While the coho and the humpback, which came about the same time, and the dog salmon, which comes last of all—­but each to function in the same manner and sequence—­laid in the salt-water bays, resting, it would seem, before the last and most terrible struggle of their brief existence, the gill-net fishermen and the cannery purse-seine boats took toll of them.  The trollers harried them from the moment they showed in the Gulf, because the coho will strike at a glittering spoon anywhere in salt water.  But the net boats take them in hundreds at one drift, and the purse seiners gather thousands at a time in a single sweep of the great bag-like seine.

When September days brought the cohoes in full force along with cooler nights and a great burst of rain that drowned the forest fires and cleared away the enshrouding smoke, leaving only the pleasant haze of autumn, the Folly Bay purse-seine boats went out to work.  The trolling fleet scattered from Squitty Island.  Some steamed north to the troubled waters of Salmon River and Blackfish Sound, some to the Redondas where spring salmon could be taken.  Many put by their trolling gear and hung their gill nets.  A few gas boats and a few rowboat men held to the Island, depending upon stray schools and the spring salmon that haunted certain reefs and points and beds of kelp.  But the main fleet scattered over two hundred miles of sea.

MacRae could have called it a season and quit with honor and much profit.  Or he might have gone north and bought salmon here and there, free-lancing.  He did neither.  There were enough gill-netters operating on Gower’s territory to give him fair cargoes.  Every salmon he could divert from the cans at Folly Bay meant,—­well, he did not often stop to ask precisely what that did mean to him.  But he never passed Poor Man’s Rock, bleak and brown at low tide, or with seas hissing over it when the tide was at flood, without thinking of his father, of the days and months and years old Donald MacRae had lived and worked in sight of the Rock,—­a life at the last lonely and cheerless and embittered by the sight of his ancient enemy preening his feathers in Cradle Bay.  Old Donald had lived for thirty years unable to return a blow which had scarred his face and his heart in the same instant.  But his son felt that he was making better headway.  It is unlikely that Donald MacRae ever looked at Gower’s cottage nestling like a snowflake in the green lee of Point Old, or cast his eyes over that lost estate of his, with more unchristian feelings than did his son.  In Jack MacRae’s mind the Golden Rule did not apply to Horace Gower, nor to aught in which Gower was concerned.

So he stayed on Folly Bay territory with a dual purpose:  to make money for himself, and to deprive Gower of profit where he could.  He was wise enough to know that was the only way he could hurt a man like Gower.  And he wanted to hurt Gower.  The intensity of that desire grew.  It was a point of honor, the old inborn clan pride that never compromised an injury or an insult or an injustice, which neither forgave nor forgot.