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Title: The Arizona Callahan

Author: H. Bedford-Jones

Release date: July 18, 2022 [eBook #68548]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Consolidated Magazines Corporation (The Blue Book Magazine)

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ARIZONA CALLAHAN ***





                        The Arizona Callahan

                        By H. Bedford-Jones


    The same distinguished writer who gave you such
    thrilling stories of far places as “The Brazen Peacock”
    and “Lou-Lou” knows the odd corners of his own country
    too--as witness this exciting story of adventure among
    the untamed Beaver Islanders.

    [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March
    1924 issue of Blue Book Magazine.]




                             CHAPTER I


Nelly Callahan was the only one to see just what happened. Everyone
else in camp had gone down the island that day to get a count of the
half-wild cattle among the blueberry swamps.

The wild drive of rain and low clouds to the westward hid Garden
Island from sight and lowered all the horizon, until Lake Michigan
seemed a small place. Beaver Island was clear vanished, and so was
High Island with its colony of Israelites. Nothing was to be seen
from this north end of Hog Island except the foaming shallows and
the deeper water beyond, and the huge rollers bursting in from the
Wisconsin shore--with two other things. One, as the keen blue eyes of
the watching girl could make out, was or had been a boat; the other
was a man.

She had heard shots, faint reports cracking down the wind, drawing
her to the point of land to see what was happening out there toward
Garden Island. For a long while there was nothing to see, until the
boat came into sight. It was only a blotch, rising and then gone
again, gradually sinking from sight altogether. Few would have seen
it. Nelly Callahan, however, was an island girl, and her eye was
instantly caught by anything outside the settled scheme of things.
So she knew it for a boat, and after a time knew that it had gone
down entirely.

Presently she made out the man. To her intense astonishment he was
sitting in the stern of a canoe, and paddling. Canoes are rare
things in the Beaver Islands these days; here in the center of Lake
Michigan, with the nearest land little more than a mirage above the
horizon, there are other and safer playthings, and life is too
bitter hard to be lightly held.

Yet here was a canoe driving down the storm, a rag of sail on a
stumpy mast forward, tarpaulins lashed over freight-rolls amidships,
the man paddling in the stern. What connection was there between him
and that sunken boat, and those shots behind the curtain of rain and
mist?

That he was trying to get in under the curving line of exposed ledge
and shoal that ran out from the point was obvious. If he missed, he
would be carried on out to the open lake, for once around the point
his chances of getting to land were slim. Nelly Callahan watched him
admiringly as he fought, gaining inch by inch, now leaning hard on
his paddle, now stroking desperately as the gusty wind threw off the
canoe’s head. The odds were worse than he could realize, too; all
along the point there were shoals, running only two to three feet of
water, and his canoe evidently carried a centerboard.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Suddenly she saw the paddle snap in his hands. The canoe swayed
wildly over, swayed back again, rose on a sweeping foam-crest and
was flung forward. Another instant, and she would have been rolled
over, but the man snatched out another paddle and dug it in. Again
the stubborn, straining fight, but he had lost ground, and the
current was setting out around the point of land.

Still, he had a good chance to win. He was closer, now; Nelly
Callahan could see that his shirt was torn to ribbons, that his
mouth was bleeding; and those things did not come from wind and rain
alone. The canoe was a wide lake-cruiser, safe enough in any sea
except for her heavy load--but this rock-studded shore water was safe
for no craft. All the wide expanse around the Beavers is treacherous
with rocks barely awash.

An invisible hand seemed to strike the man suddenly, knocking him
forward on his face. The canoe staggered, lay over on one side--she
had struck bottom. Frantically the man recovered, jerked up the
centerboard, threw in the pin. But he was too late; he had lost the
game. The bow, with its scrap of sail, bore off before the sweep of
wind, and like an arrow the canoe darted out around the point and
was gone.

For a moment Nelly Callahan stood motionless at the edge of the
trees. Then she turned and started to cut across the base of the
long point, to get a view of the north shore beyond. There was no
trail, however. Nobody lived on Hog Island; the brush was heavy and
almost impenetrable. Excited, breathless, the girl struggled on her
way, but knew that she was too slow. However, she kept on. Presently
she burst through the final barrier, her feet slipping and sliding
on the ground-pine that trailed across the sand, and came out on the
northern stretch of shore. Nothing was in sight.

For a little while she stood there, dismayed, agonized, incredulous.
She had been a long while getting here, of course; yet some sign of
man or canoe, even had the latter capsized, must have been within
sight. Here around the point the force of the rollers was lessened,
too. Yet everything was empty. Man and canoe had vanished.

                 *       *       *       *       *

A shout roused the girl. She glanced over her shoulder, fear
flitting into her blue eyes; then she turned and retraced her steps.

When she stepped back into the clearing of the camp, the others had
returned. She shrank within herself slightly, as always, as her eyes
swept them; for though Nelly was a Beaver girl, she was also
something more. Her mother had come from the mainland, and there was
none of the closely interbred strain in Nelly Callahan.

“Where ye been?” called Matt Big Mary, her father, combing out his
tangle of black beard with knotted fingers. “Get the coffee on,
girl! It’s needin’ it we are, the day.”

It was something of a tribute to Matt Callahan that he was not known
by the usual island diminutive, though the peculiar system of
nomenclature obtained to distinguish him from his cousin Matty
Basset Callahan. He was a giant of a man, massive as an oak, in his
deep eyes a brooding, glooming shadow that had lain there since his
wife died.

The others were merry enough, however, for Hughie Dunlevy had fallen
into the swamp and mired himself head over ears; small wonder that
Jimmy Basset and Willy Tom Gallagher made sport at that, since
Hughie Dunlevy was a great man on the island, holding a second
mate’s ticket, and strong as any two men except Matt Big Mary. He
was fishing this summer, going partners with Matt, and had bought a
half-interest in the Callahan cattle that ran here on Hog Island.
Men said in St. James that he would make a good son-in-law to Matt,
for it is always the wildest who settle down the best, and if he
would but leave Jimmy Basset’s moonshine liquor alone, he had a
great future fronting him.

Here for a week they were, pulling the long stakes that had held
pound-nets all the spring out at the edge of deep water where the
great trout and whitefish ran, and working the north island shore
with trap-nets and bloater lines. Here for a week were the four men,
with Nelly Callahan to cook and mind camp. She and her father
occupied the old shanty at the edge of the clearing; the other three
slept in the brown tent near by.

Now, any other Beaver girl would have at once drawn general
attention to the sunken boat, which would wash in and make salvage,
and to the presumably drowned man and his canoe. But Nelly Callahan
kept quiet. She had become a changed girl since getting home from
her school-teaching this spring, and finding that her father had
made a match with Hughie Dunlevy for her; much had happened;
sorrowful things had transpired; and Nelly Callahan was biding her
time.

Half an hour passed by, and the noon meal was over; and since the
weather was too bad for work, there was naught to be done but sit
and smoke. Then Matt Big Mary took Jimmy Basset and Willy Tom
Gallagher with him, and a trap-net from the big launch dragged up
under the trees, and set off down the shore. He gave Hughie Dunlevy
a significant wink.

“We’ll take the skiff down to Belmore Bay,” said he, “and be setting
a trap out beyond the old wreck, and maybe pick up a fifty-dollar
box o’ bass come Saturday. Hughie, me lad, keep your eye on the
camp.”

“Aye,” said big Hughie, grinning all over his broad, good-natured
face; and they filed off down the shore on their two-mile tramp to
Belmore Bay. Nelly was keenly aware of the strategy, but made no
comment. She was afraid of Hughie, as well she might be. A fine,
strapping lad he was except when he was crossed, and good-humored
while he had his own way and there was no liquor in him; yet he was
one to be afraid of.

“There’s more cattle down the island than we looked for, Nelly,”
said he, chewing at a cigar and watching the girl as she cleaned up.
“The buyer will be over from East Jordan next week, and then
there’ll be doings. What’s more, there’s some big pine in yonder
that’s never been cut out. I’m thinkin’ of raftin’ it over to the
mill.”

“Good idea, if you owned it,” said a strange voice. “But you don’t.”

                 *       *       *       *       *

Hughie Dunlevy turned, stared, came to his feet with a leap. There
at the edge of the trees, his approach unheard, stood the man whom
Nelly Callahan had seen in the canoe. He wore nothing but his ragged
shirt, the most essential half of a pair of overalls, and canvas
shoes. Short, curly red hair crowned a face that was
weather-hardened, humorous, strongboned; one glimpsed sparkling gray
eyes that could either laugh or glitter, and a wide, generous mouth.
Dripping wet as he was, the stranger showed bruises and a cut lip,
and a red streak ran across his half-exposed chest.

