, was vehemently protesting
something. Ramsay became aware of a strange, unreal sunrise reflecting
through his bedroom window.

Fully awake, he rushed to the window, and saw that, down on the beach,
all their boats were burning fiercely.

CHAPTER TWELVE

_THE POND_

Captain Klaus made a swooping flight that carried him out toward the
burning boats. Frightened by a puff of smoke, he flew back to the top of
the house and continued to call querulously.

For a moment Ramsay stood still, petrified by the spectacle. Then his
shout alarmed the house. "Hans! Pieter!"

By the light that flickered through his window he sprang for his
clothing and hastily pulled his trousers on. Letting the tails and front
hang out, he donned his shirt and put shoes on his bare feet. He was
aware of muffled cries echoing from the rest of the house, and a lighted
candle flared in the hall.

He rushed out to meet Hans coming from his bedroom, and a second later
Pieter's door flew open. Only half-awake and less than half-dressed, the
latter blinked like a sleepy dog in the candle's little light.

Marta peered uneasily over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"The boats are burning!" Ramsay gasped.

With a mighty, outraged lion's roar, Pieter came fully awake and sprang
toward the stairs. For one brief second Ramsay was aware of Marta's
face, dead-white, then he leaped to follow Pieter. Holding the candle
aloft, Hans followed. Again the Dutch fisherman seemed to take complete
command of the situation. There was anger in his voice but no trace of
panic when he warned the other two, "Slowly! Go slowly!"

His hand on the kitchen door, Pieter halted. Ramsay paused uncertainly
behind him, and Hans blew the candle out. The Dutch fisherman had
weathered so many savage storms that he seemed to know exactly what to
do, no matter what the crisis. Ramsay watched and approved. He must
learn to be more like Hans and to rule the emergencies that arose rather
than let them rule him.

Hans spoke again, "Let us not go like sheep to the slaughter. If they
came again, they are probably armed and they may shoot. Pieter, get the
guns."

Pieter shuffled off to the dark kitchen and came back. Ramsay felt the
familiar shotgun being pressed into his hands, and he knew that Hans and
Pieter each had a pistol. Because that seemed the thing to do, Ramsay
waited until Hans acted. The Dutch fisherman spoke again, and his voice
remained unruffled. "We cannot tell who or what is out there. Until we
discover exactly, keep out of the light cast by the burning boats. Do
not use your guns unless they shoot first. Then shoot to kill. Come on."

Silent as a shadow, Hans slipped into the blackness that reigned at the
back of the house. Pieter followed, while Ramsay brought up the rear. He
shivered, but only part of his chill was caused by the cold night. This
afternoon on the pound boat he had felt only tense excitement. But then
Hans and Pieter had backed him and their presence had been a very real
thing. Now, in the night, he was almost completely unaware of them. It
was as though he stood completely alone.

Ramsay felt his way along the rear wall of the house to the corner, and
there the darkness was broken by the glare from the burning boats.
Ramsay crept up beside Hans and peered around the corner.

The mist was gone, and a sharp breeze had sprung up in its wake. Every
night, when the fishing was done, or any time at all when they weren't
being used, the pound boats were pulled far up on the shore. Casting a
circle of light over the water, the burning boats illuminated the rising
waves whose whitecaps broke and fell. A fierce storm was in the making.

Ramsay's fear gave way to terrible anger. The wind from the lake would
have fanned the flames anyway, but obviously, before they had been set
on fire, the two pound boats had been coated with tar, pitch, or
something else that would burn hard and assure their complete
destruction. They were already charred beyond the faintest hope of
salvation. Ramsay gritted his teeth.

Hans left the house and swung back, away from the lake, on a course that
would keep him in the shadows. Ramsay followed, and he was aware of
Pieter following him. There was not the least sign of the raiders or of
the boat they might have come in. Ramsay hesitated. Perhaps they had
done their work and fled, or perhaps they were lurking in ambush near
the burning boats. Five shotguns could be ready to cut down whoever
came.

Then Ramsay set all his doubts at rest. He knew what he must do.

There could no longer be any question but that this was Devil Chad's
work. He controlled everything around Three Points that made any money.
He was out to gain control of the fishing, too, and he was not a man who
would leave any job half-done. Failing to provoke a fight because the
White Sturgeon had ruined his gill net, he had taken the direct
approach. Beyond any doubt he would be able to produce any number of
witnesses who would swear that Hans, Ramsay and Pieter were the
aggressors. Ramsay knew what he was going to do about this.

"Take the shotgun," he whispered, and pressed the weapon upon Pieter.

"But ..."

"Take it," Ramsay repeated.

