"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."