“If you could spare me a bite to eat, young lady, I’d appreciate
it!” exclaimed the stranger genially. “Did I scare you folks? Sorry!
My boat went down, and I was washed ashore, saw the smoke of your
fire, and came for it. Is that a fish mulligan I smell? Then if
there’s any left, have pity on a starving man!”

Nelly, with a smile at his laughing words, turned to the big pot.
Hughie Dunlevy regarded the stranger with a frown on his wide
features.

“Where’d ye come from? Who are ye?”

“Callahan’s my name,” said the stranger, coming forward.

“You’re no island Callahan!” said Dunlevy promptly. The other
laughed.

“No, I haven’t that honor; but our ancestors were kings in Ireland
at the same time. I don’t go by that name either; mostly folks call
me Hardrock.”

“Hardrock Callahan, eh?” exclaimed the girl, not liking the general
aspect of Hughie Dunlevy. “Well, I’m Nelly Callahan, and this is my
father’s camp, and you’re welcome. Shake hands with Hughie Dunlevy
and make yourself comfortable. I’ll have this mulligan hot in a
minute, and coffee’s all ready.”

Hardrock stepped forward and extended his hand. Dunlevy accepted it,
though not with any marked warmth, and for an instant the two men
measured each other.

“What was that you said when you showed up?” demanded Hughie. “About
me not owning this timber?”

“Something like that, I guess.” Hardrock Callahan laughed
cheerfully. “I happen to own it myself. Oh, coffee ready? Thanks,
Miss Callahan--or if I may say so, Miss Nelly! I hate to use the name
of Callahan on the Beavers--too many other Callahans here already.”

He sat down, turned his back to the scowling, indeterminate Hughie,
and sipped the hot coffee. Nelly Callahan did not smile, however, as
she put the mulligan pot in the embers. It had come to her that
while she was crossing the point, this man must have worked his
canoe in to the shore, have dragged it up, and have made camp. And
what was this story of owning the timber?

“You and me will have a talk,” said Hughie Dunlevy, “when you’ve had
a bite to eat.”

“Right,” said Hardrock Callahan. “I’ve had one or two talks already
this morning.”

The girl looked at him, met his twinkling gray eyes, and smiled
despite herself.




                             CHAPTER II


Nelly Callahan saw that this man Hardrock was a stranger; and yet he
was not a stranger. No one but a fool would have walked ashore on
the Beavers and claimed ownership of land, unless he was known and
accepted; for little good his law title would do him. Hardrock was
certainly not a fool, however; and at the same time he had some
knowledge of the islands. He had hidden his canoe and the stuff in
it; and it was significant that Nelly did not look upon the story he
told as a lie, but as justifiable precaution. Was it his motorboat
that she had seen sinking?

“And did ye say,” inquired Hughie, recalling the boat, “that your
boat had gone down?”

“Motorboat,” and Hardrock nodded in affirmation. “Hit a sunken rock
out yonder and raked her bottom out.”

“Where from?”

“St. James.”

Hughie scowled at that, as well he might, since no one but an
islander was from St. James; and this man was no islander. Set in
the middle of Lake Michigan, inhabited by a hundred and fifty
families, each related to the others, living by the loot of the
lakes and woods, the islanders were a clannish lot who clung
together and let the world go by. A few Indians lingered; a few
outsiders had roamed in; a few tourists came and went; and over on
High Island was the colony of Israelites--silent, wistful men with
wide eyes and hairy lips. No law was on the Beavers, nor ever had
been, save when King Strang established his brief Mormon kingdom at
St. James. There was not an officer in the group, not a judge nor a
lawyer nor a doctor, and one man was as good as another; and once
when the revenue men came to pry around, with talk of the Eighteenth
Amendment, there were dark tales of what happened by night--but no
more revenue men came. As for game wardens they were not fools.

The Beavers were not out of touch with the world, however. Scarce a
large boat on the western lakes but had from one to ten islanders
aboard, and the Beaver Gallaghers were known from Buffalo to Duluth;
how many island men lay at the bottom of Whitefish Bay, it was hard
to say. Some, who made money, spent the winters in Chicago or
elsewhere; and Bowery Callahan, who swung the island vote, was State
road-inspector and traveled up and down the land enjoying his ease.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Nelly looked at the two men by the fire, and felt a sudden hurt in
the heart of her for the smiling stranger. He had no fear in his
eye, and under his brown throat his skin was white like ivory, and
his arms under their tattered sleeves were smooth as silk. At him as
he ate glared Hughie Dunlevy, broad and dark like all the Dunlevys,
rippling with great muscles, a man with strength to toss a box of
fish like a toy; and many a tale was told of Hughie on the lake
boats, and how he put the boots to any man who dared stand up to
him.

Now Hardrock sighed, and smiled at Nelly, and thanked her for his
meal.

“We’ll have our talk,” said he to Hughie, “and then I’ll have a
smoke.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Hughie. “What are ye doing here?”

“Resting on my own land, if you want to know. I bought this end of
the island from Eddie John Macaulay in Charlevoix.”

There was no parry between the two of them, no hesitation. Hardrock
looked Hughie in the eye and gave him the news straight and direct.

“Buying isn’t keeping,” said Hughie. “We’ll have a word about that
matter. Eddie John told us to take the timber if we wanted it, and
take it we will.”

The gray eyes of Hardrock glittered for a moment.

“Take it you wont,” said he bluntly.

Hughie laughed, and it was a laugh to reach under the skin and
sting.

“Is that so, Mr. Callahan? It’s sorry I’d be to hurt ye, and you
washed ashore and out of luck; so keep a civil tongue in your head.
Have no such talk around Matt Big Mary, I warn ye, for this is his
camp and mine, and he’s a bad man in his anger.”

Hardrock’s thin lips twitched. “So they said about Connie Dunlevy
this morning in St. James. I hope he’s not related to you? He came
out on the dock to have a talk with me, and I think they’re taking
him over on the mailboat this afternoon to the hospital.”

Hughie scrambled to his feet. “Glory be! What have ye done to my
brother Connie, ye red-haired outlander?”

“Not a thing,” said Hardrock, and chuckled. “Poor Connie fell off
the dock. I think he broke a rib or two, and maybe his shoulder.”

“Get up!” cried Hughie hoarsely, passion flaming in his face. “So
that’s who marked ye up, eh? Then I’ll finish the job--”

Hardrock stretched himself and began to rise, lazily enough. Just
then Nelly Callahan stepped forward.

“Don’t, Hughie!” she exclaimed. “It isn’t fair--you mustn’t! He’s all
worn out--”

Hughie turned on her and shoved her aside. “Out o’ this! Stand
aside, and see--”

He never finished the sentence, for Hardrock was off the ground like
a spring of steel, a billet of firewood in one hand, and the sound
of the blow could be heard across the clearing. Struck behind the
ear Hughie Dunlevy threw out his arms and went down in a heap.
Hardrock looked at Nelly Callahan, and the glitter of his eyes
changed to a smile.

“So that’s that,” he said coolly. “Too bad I had to use the stick,
Miss Nelly, but you spoke the truth when you said I was done up.
Don’t worry about him--he’ll come around after a bit. Do you suppose
you could find me a bit of dry tobacco? Then we’ll sit down and talk
things over.”

For a moment the girl looked at him. She was blue of eye and black
of hair, and the color was high in her cheeks; and when she smiled
there came a dimple on either side of her mouth, and her body held a
spring of the foot and a supple grace of round lines that the
school-teaching had not taken out of her. Suddenly a laugh broke in
her eyes.

“Hughie had it coming, I think,” said she, and turned. “I’ll get you
the tobacco.”

She got him some, and sat down at the fire and watched him stuff it
into his pipe and light it with an ember. Hughie Dunlevy lay where
he had fallen.

“Father and the other boys will be back in an hour or sooner,” she
said. “I think you’d better go and get that canoe of yours, and be
off while you have the chance.”

Hardrock gave her a swift look, then chuckled.

“Oh! Saw me land, did you? No, I’m not going, thanks. I’m staying.”

“Then you’ll have trouble, I’m afraid.”

He shrugged, and lay back on one elbow, smoking contentedly.

