uch a man would suffer under
that turn of fortune,--that would help to square accounts. It would be
only a measure of justice. To be dealt with as he had dealt with
others,--MacRae asked no more than that for himself.

But it was not likely, he reflected. One bad season would not seriously
involve a wary old bird like Horace Gower. He was too secure behind
manifold bulwarks. Still in the end,--more spectacular things had come
to pass in the affairs of men on this kaleidoscopic coast. MacRae's face
was hard in the moonlight. His eyes were somber. It was an ugly feeling
to nurse. For thirty years that sort of impotent bitterness must have
rankled in his father's breast--with just cause, MacRae told himself
moodily. No wonder old Donald had been a grave and silent man; a just,
kindly, generous man, too. Other men had liked him, respected him. Gower
alone had been implacable.

Well into the red and yellow dawn MacRae stood at the wheel, thinking of
this, an absent look in eyes which still kept keen watch ahead. He was
glad when it came time for Steve's watch on deck, and he could lie down
and let sleep drive it out of his mind. He did not live solely to
revenge himself upon Horace Gower. He had his own way to make and his
own plans--even if they were still a bit nebulous--to fulfill. It was
only now and then that the past saddened him and made him bitter.

The week following brought great runs of salmon to the Jew's Mouth. Of
these the _Folly Bay No. 5_ somehow failed to get the lion's share. The
gill-net men laughed in their soiled sleeves and furtively swept the bay
clear each night and all night, and the daytime haul of the seine fell
far below the average. The _Blackbird_ and the _Bluebird_ waddled down a
placid Gulf with all they could carry.

And although there was big money-making in this short stretch, and the
secret satisfaction of helping put another spoke in Gower's wheel,
MacRae did not neglect the rest of his territory nor the few trollers
that still worked Squitty Island. He ran long hours to get their few
fish. It was their living, and MacRae would not pass them up because
their catch meant no profit compared to the time he spent and the fuel
he burned making this round. He would drive straight up the Gulf from
Bellingham to Squitty, circle the Island and then across to the mouth of
the Solomon. The weather was growing cool now. Salmon would keep
unspoiled a long time in a trailer's hold. It did not matter