Leaving the shotgun with the bewildered Pieter, he dropped to the ground
and wormed farther away from the circle of light. Into the shadows he
went, then on toward the lake. Now he did not know where Hans and Pieter
were or what they were doing, but he was positive that they would take
any action necessary when the time came. He no longer felt alone.

This was a thing that could never be settled with guns but must be
slugged out toe to toe and man to man. The fishing was worthwhile, and
any man who would get and keep anything worthwhile had to be ready to
fight for it. If Devil Chad had already fled, tomorrow they must go into
Three Points and seek him out.

Ramsay halted, peering around. He could see nothing clearly. The flames
had died down and there was only dimness, filled with varying shadows
that were most difficult to identify. But what was that down at the edge
of the lake?

It seemed to rise and fall with the rising and falling waves. Most of
the shadows were there one second and flitted away the next, but this
did not flit away, and after another thirty seconds Ramsay was fairly
sure that it was a Mackinaw boat, anchored out in the lake. Its crew had
waded ashore from it and, when and if they ran, they would wade back to
it.

Ramsay began a slow, steady crawl toward the anchored craft. The burning
pound boats flared brightly, seeming to ring him with a halo of light.
He shrank back, certain he could be seen, then as the glare subsided,
crawled forward again. If he could see no one in the darkness, neither
could anyone see him.

He was within thirty yards of the lake now, and he no longer gave a
thought to Hans and Pieter. He was sure only that they would be present
when they were needed and that his way was the right one. There could be
no compromise with destruction and no lingering aftermath of this
outrage. Whatever was to be settled had to be settled completely, and
tonight.

Ramsay was certain now that the thing he saw was an anchored Mackinaw
boat. It remained in the same place, rising and falling with the waves,
and no nebulous shadow did that. Intent on the boat, he was not aware of
the man until he heard his voice, "Gus, you fool! I said be quiet!"

Ramsay held very still, and a rising exultation flooded him. He had
heard that voice before, and there was only one just like it. He had
heard it first when he stood on the _Holter_--that seemed years ago. He
knew that he lay within feet of Devil Chad, who was indeed waiting in
ambush with his men.

The angry voice repeated, "Be quiet! They'll come!"

Ramsay rose and rushed forward, flinging himself into this combat with
all the fierce joy of a newly awakened warrior. He had given a full
summer, an important part of his life, to building up a career which he
greatly loved. Now he stood ready to defend it with his muscles, his
heart and, if need be, his life.

He saw Devil Chad rise uncertainly to meet him, not knowing whether he
was friend or foe. He aimed a mighty kick at the shotgun in the other's
hands, and he knew that he had knocked it completely out of his enemy's
grasp. He felt a fresh burst of wind on his cheek and, strangely, knew
all about the storm that was brewing on the great lake. He closed with
his enemy.

Devil Chad and his men had come to destroy and, if necessary, to kill.
But they had counted on Ramsay, Pieter and Hans, charging angrily up the
sand beach. Outlined against the burning boats, they would be at a
tremendous disadvantage. A hail of lead from five shotguns could cut
them down in almost no time. They had their choice between surrendering
or dying for what they believed in.

It had never occurred to Devil Chad or his men that an enemy would dare
crawl into their very midst. The darkness that had befriended them now
became their enemy. Nobody dared shoot because nobody could possibly be
certain whether he were shooting at friend or foe. Ramsay edged up to
Devil Chad and swung a tremendous upper-cut to the other's jaw.

He missed, felt his knuckles graze his enemy's cheek, and stepped back
for a new try. Only vaguely was he aware of muffled exclamations that
became shouts and then grunts. He knew that Pieter and Hans had closed
in. Then it was as though he and Devil Chad were alone.

This was something that had to be. The seed that made the task necessary
had been planted long ago, on the _Holter_. It had taken deep root
during the fight in the tannery. Since that time Ramsay had met every
challenge the lake had flung at him. Now he would have to prove himself
capable of meeting the challenges men flung at him. Then, and only then,
could he survive.

Ramsay's lips framed a grin. He had taken the risk, and he had won. For
one brief second somebody might have shot him down, then the opportunity
was forever gone. Now nobody dared shoot. He found a firm footing on the
lake sand.

Ramsay dodged a terrific blow that would have knocked him flat had it
connected, and went back in with his arms swinging. He sunk a left and a
right to his adversary's midriff and heard Devil Chad's breath whistle
out of his clenched lips. He drew back to strike again.

Like the bull he was, Devil Chad charged recklessly. He took Ramsay's
stinging blows without flinching, and the boy had to give ground. But it
was not lost ground, and for one brief, glorious second Ramsay stood and
traded blows. His head rocked, but he took what the other had to offer
and returned it in full measure. Then he learned his mistake.