“Very likely. Eddie John Macaulay thought he worked a smooth trick
when he sold me this end of the island, timber and all, but I’d been
warned beforehand. I spent the night at St. James and went up to the
dance and had a grand time. Connie Dunlevy had too much moonshine,
though, and this morning he started to make trouble.”

“Listen, please!” said the girl, an urgent note in her voice. “You
can’t take this seriously--but you must! You don’t understand. You’ll
not be allowed to stay, after all that’s happened. Who was shooting
out in the channel? What boat was that I saw sinking?”

Hardrock took the pipe from his lips and regarded her for a moment.

“My dear Nelly,” he said quietly, “I’m afraid you’re the one who
doesn’t understand. Did you ever hear of Danny Gallagher?”

Her eyes opened at that. “Danny? Why of course! His father Vesty
owns the sawmill down at the head of the island. But Danny has been
away two years, in Arizona.”

“And I’ve come from Arizona,” said Hardrock. “That’s where I got my
nickname. I’ve been running a mine out there, and Danny has been
working with me. He’s a fine boy, Danny is! He told me so much about
the islands that I came up here when I got a year off, and I’m going
to settle down in a cabin here under the trees, and finish writing a
mining book for engineers. Danny has written his father about me. I
meant to look up Vesty, but haven’t had a chance yet.”

                 *       *       *       *       *

The troubled comprehension in the blue eyes of the girl deepened at
this.

“Why didn’t you do it first?” she broke out. “If people knew that
Danny had sent you here, and Vesty Gallagher would answer for you,
there’d have been no trouble! Vesty is a big man on the island. A
word from him--”

“My dear girl, I stand on my own feet,” said Hardrock quietly. “The
sunken boat you saw was mine. Two of Connie’s friends got after me.
I suppose they thought it was quite safe, for the rain was coming
down in sheets and one could scarcely see three hundred yards. They
ran me down before I knew what they were up to. Fortunately, I had
time to cut the canoe loose and get into her, and then I opened up
on the two rascals with my shotgun, and gave them plenty. Never
fear! When I go over to St. James I’ll know ’em again, and take a
little punishment out of them for the loss of that motorboat.
Satisfied, are you?”

Under his twinkling gray eyes, the girl laughed a little.

“Hold it!” he exclaimed. “Oh, no use--gone again.”

“Eh?” Her gaze widened. “What?”

“Those dimples. How long is this camp to continue?”

“Until the first of the week.” Nelly Callahan was disconcerted by
his abrupt change of subject and forgot to resent the personality.
“Father’s rounding up some cattle and counting how many there are
here.”

“Good! Then I’ll be over to the dance next Thursday night. May I
take you?”

She was startled by his words. She was more startled a moment later
when a crashing of brush sounded, and she leaped to her feet.

“Oh! Father’s coming--”

“Answer the question,” persisted Hardrock. “Quick!”

“Yes,” she said, and then turned swiftly to him. “Go quickly--”

“Nonsense!” Hardrock puffed at his pipe. “Nothing to get excited
about. I’m not going to start any trouble, I promise you. Great
Scott! Is that your father?”

He stared at the huge figure of Matt Big Mary advancing upon him,
with the other two men following. All three gaped at him. Matt,
astonished, came to a halt.

“What’s this!” he rumbled. “Hughie! Where’s Hughie, lass? Who’s yon
man?”

“Hughie’s gone to sleep,” said Hardrock, and came easily to his
feet. “My name’s Callahan--”

“He’s a friend of Danny Vesty Gallagher,” broke in the girl swiftly.
“From Arizona. And Danny had him buy this end of the island from
Eddie John Macaulay, Father.”

“Shipwrecked on my own land,” said Hardrock, laughing. He held out
his hand. “You’re Matt Callahan--Matt Big Mary? Danny has told me
about you. Glad to meet you.”

Matt gave him a huge grip, between surprise and bewilderment.

“What’s all this? Bought it off of Eddie John, ye did? And what d’ye
mean by shipwrecked? There’s been no boat--”

“My motorboat went down,” said Hardrock. “I got ashore with my
duffle, though. Got a camp down shore a piece. Came over from St.
James this morning.”

“Oh! And it’s a friend o’ Vesty Gallagher ye are, eh? What’s the
matter with Hughie?”

“Hughie made a mistake,” Hardrock grinned cheerfully. “He didn’t
believe that I had bought this bit of the island. Somehow, Hughie
and I didn’t get along very well. He had some queer idea that I
ought to walk home, and I didn’t agree with him. So he went to
sleep. I guess I’ll be going. Drop over to my camp sometime. I’ll
likely run in and see you again. Thanks for the coffee, Miss Nelly.”

And he was gone, with a wave of his hand, before the three
astonished men knew what to say or do.




                            CHAPTER III


Hardrock Callahan passed along the narrow sand-strip that edged the
north shore of Hog Island, until he found a slight opening among the
trees that suited him. Then he came back to his pulled-up canoe and
began to transport his load to the spot selected; the canoe itself
he left hidden where it was.

The storm was not clearing off, but was turning and bringing down a
new and colder drift of rain and wind from the north. Ax in hand,
Hardrock attacked the tangle of dead and living trees that rimmed
him in like a wall. For an hour he worked steadily, slowly driving
back the growth and clearing the grassy sward that had attracted
him; then he dragged the debris to the shore and was rid of it. This
done, he sat down in the wet sand, stuffed some of his own tobacco
into his pipe, and sighed comfortably.

“What a girl!” he observed. “And she’s the same one Danny Gallagher
showed me the picture of, too. That’s a coincidence. Well, I’d
better get a shelter up before I settle down to dream about her.
Good thing the motorboat went down instead of my canoe! She’s a
grade above most of the islanders that I’ve seen--”

Whether he referred to canoe or girl was not determined.

He set to work methodically getting up the tent, which he now
unlashed, and anchored it securely. His clearing opened on the shore
to the north, and the trees fully protected him from the eternal
west winds; since he was pitching the tent for all summer, he made a
thorough job of it, and this took time. Then, opening up some of his
bundles, he produced flannel shirt and corduroys and other garments,
and clothed himself in decency. Having already collected some dry
wood from the thicket, he now built up a cheerful blaze and watched
the wispy smoke whirl away in gray shreds down the wind. The
afternoon was waning, and he was considering opening up some grub
when a huge figure came into his vista of the shore and Matt Big
Mary was striding up to him.

“Greetings!” exclaimed Hardrock cordially. “Come in out of the rain
and toast your shins.”

The big man nodded solemnly, sat down beside Hardrock in the tent
opening, produced a black pipe and blacker tobacco, and lighted up.
He sat for a little in silence, staring over the fire at the gray
lake with those deep-set, melancholy eyes of his. At length he
removed the pipe from his lips and spoke.

“Hughie tells me ye’ve bought the timber.”

“Yes. It went with the land, said Eddie John. I’ve no use for it,
except this tall pine right back of here. If you want the rest, you
can have it.”

“I don’t,” said Matt. “You’re none of the island Callahans?”

“No. New York State.”

“So are we, out of County Tyrone. All the same stock.” Matt puffed
over that for a bit. “Ye done a bad day’s work, fallin’ foul of
Hughie Dunlevy.”

“That’s as may be. Sooner him than you.”

Matt turned and swept Hardrock with his slow gaze. “Why?”

“Because,”--and Hardrock stretched himself out more
comfortably,--“because I expect to marry your daughter.”

“I don’t like jokes,” said Matt Big Mary, after a moment. “Not that
kind.”

“I’m not joking,” said Hardrock coolly. “Danny Gallagher showed me a
picture of her, and that’s why I came here, partly. Now that I’ve
seen her and talked with her, I _know_. I’m fair with you. If she’s
in love with nobody else, and I can win her, I’ll do it.”

“Hot head, queer heart,” said Matt, a gathering rumble in his tone.

Hardrock laughed. “I’m safe enough.”

“She’s promised.”

“By herself or by you?”

“No matter. Hughie Dunlevy marries her.”

“No.”

Storm grew in Matt’s eyes, and his big black beard bristled.

“Careful, me lad! The boys wanted to come over and have a talk with
ye, but I set down me foot. I want no trouble, without ye force it
on me. I’ll have no man makin’ light talk of my girl, more
particular a stranger.”

