fish fast until it is drowned. Because no sturgeon can pass
through a Chinese line, the device is called a trap in the fish
laws; and because it bids fair to exterminate the sturgeon, it is
branded by the fish laws as illegal. And such a line, we were
confident, Big Alec intended setting, in open and flagrant
violation of the law.
Several days passed after the visit of Big Alec, during which
Charley and I kept a sharp watch on him. He towed his ark around
the Solano Wharf and into the big bight at Turner’s Shipyard. The
bight we knew to be good ground for sturgeon, and there we felt
sure the King of the Greeks intended to begin operations. The tide
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
14
circled like a mill-race in and out of this bight, and made it
possible to raise, lower, or set a Chinese line only at slack
water. So between the tides Charley and I made it a point for one
or the other of us to keep a lookout from the Solano Wharf.
On the fourth day I was lying in the sun behind the stringer-piece
of the wharf, when I saw a skiff leave the distant shore and pull
out into the bight. In an instant the glasses were at my eyes and
I was following every movement of the skiff. There were two men in
it, and though it was a good mile away, I made out one of them to
be Big Alec; and ere the skiff returned to shore I made out enough
more to know that the Greek had set his line.
“Big Alec has a Chinese line out in the bight off Turner’s
Shipyard,” Charley Le Grant said that afternoon to Carmintel.
A fleeting expression of annoyance passed over the patrolman’s
face, and then he said, “Yes?” in an absent way, and that was all.
Charley bit his lip with suppressed anger and turned on his heel.
“Are you game, my lad?” he said to me later on in the evening, just
as we finished washing down the Reindeer’s decks and were preparing
to turn in.
A lump came up in my throat, and I could only nod my head.
“Well, then,” and Charley’s eyes glittered in a determined way,
“we’ve got to capture Big Alec between us, you and I, and we’ve got
to do it in spite of Carmintel. Will you lend a hand?”
“It’s a hard proposition, but we can do it,” he added after a
pause.
“Of course we can,” I supplemented enthusiastically.
And then he said, “Of course we can,” and we shook hands on it and
went to bed.
But it was no easy task we had set ourselves. In order to convict
a man of illegal fishing, it was necessary to catch him in the act
with all the evidence of the crime about him – the hooks, the
lines, the fish, and the man himself. This meant that we must take
Big Alec on the open water, where he could see us coming and
prepare for us one of the warm receptions for which he was noted.
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
15
“There’s no getting around it,” Charley said one morning. “If we
can only get alongside it’s an even toss, and there’s nothing left
for us but to try and get alongside. Come on, lad.”
We were in the Columbia River salmon boat, the one we had used
against the Chinese shrimp-catchers. Slack water had come, and as
we dropped around the end of the Solano Wharf we saw Big Alec at
work, running his line and removing the fish.
“Change places,” Charley commanded, “and steer just astern of him
as though you’re going into the shipyard.”
I took the tiller, and Charley sat down on a thwart amidships,
placing his revolver handily beside him.
“If he begins to shoot,” he cautioned, “get down in the bottom and
steer from there, so that nothing more than your hand will be
exposed.”
I nodded, and we kept silent after that, the boat slipping gently
through the water and Big Alec growing nearer and nearer. We could
see him quite plainly, gaffing the sturgeon and throwing them into
the boat while his companion ran the line and cleared the hooks as
he dropped them back into the water. Nevertheless, we were five
hundred yards away when the big fisherman hailed us.
“Here! You! What do you want?” he shouted.
“Keep going,” Charley whispered, “just as though you didn’t hear
him.”
The next few moments were very anxious ones. The fisherman was
studying us sharply, while we were gliding up on him every second.
“You keep off if you know what’s good for you!” he called out
suddenly, as though he had made up his mind as to who and what we
were. “If you don’t, I’ll fix you!”
He brought a rifle to his shoulder and trained it on me.
“Now will you keep off?” he demanded.
I could hear Charley groan with disappointment. “Keep off,” he
whispered; “it’s all up for this time.”
I put up the tiller and eased the sheet, and the salmon boat ran
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
16
off five or six points. Big Alec watched us till we were out of
range, when he returned to his work.
“You’d better leave Big Alec alone,” Carmintel said, rather sourly,
to Charley that night.
“So he’s been complaining to you, has he?” Charley said
significantly.
Carmintel flushed painfully. “You’d better leave him alone, I tell
you,” he repeated. “He’s a dangerous man, and it won’t pay to fool
with him.”
“Yes,” Charley answered softly; “I’ve heard that it pays better to
leave him alone.”
This was a direct thrust at Carmintel, and we could see by the
expression of his face that it sank home. For it was common
knowledge that Big Alec was as willing to bribe as to fight, and
that of late years more than one patrolman had handled the
fisherman’s money.
“Do you mean to say – ” Carmintel began, in a bullying tone.
But Charley cut him off shortly. “I mean to say nothing,” he said.
“You heard what I said, and if the cap fits, why – ”
He shrugged his shoulders, and Carmintel glowered at him,
speechless.
“What we want is imagination,” Charley said to me one day, when we
had attempted to creep upon Big Alec in the gray of dawn and had
been shot at for our trouble.
And thereafter, and for many days, I cudgelled my brains trying to
imagine some possible way by which two men, on an open stretch of
water, could capture another who knew how to use a rifle and was
never to be found without one. Regularly, every slack water,
without slyness, boldly and openly in the broad day, Big Alec was
to be seen running his line. And what made it particularly
exasperating was the fact that every fisherman, from Benicia to
Vallejo knew that he was successfully defying us. Carmintel also
bothered us, for he kept us busy among the shad-fishers of San
Pablo, so that we had little time to spare on the King of the
Greeks. But Charley’s wife and children lived at Benicia, and we
had made the place our headquarters, so that we always returned to
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
17
it.
“I’ll tell you what we can do,” I said, after several fruitless
weeks had passed; “we can wait some slack water till Big Alec has
run his line and gone ashore with the fish, and then we can go out
and capture the line. It will put him to time and expense to make
another, and then we’ll figure to capture that too. If we can’t
capture him, we can discourage him, you see.”
Charley saw, and said it wasn’t a bad idea. We watched our chance,
and the next low-water slack, after Big Alec had removed the fish
from the line and returned ashore, we went out in the salmon boat.
We had the bearings of the line from shore marks, and we knew we
would have no difficulty in locating it. The first of the flood
tide was setting in, when we ran below where we thought the line
was stretched and dropped over a fishing-boat anchor. Keeping a
short rope to the anchor, so that it barely touched the bottom, we
dragged it slowly along until it stuck and the boat fetched up hard
and fast.
“We’ve got it,” Charley cried. “Come on and lend a hand to get it
in.”
Together we hove up the rope till the anchor I came in sight with
the sturgeon line caught across one of the flukes. Scores of the
murderous-looking hooks flashed into sight as we cleared the
anchor, and we had just started to run along the line to the end
where we could begin to lift it, when a sharp thud in the boat