“Chinks—one of them’s building a fire; they’ve got a boat up on the sand. Abalone hunters, most likely, making a camp here for the fishing. Say, Bud, I believe they’re hatchet men.”
“What are hatchet men?”
“Pirates turned inside out and painted to look like fishermen—just robbers, abalone poachers and smugglin’ if they can get a chance, wickedest lot out of hell,—I’m judging by the look of them. Have a squint.”
He handed the powerful glasses to George who leveled them in the direction of the bay.
The field of sight suddenly swarmed with Chinamen moving against the glitter of white sand. Small, dingy-looking men, wearing big straw hats,—a fire had been lit and the white smoke curled upwards against the tents. Near one of the tents a Chinaman was working over a heap of what looked like abalones.
“Hullo!” cried George.
“What’s up?” asked Hank.
“There’s a white man with them, he’s just come out of one of the tents—a long thin looking devil. What on earth’s he with them for?”
Hank took the glass.
“Sure enough there is,” said Hank, “look at his hair all hanging over his face. He looks to be bossing the Chinks. It’s plain now what they are. Smugglers, opium or dope of some sort. I’ve heard the trade’s in the hands of whites, they run it into Santa Barbara plugged into abalone shells. Bud! Say! Bud! There’s a girl! She’s just come out of the right-hand tent with a little chap after her, looks like a Mexican. She’s a white—looks like a lady—she’s crying, she’s got her handkerchief to her face—Bud, this gets me!”