“It’s not light talk, Matt; I mean every word of it,” said Hardrock.
“And I’m not a good one to bluff, either. You fellows on the
Beavers, Matt, are all clannish, and you all stick together like
burrs, and you throw a strong bluff. Why? Because you’re all afraid
of the big world. Let a better man walk in and whip one or two of
you, and things are different. Besides, I have a friend or so if I
want to call on ’em, and I’ll be no outcast. So think twice, Matt,
before you lay down the law.”

Even while he spoke, Hardrock felt his words fruitless. Matt’s
mental horizon was too narrowed to comprehend him in the least.

“You take my advice,” said Matt Big Mary after a moment. “Be out of
here before tomorry night, me lad. Ye’ll find a skiff on the shore
down to the bay--”

“Want me to put you off my land, Matt?” said Hardrock quietly.

The other was so astonished that he turned his head and stared. What
he saw in those hard, icy gray eyes held him silent. Hardrock
continued:

“You seem to think, Matt, that I’m a boy to obey you. I’m not. I
don’t intend to put up a ‘No Trespass’ sign and keep folks off, but
I’m not taking orders from you, and I’m not scared worth a damn. If
you bring a fight to me, I’ll meet you halfway every time. I’ve
tried to be decent with you, because I want no trouble. Now, I have
to be in St. James tomorrow morning, and I’ll expect you to see that
my camp here isn’t disturbed while I’m gone; you’re square enough to
keep your men away from it. Think things over. When I come back,
I’ll see you. If you’ve made up your mind to avoid trouble and meet
me halfway, I’ll be glad. If not, we’ll settle things in a hurry.
What d’you say to that?”

Matt Big Mary laughed slowly.

“Aye,” said he. “That’s fair, Hardrock. But you’ll not come back
from the island, if what Hughie did be tellin’ us is so. Connie
Dunlevy will be waitin’ for you, or his friends.”

“So will Vesty Gallagher.” Hardrock grinned cheerfully. “I’ll be
back tomorrow night or next day. Anything you want me to fetch with
me--mail or grub?” Matt stared at him a moment, then rose to his
feet.

“Damned if I can make ye out,” said he reflectively. “So long. I’ll
answer that the boys don’t touch your camp.”

He strode away and vanished along the shore.

                 *       *       *       *       *

When daylight died, the storm was blown out and the rollers were
already going down. Hardrock Callahan, after luxuriously dining on
beans and biscuit and hot tea, smoked his pipe and watched the
stars, then laid out his blankets and rolled up. He was asleep
almost at once.

It was two in the morning when he wakened, as he had set himself to
do. A glance at his watch confirmed the hour. He dressed, and went
down to the shore. Everything was quiet, save for the wash of waves
and the whisper of breeze in the trees overhead. Off to the
northwest came the swift, clear flash of the Garden Shoal light, and
farther west, the red flash from Squaw Island light glimmered over
the horizon. Nodding, Hardrock returned to his tent, produced an
electric torch and for ten minutes pored over an unrolled chart of
the island group.

Then, satisfied, he laced up the tentflap, turned to the shore, and
went to where the wide lake-cruising canoe was laid up under the
bushes. In ten minutes the light craft was standing out under the
breeze, rounding the point and holding south for Beaver Island and
St. James.

The dawn was breaking when he drew down toward the long and narrow
harbor. Instead of holding for it, however, he went to the right of
the unwinking red eye of the lighthouse, came to shore on the point
amid the thick trees and half-ruined dwellings there, and drew up
the canoe from sight. Hardrock Callahan was learning caution. He set
out afoot, and presently came to the road that wound along the bay
and was the artery of the straggling row of houses circling the
bay-shore for a mile or more and forming the town of St. James.

The sun was rising upon a glorious day when he had passed down the
length of the bay to the head, and reached the hotel and the
restaurant adjoining. The hotel was not yet alive for the day, but
the island itself was astir, and the restaurant was open. Hardrock
went in and breakfasted leisurely by the help of Rose McCafferty,
who was waitress, cook and proprietor. Finding himself taken for an
early tourist from the hotel out for the morning’s fishing, he let
it go at that.

“Hear any more about the boys who were shot up?” he inquired
casually, in the course of the meal. The response stupefied him.

“Glory be, and what more is there to hear, except the name o’ the
scoundrel that done it? Poor Marty Biddy Basset--a grand boy he was,
and only yesterday morning he was settin’ here before me! And Owen
John will maybe get well, but the fever’s on him and it’s no talkin’
he’ll do this long while. The doctor at the hotel is wid him this
blessed minute.”

“Eh?” Hardrock stared at her. “One of them’s dead, you say? I didn’t
know that--”

“Wasn’t they picked up by the Danes and brought in last night, and
poor Marty wid a bullet through him, and two through Owen, and the
both of ’em all peppered wid birdshot as well, and the boat ruined
wid bullets? There she lays down to the Booth dock this minute--”

Hardrock laid a coin on the counter and went out.

He stood staring down at the line of fish-sheds and wharves across
the road, feeling numb and unable to believe what he had heard.
Dead! Yet he had certainly used no bullets; he had neither rifle nor
pistol. Mechanically he crossed the road and walked through the
soft, deep sand to the fish-company’s wharf. Red-haired Joe Boyle
had just opened up the shed and was getting in some box-parts to
knock together; he flung Hardrock a casual nod as the latter
approached, and went on about his business.

The boat was not far to seek. She lay on the north side of the dock,
and Hardrock stood gazing down at her. That she was the same which
had run him down, he saw at a glance; not many of these boats were
open craft; nearly all having a boxlike shelter for engines and
lifters and men.

Across her weathered stern-sheets was a pool of dried, blackened
blood, and the thwart by the engine carried another grim reminder.
Fear clamped upon Hardrock--fear lest he be blamed for this affair.
It seemed only too probable. Whoever had done the murder, too, must
have done it shortly after he himself had peppered the two men with
his shotgun. The swift impulse seized on him to run while he could.

Instead of running, however, he leaned over and jumped down into the
boat. Up forward was a tangle of ropes and lines and life-belts, and
a colored object there caught his notice. He picked it up. It was a
small pennant-shaped bit of canvas, painted half white, half black,
attached to a stick that had broken short off. Moved by some
instinct, certainly by no obvious reason, he pocketed it and climbed
back to the wharf.

“Morning,” said a voice, and he looked up to see a gnarled,
red-whiskered man surveying him with an air of appraisal. “Your name
aint Callahan, by any chance?”

“Callahan it is. Otherwise, Hardrock.”

“Good. I been lookin’ for ye,” said the other. “I’m Vesty Gallagher,
Danny’s dad. Let’s you and me go somewheres, and go quick. Come on
over to Dunlevy’s shed. Good thing I seen ye, Hardrock--blamed good
thing! Come on.”




                             CHAPTER IV


In the heavy, dank quiet of the shed where the big nets hung,
Hardrock sat smoking his pipe. His brain listened mechanically to
the words of Vesty Gallagher; yet other sounds were borne in upon
him; the rattle of ice from the wharf, the slam of fish-boxes tossed
about, the eternal creaking of the great net-frames as they swung
and swung endlessly in the breeze and groaned futile protest.

“By luck I come to town last night for freight, and remained over,”
said Vesty, “and by luck I seen you this morning and knew ye for a
stranger. I said a word or two last night, when there was talk about
your scrap wi’ Connie Dunlevy, after the two boys was brought in.
Some said you had done it, d’ye see? Nobody knows what’s happened
out there in the fog and rain, but there’s plenty that intend to
know. Eleven families o’ Bassets there are on the island, and Marty
Biddy dead today. Not to mention Owen John, wi’ two bullets through
him and the fever bad on him, and he’ll go over to the Charlevoix
hospital on the mailboat. By luck my boy Danny had been writin’ me,
and I was looking for ye.”

Hardrock nodded and turned to the gnarled man beside him.

“It was more than luck that I met you this morning,” he said
quietly. “You don’t know just how bad things look for me. Here’s
what happened.”

He told what had taken place the preceding day, omitting no detail.
“They were not close enough for the shotgun to do much damage,” he
concluded. “Where those bullets came from, I can’t pretend to
guess.”

Vesty Gallagher bit his pipestem thoughtfully, watching Hardrock
from screwed-up, sharp little eyes.

“You’re straight,” he said suddenly. “I’m with ye. So that’s
settled. Now hark ye here, me lad! I’ll have a word wi’ the priest,
and he’ll have a word wi’ the boys, and they’ll go slow. But if I
was you, I’d come down to the sawmill with me and spend a while
there.”

