A half-hour later, when the new flotilla had come to anchor a short distance below, Emerson's companion began to swear.
"I might have known it."
"What?"
"Marsh aims to 'cork' us."
"What is that?"
"He's going to build a trap on each side of this one and cut off our fish."
"Good Lord! Can he do that?"
"Sure. Why not? The law gives us six hundred yards both ways. As long as he stays outside of that limit he can do anything he wants to."
"Then of what use is our trap? The salmon follow definite courses close to the shore, and if he intercepts them before they reach us—why, then we'll get only what he lets through."
"That's his plan," said Big George, sourly, "It's an old game, but it don't always work. You can't tell what salmon will do till they do it. I've studied this point of land for five years, and I know more about it than anybody else except God 'lmighty. If the fish hug the shore, then we're up against it, but I think they strike in about here; that's why I chose this site. We can't tell, though, till the run starts. All we can do now is see that them people keep their distance."