Drago #3. Art Spinella

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      He was easily re-elected.

      Additional funds poured in over the coming 20 years, extending the jetties, removing rock from the Rocky Point location where Sal was moored this night and extensive dredging to 10 feet from Bandon harbor to Riverton – about 18 miles upriver – and nine-feet from that town to Coquille, another six miles upstream.

      The town became a mini-powerhouse in shipbuilding. By 1888, nearly a dozen sea-going ships were constructed, the first being the schooner Ralph J. Long. On its maiden voyage to San Francisco, it carried 120,000 board feet of lumber, a ton of bark, a ton of wool and five tons of oats.

      But it wasn’t the first ship to use the Bandon harbor.

      Before Bennett’s threat, coastal-trade schooners were frequent visitors to Bandon as early as the 1860s.

      Development, though, stimulated construction of river boats – mostly sternwheelers -- to connect the city of Coquille with Bandon, transporting goods and passengers who were slated for passage to San Francisco and as far north as Alaska.

      “Hey, Nick,” came the voice from the dock. Stan Moorly grinned at me and began to board. “Saw the light on in the cabin. Could smell the coffee cookin’.”

      “Want a cup? It’s on the stove.”

      He wandered into the cabin and returned a minute later with a chipped old mug, steam billowing.

      Pulling up a chair and settling in, “Waitin’ for something important or just hangin’ out reminiscing about your single days on Dragonfly?”

      “Just thinking about this harbor and its history, is all.”

      Moorly took a long sip of brew.

      “My granddad was one of the riverboat people in the day. Told some stories about the paddle-wheeler wars back then. Early 1900s.”

      “Yeah?”

      Moorly pulled out an old pipe, as gnarled as a fisherman’s hands, dipped the bowl into a leather pouch for some tobacco and with all the care of a man on the deck of a ship in a roiling sea, carefully cupped his hand over the bowl and lit the tobacco. Drawing on the stem, a cloud of smoke with the sweet odor of cherry hung in the air.

      “Old west, Oregon style,” he said. “Worked for the Myrtle Point Transportation Company back then. Deckhand on the Telegraph. Company owned eight sternwheelers, racing up and down the river carrying milk and passengers and crates of whatever.”

      He leaned close to me, “And opium. Think the marijuana growers were the first druggies in the state? Think again. Opium was big business back then.”

      “You’re kidding.”

      “Nope. Look it up.”

      Another cloud of cherry smoke and a long sigh as he tilted his head back and spoke with a voice sounding like gravel in a drain pipe. “In fact, because the British had a trade deficit with China back in the 1800s, they encouraged opium use there so they could sell it to the Chinese and balance their trade books. Worked pretty good, actually.”

      I laughed. “Everyone these days has a trade deficit with the Chinese.”

      “The Brits actually had fleets of opium ships. They’d sell the stuff to Chinese middle men who would trade for tea which was big business back in Europe.”

      “And our little town was a port for the drug?”

      “Morphine, mostly, Nick. That’s what opium is. Yeah, Oregon was a hot bed. Back in 1870-something, the paddle wheeler Orpheus and the full-rig Pacific collided up near British Columbia; the manifest showed what went down, aside from all but one of the 275 passengers and crew on the Pacific. On the list, two cases of opium headed to San Francisco.”

      I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the photo of the twin ghost paddle wheelers.

      “Never occurred to me to show you this, but can you ID either of these ships?”

      Leaning across, Moorly took the photo from me.

      “Look like you got some problem with your lens.”

      He paused, moved the photo closer to his eyes, pulled on the Meerschaum and smiled. “Well, dang, that one there is the Dora. Granddad had a picture of it in his living room. All framed up. He was a deckhand on Dora for three years.”

      “What about the other one?”

      “Pretty fuzzy picture, Nick. Why’s it look like that?”

      “Remember the legends about the ghost paddle wheeler?”

      “Sure. Bunk. Granddad believed in it, but he was in the minority.”

      “Something about the captain being murdered and the ship scuttled.”

      Moorly closed his eyes and drew a few puffs from his pipe.

      “You want the whole story or the one we tell tourists?”

      “Ain’t no tourist. Try the whole thing.”

      He never got the chance.

      The walkie-talkie hissed. Cookie’s voice broke through the static. “Nick! It’s here!”

      Pressing the talk button, “Where exactly?”

      “About a half mile up from Rocky Point.”

      “How close are you?”

      “Maybe a quarter mile. Saw a sparkle and then it was as big as life! Wow!”

      “Getting this, Sal?”

      “Got it.”

      “Cookie. Close in as fast as you can. Can you catch it?”

      “In this boat, no problem.”

      Before she clicked off I could hear the outboard’s nasal exhaust spin up and could picture “Miss QT” rise up on her plane.

      “Sal. You ready?”

      “Set.”

      “Got your gun?”

      “Sure. Why?”

      “I want you to shoot at it as soon as it gets within range.”

      “What?”

      “Cookie.” No answer. “Cookie.” Still no answer. “Hey, Cookie, you there?”

      Her voice came back stressed. “Geez, Nick! I’m off its starboard side. I can’t get close! It’s like it’s not letting me get close! Keeps pushing me back.”

      Silence.

      “Cookie?” My heart began thumping. “Cookie!”

      “See her, Nick!” Sal broke in.

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