Hardrock smiled. “Thanks, Vesty, but I can’t do it. Surely there
must be some way of telling who shot those two fellows?”

“There’s many would ha’ liked to do it,” said old Gallagher. “The
two of them was a bad lot--them and the Dunlevy boys hung together.
Ye’ll have trouble there. Connie Dunlevy and Hughie will guess that
ye had a hand in the shootin’, and they’ll go for ye. Better ye come
down home with me, lad.”

“Can’t. Promised Matt Callahan I’d come back to Hog Island and
settle matters with him.” The gray eyes of Hardrock twinkled. “I
said I’d put him off my land if he wasn’t reasonable, and I’ll do
it.”

“Glory be! Have ye been fighting with Matt Big Mary? And I hear
Hughie’s over there--”

Hardrock related a version of his encounter on the island--a version
which very tactfully omitted any mention of Nelly Callahan. Old
Vesty chuckled and scratched his red whiskers and then chuckled
again.

“Praise be, it’s fine to hear of some one who’s got the guts to
stand up to them Callahans!” he exclaimed. “Betwixt ’em, the
Callahans and Dunlevys have been runnin’ too high a hand and
drinkin’ too much o’ Jimmy Basset’s moonshine. What came ye to town
for?”

“To find who it was had run me down, and make ’em pay for my
motorboat,” said Hardrock. “But now I’ll reconsider the program. It
wont do to have everybody know what happened, or I’d be--”

“You’d be shot so damned quick ye’d never know what struck!” said
Vesty promptly. “Word’s been passed around that you’re a revenuer,
but I’ve put a stop to that. If Owen John does any talkin’ before
they take him to Charlevoix, he’ll be able to tell what happened,
but they say he’s bad off.”

“I suppose the sheriff will be over to investigate?”

                 *       *       *       *       *

Vesty sucked at his pipe a moment. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “And
maybe not. Depends on what story’s told. This here is Beaver Island,
me lad. Them fellys has had scraps with everybody--Injuns, Danes,
Israelites and Washinton Island men. Last week they had a scrap with
some fellys from Cheboygan that was robbin’ some nets. A wild bunch,
them Cheboygan lads, fishin’ on other folks’ ground and runnin’
whisky in from Canady. What’ll ye do now?”

“Go back to Hog Island,” said Hardrock.

“Do it, and if ye have any regard for health, keep the peace with
Matt Big Mary! I’ll walk up the shore with ye--left your canoe on the
north point, ye said? It’ll do ye no harm to be seen walkin’ with
me.”

They left the shed and swung up to the road, and there Vesty hailed
a man and halted Hardrock to meet him.

“It’s Tom Boyle Gallagher, me own cousin, and his boys run the
freight-boat and he runs the store yonder. Hey, Tom! Shake hands
with Hardrock Callahan. He’s the felly who had the scrap with Connie
Dunlevy yesterday mornin’. It’s a friend of Danny’s he is, and a
friend of mine, and he’s bought some land on Hog Island from Eddie
John Macaulay.”

Tom Gallagher grinned as he met Hardrock’s grip. “Glad to meet ye.
Another Callahan, eh? Glory be, but the fightin’ Callahans are all
over the world! I seen ye to the dance the other night. Hear ye
knocked Connie clear off’n the dock, eh? Good for him.”

“Sorry I had any trouble,” said Hardrock. “I want to spend the
summer up here, and it seems like I got off to a bad start.”

“More like a good start,” and Tom chuckled. “Drop in to the store
any time. It’s glad to see you I’ll be. See ye later, Vesty!”

The two men walked up the road together, meeting not a few folk. To
more than one of these Vesty spoke, introducing Hardrock with
emphatic cordiality, stopping now for a word or two and again for a
bit of talk, so that it was a good hour afterward when they
approached the canoe.

Hardrock, who wanted to pick up a trout or whitefish on the way
back, showed his trolling line to old Vesty, and had a word of
advice as to tackle, and then Vesty gave him a word as to other
things.

“Lay low, me lad. When news comes, I’ll have Tom Boyle Gallagher’s
boy bring it to ye--Micky, his name is. There’s a few Gallaghers left
on the island yet, praise be, and any friend o’ Danny’s is goin’ to
have a square deal. Be off with ye now, and good luck.”

Ten minutes later, with the canoe leaning over to the breeze as she
drew out, Hardrock was steering north and exchanging a last wave of
the hand with Vesty Gallagher. Under the latter’s optimistic
influence and quick friendship, his stunned depression had quite
evaporated. He was himself again, no longer hesitant or doubting,
ready for whatever might happen.

“Blamed lucky thing I met him!” he thought, as he let out his
trolling line and settled down to steer for home. “And I sure hope
that wounded chap will open up and talk before long. Well, by gosh,
I feel a heap better than I did! I think I’ll drop in on Matt’s
camp--ought to get there about noon. Going to marry Hughie Dunlevy,
is she? Not if I know it! Not, that is, unless she wants to, and
I’ll gamble she doesn’t.”

                 *       *       *       *       *

With just the right amount of ballast to hold her head down, the
canoe was a marvel for speed, and Hardrock Callahan, who had not
spent all his life in Arizona, knew how to handle her. Thus it was
not quite noon when he bore up for the north point on Hog Island.

In spite of the big whitefish that came to his line and set his
knife to work and brought the gulls wheeling to pick up the offal,
Hardrock had plenty of time to reflect on his situation. He was not
particularly given to reflection, but just now there was need of it.
One man was dead; another was badly wounded; by good fortune, no one
knew of their encounter with Hardrock Callahan, but that story was
bound to come out. If the wounded man did not recover, and could not
give an account of the killing, investigation would probably fasten
the blame on Hardrock, from circumstantial evidence. So far
suspicion was not directed at him--but it would come.

“These are slow-thinking people, and the law is probably slower to
reach up here,” he mused. “So much the worse when the time for
action comes! Looks like it’s distinctly up to me to land the
murderers, as a matter of self-protection; and a fat chance I have
of doing it! Since there was no mention of Connie Dunlevy being
taken to the hospital, he’s probably not so badly hurt as I thought.
That gang is against me, sure. Hm! Guess I’ll take counsel with the
young lady. She’s got a level head.”

He held in for the strip of shore before Matt Big Mary’s camp, and
perceived that the updrawn boat was gone. As his canoe scraped on
the sand and he leaped ashore, Nelly Callahan appeared and waved her
hand.

“Welcome back! Have you come for more coffee?”

“That and other things,” responded Hardrock cheerfully, holding up
the whitefish. “Anybody around?”

“They’ve all gone to finish pulling stakes and wont be back until
late,” said the girl. “Did you have any trouble in town?”

“No. I met Vesty Gallagher, and we had quite a talk. Got any nails
around here? If you have, let’s get this fish on a slab and we can
discuss the weather while it’s browning.”

Searching the shore, he presently espied a slab of mill wood, nailed
the opened fish to it, spilled plenty of seasoning over the firm
white flesh, and got the slab in position beside the fire. Then he
sat down and lighted his pipe and looked at Nelly Callahan, who sat
on the end of a log and darned a thick stocking; and presently he
told her all that he had learned this morning in St. James.

                 *       *       *       *       *

For a moment her face flashed white, and in the depths of her
widened gaze he read alarm and swift fear and wild surmise. Then she
was herself again, cool and steady, her blue eyes searching into him
with unconcealed tenseness of interest, and only her breath coming a
little swifter to denote the startled heart that was in her.

“It seems impossible!” she murmured. “Oh! And when everyone learns
of how you used your shotgun on them--”

“Steady! Nobody knows that except you and Vesty,” said Hardrock.
“Who’d believe me? They’d say I had a pistol or rifle and dropped it
overboard after shooting the two men. And how do you know I hadn’t,
Nelly? How do you know I’m not lying?”

She looked at him steadily for a moment, meeting his gaze squarely.
Then:

“How did Vesty know it?” she said, and smiled a little. “Don’t be
silly. Did you see any other boat around, except theirs?”

Hardrock shook his head. “No, but that means nothing. I couldn’t see
far for the rain, and I was intent on them--they’d been following me,
you know. If there’s any clue to be gained, it’s from you.”

“From me? How?”

“The shots. You said you had heard shooting. Now, I let off both
barrels of my shotgun, no more. I did think that I heard shots after
that, but my sinking boat was making such a racket--the exhaust pipe
was smashed when they ran me down--and I was so infernally busy
handling that canoe, that I didn’t notice them. You did. How many
were there? You’d notice the difference between the bang of my
shotgun and the crack of rifles, too.”