A pair of gigantic arms were flung about his middle. They tightened like
a vise, bending him backward and seeming to compress him into a space
not half-big enough. His spine was ready to crack, and lights danced in
his head. He gasped for air.

The many lessons he had been taught by Hans Van Doorst came to his
rescue. Four months ago, and perhaps even one month ago, the fight would
have been ended by that terrific bear hug. But now Ramsay remembered in
time that he was not fighting a man alone but a man who was part beast.
And it was never wise to lose one's head. A man must always adapt
himself and fight like a beast if he fought with one.

Summoning all his remaining strength, Ramsay drew back his right foot
and sent his heavy shoe smashing into Devil Chad's shin. The fellow
relaxed his hold and staggered back into the darkness.

Ramsay stumbled away from him. Devil Chad was a bull, he remembered, and
he did not know about matadors. The next time he rushed, the boy stepped
aside and let his opponent's momentum carry him past. Ramsay's strength
and breath came back.

He became cool, able to reason coolly. Devil Chad outweighed him by
fifty pounds, so he must not close again. If he did not, and there were
no accidents, he, Ramsay, would win this fight. For the first time in
his life Devil Chad was fighting his equal.

Ramsay felt strength swell within him. It was the strength of the lake,
and it had flowed into his body through the numberless sturgeon he had
carried to the pond and from the many times he had helped bring in the
seine and from the many fish he had scooped from the raised pound nets.
He was no longer a boy but a man.

The burning pound boats were falling into embers now, and as the light
they cast receded the blackness of the night became more intense. Wind
keened in from the lake, and the waves assaulting the sand beach made
themselves heard.

Ramsay waded in, his fists flying. In the darkness he was aware of Devil
Chad coming to meet him, but his deception of his opponent was complete.
From the first, he had had no intention of meeting him squarely.

He stepped aside, lashing out with both fists as he did so, and felt
both of them collide soddenly with Devil Chad's chin. The latter
bellowed, swung his head and hooked viciously. But he hooked falsely,
for Ramsay was not there. His lithe body, dodging and twisting, now here
and now there, became like the cape that lures the bull to its doom.
Devil Chad swung and kicked, and often he struck his target. But he did
not strike hard enough to bring Ramsay down, and he could not again get
a grip with his giant arms, although he tried desperately.

Roaring wildly, he charged. But it was a blind, mad attack, directed
almost completely by rage and desperation.

Ramsay licked his upper lip, vaguely aware of the fact that he was
tasting his own blood but not caring. He felt no pain, and it was oddly
as though he sat on some high pinnacle from which he could watch himself
and direct himself. Both his fists lashed squarely into Devil Chad's
face, driven by all the strength in his hard, young body.

Devil Chad paused, as though bewildered, and Ramsay knew that he was
stunned. Not stopping, throwing some of his caution to the wind, he
followed up his advantage. His fists worked like cracking whips as he
struck again and again. Devil Chad spun around, took two halting steps,
and sank to one knee.

He remained there like some carved statue, and again Ramsay licked away
the blood that flowed down his face. Now, if he did the correct thing,
he would go in and end it with kicking feet. He would beat Devil Chad as
mercilessly as he had been beaten. But he did not.

He waited, cool and poised, while the other bowed before him. Only when
Devil Chad lurched to his feet and struck out drunkenly did Ramsay go in
again, and he went in with his fists. He beat a continuous, almost
unopposed tatto on his enemy's chin. The second time Devil Chad
collapsed he measured his full length on the sand, and he did not move
again.

Ramsay stood watching intently for several moments. He wanted to make
certain that he had met his enemy fairly and defeated him fairly. How
long he had been fighting he did not know. It seemed like a few seconds,
but it must have been much longer. He only knew that he had come out of
the battle stronger than he was when he went into it. He called, "Hans?"

"Here," the Dutch fisherman answered.

His voice was strained, but even now there was nothing of desperation in
it. Rather, it was a joyous voice. Ramsay turned toward it and saw
scuffling men. He approached them and reached out with groping hands
until he touched another man. It was neither Hans nor Pieter, and as
soon as he was sure of that he swung.

He felt a strong disappointment, for the heat of battle flared strong
within him and, instead of fighting back, the man merely collapsed on
the sand. Obviously he had already been manhandled by Hans and had
little strength left. Ramsay looked strangely at him, as though there
was something that should not be. Then he became aware of the fact that
dawn had come and he could see. He turned to help Hans or Pieter,
whichever needed it the most, and he turned just in time to see Hans hit
Joe Mannis so hard that the body-watcher flew into the air, described a
little backward whirl, and fell on the sand.

