Revenge of the Manitou by Graham Masterton Read Free Book Online

having their picture
taken in front of Bodega Bay’s well-worn collection of whales’ jaws and sharks’
teeth. As Neil put the last licks of varnish on the doors, Doughty got up off
his perch and came strolling along the jetty. He paused by the White Dove’s
berth, and stood watching Neil for a while, puffing and gurgling at his pipe.
    “I reckon
you’ve got yourself a few good hours’ work in that beaten-up tub,” he remarked.
“I never saw anyone handle a craft so badly, the way that Mr. Collings knocked her about. I was damned surprised he never
drowned himself.”
    Neil shrugged.
“It’s his funeral,” he said, noncommittally. Doughty grunted. He was nearly
eighty, with a big, wrinkled face that was weather-beaten to a dull red color.
He wore the same navy-blue reefer jacket that he had worn the first time Neil’s
father had brought him down to the jetty twenty years ago and hefty fisherman’s
rubbers. There was a time when he had operated a fishing fleet of his own, but
that was long before most people could remember.
    “I don’t know
why you bother fancying that boat up so nice,” Doughty said. “You know that
he’s going to knock her about just as bad next summer.”
    “I do it
because he pays me,” replied Neil.
    Doughty sighed.
“You’re not like your father. Nor your grandfather, for that
matter.”
    “I never said I
was. And from what I’ve been told about my grandfather, he drank a bottle of
rum a day, and smoked five cigars before breakfast.”
    “What’s wrong
in that?” Doughty wanted to know.
    Neil laughed.
He slicked varnish across the bottom of the cabin door and set down his brush.
    “They always used
to tell stories about the Fenner family on the wharf
here,” said Doughty. “I remember when I was round about ten years old, my pa
pointed out your great-grandfather Jack Fenner to me,
and told me not to displease him, on account of he’d thrown three fishermen
into the bay for offering him undersize lobsters.”
    “I’ve heard all
the stories,” said Neil, tidying up his paint cans. “I freely admit that I’m
the most colorless Fenner that ever lived.”
    “You’re not the
worst, though,” said Doughty, tapping out the dottle of his pipe against a wooden upright.
    “So I suppose
you’ve got something to be thankful for.” “Oh, yes? And who do you reckon was
the worst?” Doughty fumbled in his pocket and brought out two pieces of
saltwater taffy. He tossed one to Neil, and unwrapped the other one himself. He said, “I have to suck these slow, you know, otherwise
they get themselves snarled up in my dentures.”
    Neil came
forward and clambered up onto the jetty. “You still haven’t told me who was the worst Fenner of all . I bet
he wasn’t as bad as the worst Doughty of all.” “Oh, he sure was,” said Doughty,
shaking his head. “The Doughtys was clergy
originally, from Plymouth, England.
    Highly peaceable folk. But the Fenners were tough farmers, tough settlers, and vigilantes. The Fenners did more to settle Napa Valley than George Yount , and
most folks say that George Yount was the father of
Napa Valley.”
    Neil and
Doughty walked side by side to the parking lot, where Neil let down the back of
his pickup and heaved out three coils of fresh rope.
    “The worst Fenner of all was called Bloody Fenner ,
and I’m surprised your pa never told you about him,” said Doughty.
    “I think he
did, when I was younger. An Indian fighter, wasn’t he, back in the 1830s? They
called him ‘Bloody’ Fenner because he collected ears
and scalps.” Doughty nodded. “That’s right. But the story goes that he did
worse than that. Back when the white men were fighting the Wappos up in the mountains, he used to fight on one side or another, according to how
it took his fancy. If the Wappos offered him a couple
of square miles of good farming ground, he’d set traps for the white men; and
if the white men were ready to pay him enough, he’d bushwhack the Wappos .