The girl nodded, and lifting her eyes, stared out toward the blue
mass of Garden Island on the horizon.

“There must have been five or six shots,” she said slowly. “Now I
think of it, I believe that two did come sometime earlier--that was
what drew my attention. Yes, and the others were different. They
sounded more like the deep crash of an automatic pistol than the
sharp crack of a rifle. But how can that help you? I couldn’t see
what happened. I can’t swear--”

“You’re not expected to!” Hardrock responded, and felt through his
pockets for a match. “The thing is, to make sure of what you heard.
Somebody else was out there--a third boat--”

He broke off sharply. From his pocket he drew a strange object; then
recognition came into his eyes as he stared at it. It was the
pennant-shaped canvas he had taken from the boat at the Booth dock.




                             CHAPTER V


“That’s funny!” he exclaimed, staring at the scrap of canvas. The
girl glanced at it, then gave him a puzzled look.

“Why?”

“You know what it is?”

“Of course. It’s the little flag left flying from a fish-trap to
show its position.”

“Oh!” Hardrock laughed and tossed it aside. “I don’t know what made
me bring it--found it lying in that boat this morning, with a lot of
other stuff.”

To his surprise, the girl’s eyes dilated suddenly, excitement leaped
into her face.

“What boat?” she demanded. “Not--” “Yes, the one that ran me down.
Why?” Dropping her work, Nelly Callahan pounced on the bit of
canvas, and lifted blazing eyes.

“Don’t you see! It explains everything! Can’t you remember seeing
that flag in the water just before they ran you down?”

Hardrock stared at her, his gray eyes narrowed and glittering.

“Hm! Blamed if I can see why it amounts to much--come to think of it,
I believe I did notice such a flag. Ran close to it. Not the same
one, probably.”

“Of course it was the same one!” exclaimed the girl, excitedly. She
was all animation. “Don’t you see? This flag is painted to denote
ownership, so each man will know his own traps! We don’t use them
much around here--don’t need to. But the perch season is coming on,
and fishermen from Charlevoix and Petoskey and even Cheboygan who
work around here need to use marked traps. Now do you see? Hughie
Dunlevy and his friends have been fighting the men from outside who
come in on their grounds. Well, Marty Biddy Basset and Owen John, as
soon as they ran you down, circled back to that fish-trap and
probably started to rob it. They broke off this flag so the owners
wouldn’t find the trap again, and--”

Hardrock whistled. “And then the owners came along and opened fire!
Upon my word, Nelly, I believe you’ve struck it! And nobody noticed
this flag lying in the boat last night--”

They stared at each other, until suddenly the girl broke into a
tremulous laugh.

“So all you have to do is to find who uses this flag!”

“Who does, then?”

“I don’t know. Any of the men would know, probably.”

“Hm! Vesty said that Hughie and his friends had fought last with
some Cheboygan men. He mentioned whisky-running--”

“Yes!” The girl flashed up indignantly.

“And you know what they say about us over on the mainland--that
everybody on the Beavers runs whisky from Canada! It’s not so. None
of us do that. Jimmy Basset, who’s here with Father, makes
whisky--that’s true; but most of the time he’s so crippled up with
rheumatism that he can’t fish and do any work, and it’s the only way
he has of supporting his family. So nobody else on Beaver makes
whisky, and nobody runs it from Canada--it’s those Cheboygan men who
run it! And they hide up on one of the islands here until they can
sneak it in to Ed Julot over at Harbor Springs for the summer
resorters to buy--and then everybody blames the Beaver men! Look
after that fish, or it’ll burn--quick, it’s in the fire! I’ll get the
coffee and bread.”

The girl was up and gone for her supplies.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Hardrock rescued the planked whitefish from the encroaching blaze,
smiling to himself as he did so, over the utterance of the indignant
Nelly. He could appreciate her point of view and could even
sympathize with it. There was something whimsically just about one
half-crippled man being allowed a monopoly on moonshine liquor, by
common consent, for his support.

“Thank heaven I’m no prohibition-enforcer!” reflected Hardrock. “I
expect she’s hit it right, however, as regards the runners who
supply the resort towns from Mackinac to Traverse with booze. These
islands are ideally located for their purpose, and the pretense of
being honest fishermen--hm! By hemlock, I’ve got the answer to the
whole thing! But not a word of it to her. No wonder those fellows
opened fire, and shot to kill, when they saw their fish-trap being
robbed! But I’d better go mighty slow until I’m sure. There’s
nothing on which to hang any legal peg, so far.”

Even though the girl’s theory was right, even though he found the
men who used this black-and-white flag, any accumulation of legal
evidence as to the shooting was distinctly improbable. Hardrock
recognized this clearly. At the same time, he felt confident that he
had hit upon one solution of the whole enigma--a solution which
promised to be highly interesting, even more so than writing a
textbook for mining engineers.

Planked whitefish, fresh from the lake, and coffee, and thick bread;
and over the bread, the rich juice of the eternal mulligan, made
this time from the white small-mouth bass that swam around the wreck
down the shore. Thus the two dined together, not gracefully but
well, and by tacit consent avoided the matter of their early talk.
Instead, Hardrock spoke of Danny Gallagher and Arizona, and the
mines, and gradually fell silent and brought the girl to speak of
herself and her life down State, where she had these two years
taught school, and the world outside this narrow horizon of the
Beavers. Two on an island together--and time was not.

“I stayed in St. James the other night for the dance,” said
Hardrock, filling his pipe for the third time, “hoping you were
there. I knew you down in Arizona, you see.”

“In Arizona?” Her level blue eyes searched his face, perplexed.

“Sure. Danny Gallagher had some pictures that were sent him. One was
of you, standing on a wharf--”

“Oh!” exclaimed the girl. “Why, Hughie took that last summer--”

“You haven’t changed. How’d you like to see Arizona?”

She looked at him, met his gravely steady gaze--then sprang suddenly
to her feet and stood looking out at the point. Hardrock caught the
deliberate thud-thud of an exhaust, then saw the big launch turning
the point. He rose.

“Father’s not in her--yes, he’s lying in the bow!” she exclaimed.
Hughie Dunlevy, at the tiller of the launch, waved his hand to her
and lifted his strong voice as the launch rounded in toward the
sandy stretch.

“Come aboard, Nelly! Get anything you want to bring--come quick! Your
dad’s hurt.”

The launch sputtered; her engine died; and she came to a halt with
her nose on the sand a dozen feet from shore. The girl made a
hesitant movement; then Hardrock caught her up in his arms and waded
out to the launch. Dunlevy and the two other men took her from him.
In the bow lay Matt Big Mary, eyes closed.

“Badly hurt?” asked Hardrock, as his eyes met the hard gaze of
Hughie Dunlevy.

“No. Knee dislocated, I guess; we’ll run him home. Got caught in a
line and fell over the engine. You been to St. James already?”

“Yes.” Hardrock’s gray eyes narrowed. “You’ll find news waiting for
you. Two of your friends shot up--one dead. Whisky-runners did it,
some one said; nobody knows for sure, though.”

Dunlevy looked startled, then waved his hand.

“All right. You been havin’ a good time here, I see. So long. When I
come back, you’ll be singin’ another tune.”

“I’ll expect you,” said Hardrock, and smiled.

The engine sputtered into life; the launch was shoved out, circled
in a wide arc, and headed south, with Nelly Callahan crouched over
the figure of her father. Once she looked back, lifted an arm, waved
it in farewell to the man on the shore, as though in token of an
unquenched spirit.

“She’s all right,” said Hardrock to himself. “Independent--not afraid
of ’em. No need to worry about her; real woman all through!”

He turned to the deserted camp, got the dishes attended to, left
everything shipshape, kicked out the fire-embers, and then made his
way through the brush along the point of land at this northwest tip
of the island. Here, where the bushes thinned out and the land ran
out in little islets, he sank down under cover of the greenery,
filled and lighted his pipe, and lay motionless, watching the empty
waters to north and west and south. Safely tucked away in his pocket
was the little black-and-white pennant of painted canvas.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Now, as he watched the sun glinting on the waves between the point
and Garden Island, where his motorboat had gone down, he
reconstructed in the light of his present knowledge what had taken
place there yesterday morning. He was quite certain, now, that he
recalled seeing that little pennant of canvas sticking out from the
water. Those two recklessly pursuing men from St. James must have
seen it also, as they drove down upon him. Then, when he had
vanished in the rain to leeward, when after his two shots they
probably thought him dead or drowning, they had put back for that
fish-trap flag. Why? Not because it marked a fish-trap alone, but
because it marked something else of which they knew. And, drawing
down upon that little flag, had been a third craft, unsuspected in
the obscurity.