Hans stood, shaggy and huge, breathing hard, but unbeaten and
unbeatable. Moving over beside him, Ramsay felt that at last he was
worthy to stand there. Both watched while Pieter teased the single
remaining man, one of the hired ruffians who had helped set the gill
net, then slapped him resoundingly on both cheeks. As though he were
unworthy of further notice, Pieter whirled on his heel and left his foe.
The man went weaving up the beach into the lightening morning.

Hans grinned wryly at Ramsay. "Your face, it looks like a horse stepped
on it."

"You've got a couple of mosquito bites yourself."

"Yaah." Hans grinned again.

Ramsay said, "They got our boats."

Hans said, "They got our nets, too. Joe Mannis, he told me that when we
fought. They would get us, he said."

"They didn't."

"No, they didn't."

They turned at a sudden wooden scraping out on the lake, and saw the
Mackinaw boat under way. Beaten and bruised, Devil Chad crouched at the
oars. Hurriedly he sent the boat farther out, toward the open lake. They
watched as though this were some foreign sight of no interest whatever.

Hans walked over to prod Joe Mannis with the toe of his shoe. "Get up,"
he said.

Joe Mannis stirred and groaned. He opened his eyes, blinked stupidly and
raised himself on one hand. There was a deceptive gentleness in Hans'
words and tone, but Joe Mannis was not deceived. He knew that Hans meant
it when he said, "Come down the beach once more after this storm. You
will find something to interest only you. Then never let me see you
again. If I do, I will drown you in the lake."

Hans looked out on the lake, into the gathering storm and at the
receding Mackinaw boat. High waves were already clawing at it, and Devil
Chad was not yet out of the bay. Hans said, "He is not a fisherman. He
is not even a sailor. I myself would think twice about taking the
_Spray_ out now."

Near the boat something white, something not born of the rolling
whitecaps, appeared for a second and disappeared. Ramsay smiled softly.
He knew that he had again seen the White Sturgeon. He also knew what Joe
Mannis would find in the morning. Devil Chad.

The three partners walked back down the sand to the embers of the pound
boats. They stood near them, warming themselves in the last of the
fire. Ramsay prodded the sand with his toe.

They were right back where they had started. A whole summer's hard work
had gone to satisfy the greed and lust of one man. What they had left
was the seine, the row boat, the forming skeleton of the _Spray II_ and
the pier. Ramsay set his jaw. They could do it again. They had done it
once.

He looked toward the Mackinaw boat, and discovered that it had gone out
of the bay into the open lake. But his eyes were attracted by something
else on the horizon.

A moment later he identified it as a plume of smoke. Five minutes
afterward, storm-lashed but defiant, the _Jackson_ nosed out of the lake
into the sheltered bay. Manned by able seamen, sure of herself, the
_Jackson_ came up to her accustomed place at the pier. Ramsay, Hans and
Pieter caught her mooring ropes.

Resplendent in his uniform, little Captain Williamson came down his rope
ladder and strutted on the pier. "A blow," he said, as though a storm on
Lake Michigan meant nothing to him. "We'll tie up here until it's over,
then go back to Chicago. Have you got any fish?"

"Some," Ramsay admitted.

He thought of the ten barrels of whitefish that were ready for shipment,
and he watched Captain Williamson's face fall. The little captain
emitted a long sigh. "Some, eh? I was hoping for better news. Chicago's
growing like a weed in the sun, and it's hungry. Most of the fishermen
made their last shipments ten days ago. The markets are almost empty,
and even sturgeon's bringing five cents a pound."

For one brief second the storm clouds parted and the sun shone through.
Then the sky was again overcast and the storm leaped furiously. Ramsay
turned his shining face toward Hans and Pieter. The tons of sturgeon in
the pond ... At five cents a pound there would be more than enough
money to replace everything and to buy the finest planking for the
_Spray II_.

Ramsay said, "Save plenty of room on the _Jackson_. We'll need it."

On top of the ridge-pole, Captain Klaus fluttered his long wings and
curved his sinuous neck. As though he approved thoroughly he called,
"_Quark!_"

_Books by Jim Kjelgaard_

BIG RED

REBEL SIEGE

FOREST PATROL

BUCKSKIN BRIGADE

CHIP, THE DAM BUILDER

FIRE HUNTER

IRISH RED

KALAK OF THE ICE

A NOSE FOR TROUBLE

SNOW DOG

TRAILING TROUBLE

WILD TREK

THE SPELL OF THE WHITE STURGEON

THE EXPLORATIONS OF PERE MARQUETTE