“They broke off the flag, were probably fishing up the trap, when
the other chaps appeared and opened fire. Then what? The chances are
a thousand to one that the murderers didn’t wait to get what they
had come for. One doesn’t shoot down a couple of men and then stick
around long. Besides, the flag was gone, and there were heavy
rollers running, and the sheets of rain obscured everything. They
couldn’t hope to find the trap again in all that muck; they’d have
to go away and come back in good weather, when they might locate the
spot by means of landmarks and bearings from shore. Therefore, if my
theory is correct, if they’re really whisky-runners and that little
flag marked a stock of whisky as well as a fish-trap--all I have to
do is to wait. No boat has been up this way all morning. Either I’d
have seen it, or Nelly would have seen it and remembered about it.”

Conviction grew upon him that he had the right steer by the tail.
Fishermen would not be apt to open deadly fire, even if they caught
other men robbing their traps; but liquor-runners take no chances.
Again he was impressed with the absolutely ideal situation of the
islands--many, like that on which he now lay, uninhabited. East-coast
fishermen could bring in the stuff from the Canadian side and plant
it, and go away again. Other fishermen from the adjacent mainland,
from the upper peninsula, from the Wisconsin shore, could come and
get it. Who would suspect? And if anyone did suspect, as Nelly
Callahan had said, the island men would get the blame. The Beavers
had a reputation for turbulency which was less justified than forced
upon them.

The afternoon hours waned, and the sun sank, and nothing happened.
Nothing broke the horizon save the big green-and-white fishboat
belonging to the three Danes, coming in from the north and heading
for the settlement on Garden Island, with a swarm of gulls wheeling
and trailing behind her to tell of fish being gutted and nets being
washed. She vanished, and Hardrock rose stiffly, went to his canoe,
shoved out and paddled around the point.

He sought his own camp and found it undisturbed. As he rolled up in
his blankets that evening, it came to him that he had not yet
settled matters with Matt Big Mary.

“Good thing!” he murmured. “But I wonder--was he worse hurt than they
said? That yarn didn’t sound very plausible about his falling over
the engine--hm! Should have thought of that before. I don’t like that
fellow Hughie Dunlevy. No matter. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and I’ll keep
quiet--and watch. Good night, Nelly Callahan, and pleasant dreams!”

He fell asleep, smiling.




                             CHAPTER VI


Sunday on Beaver Island was theoretically a day of devotion. Not
even the mailboat came over from Charlevoix, since there were no
fish-boxes to be transported. It was a day for visiting, for going
to the church down the highway three miles from St. James, for
eating and drinking and talking. The only man on the island who went
his way regardless was old Cap’n Fallows, who was a socialist and
proud of it; but as the old skipper had been here thirty years and
was by this time related to everyone else, he was regarded with
unusual tolerance--a shining bad example of a godless old man, happy
in his iniquity and glorying in his lonesome politics. Also, the
Cap’n was something of a doctor, after a fashion.

He was in demand this Sunday. Marty Biddy Basset was dead and buried
that day, and Owen John had gone to Charlevoix on the mailboat,
talking in his fever but talking no sense; but down the island by
the old Russian baron’s farm lay Matt Big Mary Callahan, with a hurt
leg and a hurt head. Matt had been struck by a big pile and had
fallen over the engine of the boat, and would not walk again for two
days, so he had gone home to the farm and Cap’n Fallows was
doctoring him with liniment and talk on the rights of man.

There was much to talk about, and there was a gathering at the store
all day long, while out at Jimmy Basset’s farm the keg of white
liquor grew lower every hour. The Bassets and Dunlevys were taking
counsel here and there, the older heads advising patience, the
younger heads listening to Hughie Dunlevy and his brother Connie,
who was badly bruised but not seriously hurt. Connie was two years
younger than Hughie, and if not so strong, was just about as hard to
kill.

It was true enough that Vesty Gallagher spoke a word to the priest;
and the priest, who was the only man obeyed by other men on Beaver
Island, passed along the word. Thus it came about that Hardrock
Callahan was accepted as neither a revenue man nor an enemy, and his
affair with the Dunlevy brothers was taken for what it was--a private
matter. Hughie Dunlevy heard of this, and moved cautiously and spoke
softly; but with his brother Connie and four other lads he was
neither cautious nor soft. He and they gathered in Jimmy Basset’s
kitchen that evening and went into the affair at length.

Among the six of them it was not hard to guess close to the truth.
Connie Dunlevy knew that Marty Biddy and Owen John had gone out in
the launch to catch Hardrock; nobody else knew this, but he knew it,
for he had sent them. And he knew that they, like himself, had been
up and raising deviltry all that Thursday night, and like himself
had been in liquor.

“They had no guns,” he swore solemnly to Hughie and the other four.
“What would they be havin’ guns for, now? It was this felly Hardrock
that had a shotgun anyhow, and likely carried a pistol.”

“He told me,” said Hughie, stirring his hot one, “that it was
whisky-runners had shot up the lads.”

“How’d he know that?” demanded Jimmy Basset. “If they sunk his boat
and he shot ’em, it’s hangin’ he needs. He told ye the tale of
whisky-runners, Hughie, for a blind.”

“Most like he did,” agreed Hughie. “We’ll have no outlanders comin’
in here and murderin’ poor helpless lads like them! What story was
told on the mainland about it?”

A cousin of the dead man spoke up, his face black and gloomy.

“It was told they had put a box of cartridges into the stove by
mistake. Irene Dunlevy is a nurse in the hospital yonder, and Owen
John’s father did go over wid him, so there’d be no chance of Owen’s
talkin’ to outside ears.”

“Then the matter’s up to us to settle?”

“It is that. There’ll be no officers pokin’ their heads into the
island.”

Hughie sipped his hot one reflectively. They looked to him for
leadership, and he was not backward in accepting the guidon; at the
same time, he was not going to rush headlong into trouble. There had
been altogether too much trouble of late, and any rash actions that
would compel the law to make an investigation would make everybody
on the islands irritated with Hughie Dunlevy.

“We’ll ’tend to him,” said Hughie. “We’ll give him a dose that’ll
send him away where he come from. I got a little score of my own to
be settlin’ wid him.”

“So I hear,” said one, and there was a snicker. “What’d he hit ye
wid, Hughie?”

“Blessed if I know, but he’ll not do it again! You felleys go easy
wid your talk, now. We got other things to mind besides him. I’m
goin’ to cut loose every fish-trap up and down the shores that aint
ours, and if we meet them Cheboygan or Manistique lads, we’ll make
’em like it.”

“That’s the stuff, Hughie!” came the chorus of affirmation.

Now Jimmy Basset spoke up, as he limped over to the stove and
refilled the kettle.

“After church this mornin’ I was talkin’ a bit wid Matz Larsen. Ye
know that little point where his wharf and fish-sheds are, on the
Garden Island shore up beyond his place? He was tellin’ me that on
Thursday mornin’ at the break o’ the storm, him and his boys were
mendin’ nets when they seen a strange boat off the island, cruisin’
about.”

“Eh?” Hughie’s eyes narrowed. “What sort o’ boat was it?”

“Green wid a red stripe around the house. A stranger. Up from
Ludington, maybe, or one o’ them ports. It was no Cheboygan boat;
that’s certain.”

“Well,”--and Hughie stood up,--“it’s time I was off, for I’ve a date.
We’ll go over to Hog Island tomorry night and attend to the lad from
Arizona. We’ll take my big open boat that the resorters use for
fishin’-parties. Jimmy, fetch a quart along to cheer us up. I’ll
have the boat ready as soon as it’s dark.”

“Then put lights aboard her,” said Connie Dunlevy, “for the
coast-guard has been raisin’ hell wid the lads for carryin’ no
lights.”

Hughie laughed at that, and swung away. It was little he cared for
the coast-guard.

                 *       *       *       *       *

So, with all this keeping the island busy, and no boats putting out
that Sunday, and the wind in the east so the tourists could make up
no fishing-parties, there was none to notice the small launch that
came drifting up the channel toward sunset, past the length of the
island, with a man standing in her and waving his shirt as a signal
for help. The coast-guard might have seen her, but it was dark
before she came within sight of the point, and then the channel
current carried her out and on past Pismire Island. So she went on
drifting up between Garden and Hog, and no lights on her, and not a
soul knew of her being around. It was well they did not, for if they
had seen her and had seen the man who was aboard her, there would
have been some tall talk.

It was Hardrock Callahan who heard the man yell. Hardrock had been
down the island shore in his canoe that afternoon, having grown
tired of waiting for boats that did not come, and had been pulling
bass from around the wreck in Belmore Bay. He kept nothing under
three pounds, and he had sixteen on his string when night came, and
stayed to make it twenty. He was paddling up for the end of the
island in the darkness when he heard a long shout and then another
one coming from the water, and started out to see who was there.
When he sang out and got answered, he paddled up toward the launch.

“Engine’s broke down and my gas has leaked out,” called the man in
the launch. “I left Charlevoix this morning and have been drifting
up the channel all afternoon. Can you give me a lift?”

“You bet,” said Hardrock, coming alongside. “No oars aboard?”

“Nary a sign. What you got there, a canoe? You can’t pull the launch
with that.”

“You climb aboard and take my other paddle,” said Hardrock, “and
save your breath to work with. Got any grub? No? Then we’ll get
around to my camp and fry some of these bass, and in about an hour
you wont give a cuss whether you get home tonight or not.”

The other laughed, transferred skillfully to the canoe, and after
making fast a line to the launch, they set out. Neither man spoke as
they slowly worked the dragging launch ahead, got her around the
point, and then down the north shore to Hardrock’s camp.

“Here we are,” said Hardrock as he headed in. “You might get some of
those bass cleaned while I get the fire started and the skillet hot.
Coffee, too. We can attend to your launch afterward. Better pull her
up out of sight.”

“Why?” queried the other man.

“Tell you later.”

                 *       *       *       *       *

The two men observed a mutual reticence until, half an hour
afterward, they were sitting down to their meal. Then the stranger,
who was a grizzled, roughly dressed man with a pair of keen eyes
above a draggled mustache, grinned across the fire and put out his
hand.

“My name’s Fulsom, and I sure owe you a heap o’ thanks.”

“Callahan’s mine--Hardrock Callahan.”

As they gripped, Hardrock noticed that Fulsom looked startled, but
no comment was exchanged. Both men were too hungry to indulge in
needless talk. Not until the last scrap of bass was cleaned up and
the coffee-pot was empty, and pipes were lighted, did Hardrock learn
who his visitor was. Then Fulsom, puffing soberly, eyed him for a
moment and spoke.

“Hardrock, I’m mighty sorry ’bout all this. Looks to me like luck
was playing hard for both of us. You don’t know what I come over
here for?”

“I’m not a mind-reader,” Hardrock chuckled. Fulsom threw back his
vest to show a badge pinned to his shirt.

“I’m the Sheriff o’ this county, and the main reason I come over
here today was to sort of pry around a bit. You aint an island man--I
know ’em all. I’ve knowed ’em for twenty year more or less. Reckon
you’ve heard of the killing the other day?”

Hardrock nodded reflectively. He liked this sheriff--read the man for
straight and square and unafraid. None the less, in the keen probing
of those eyes he read danger.

“Yes. Heard about it yesterday in St. James.”

                 *       *       *       *       *

Fulsom puffed, spat into the fire, and asked a question.

“Know anything about it?”

Despite the careless tone, despite the offhand manner of the
speaker, Hardrock sensed something beneath the surface. He was
astonished by the manner in which he had met Fulsom; yet he was not
astonished that the sheriff had appeared. Fiction to the contrary,
every abnormal detail of life in civilized communities involves a
consequence; for what we call civilization is simply the ways of men
set in a groove, and any departure from that groove brings
investigation.

With this intangible flash of mind to mind, with this singular
“feel” that something unsaid lay behind that question, Hardrock
considered briefly and then answered it in utmost frankness.

“Sheriff, if I told you all I knew or thought about it, the chances
are that you’d arrest me.”

Fulsom gave him a glance, and grinned.

“I’d have a hell of a job doin’ it, wouldn’t I--not to mention
gettin’ you off to jail?”

Hardrock broke into a laugh. “Good for you! Here’s what I know.”

And he told what had happened to him since arriving on Beaver
Island.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Sheriff Fulsom listened to the story without a word, puffing as
methodically after his pipe had smoked out as before; he sat like an
image of bronze, giving no sign of what was passing in his mind.
With such a man Hardrock was at his ease, for he knew now that he
might expect some measure of justice, and not hasty jumping at
conclusions for the sake of political prestige.

“You got your nerve to tell me all this,” said Fulsom, when he had
finished.

Hardrock knocked out his pipe and filled it anew. “No witnesses
present. Besides, I figure you as square.”

“That’s the hell of it--I got to be square all around. You’re under
arrest for that shootin’, Hardrock Callahan.”

“Eh?” Hardrock stared, for the Sheriff had not moved an inch.
“You’re in earnest?”

“Yep, so far as it goes.” Fulsom wiped his mustache and chuckled.
“Got to do it. I been nosing around the hospital, and heard that
wounded man talkin’ in his fever. Mentioned your name. Now, I’m
right well acquainted with the Beavers--too durned well acquainted to
come over here on business without a posse, unless I come alone.
These lads over here may have their faults, but they’re men clear
through. If I come over alone, I get a square deal. If I come with a
posse, I’m liable to get most anything. Well, now, I come over to
look you up and see what I could learn. And, from hearin’ your
story, looks like it’s my duty to arrest you. Any law officer would
have to do it on the evidence.”

“All right,” said Hardrock whimsically. “Then what? You can’t prove
my story.”

“Nope. All I figure on is doin’ my duty and breakin’ square with all
concerned. Now, you’re arrested, and charged with murder. You’re in
my custody. You and me understand each other, I guess. I don’t
believe for a minute that things aint exactly as you’ve told ’em to
me, and I figure to stay right here a spell and help you work ’em
out. Let’s see that there fish-flag.”

Hardrock dived into the tent and looked up the bit of canvas. In his
heart he felt a queer sense of relief, a dropping away of all
oppression. This officer was not to be feared. He was under arrest,
and if nothing turned up, he would have to stand trial, and the
evidence was bound to be bad--yet Fulsom was square, and this counted
for everything.

“I’m mighty glad we met up,” he said as he came back to the fire.
“And I reckon we do understand each other, Sheriff. Here’s the flag.
Know it?”

The Sheriff gave it a glance, then laid it down.

“Yep. Belongs to Johnson Brothers of Ludington. But they aint fished
up around these parts--aint fished at all since last year. Sold out,
lock stock an’ barrel, to some fellows from Escanaba, I heard, who
were carrying on the business. Now, either those fellows are running
nets up this way, which I don’t hardly think is so, or else it’s
like you say--they’re running something else for bigger money. S’pose
you and me go out early in your canoe and look for that fish-trap.
Eh?”

“You’re on,” said Hardrock cheerfully.




                            CHAPTER VII


The boats went out Monday morning, went out early. They went out
from the St. James harbor and from the scattered holdings on the
other islands, boats of Indians and white men, out to the fishing
grounds where lacy gill-nets and hidden trap-nets and long bloater
lines and other legal and illegal methods of obtaining the finny
prey were put into effect. Boats bobbed here and there against the
horizon of island or sea or reef, and engines whirred as the lifters
brought the nets aboard, while trout and whitefish and perch went
tumbling down into the tubs. There was heavy work to be done, since
the fish must be all cleaned and boxed and in to St. James to make
that afternoon’s mailboat.

All that morning Hardrock’s canoe bobbed here and there off the end
of Hog Island, with a drag out from bow and stem, countering back
and forth. It was too shallow hereabout for the big fish, and the
waters looked all deserted, with only a sparkling flash of gulls off
the blue line that marked the north end of Garden to show that a
boat was working there beneath the horizon.

Back and forth they went, and found nothing, though they searched
hard enough for any sign of the black ropes that might mark a trap.
Nothing came near them on the water, excepting a covey of young
ducks that bore down and then wheeled and went flashing away through
the waves in a hurry. With noon, they returned to camp, where the
Sheriff’s launch was drawn safely out of sight among the bushes down
the shore, and lunched leisurely, and then returned again to the
search.

It was nearly three o’clock when at last they found the trap, and
then only by accident, for one of the drags picked up the mooring
line, and Hardrock hauled the canoe along this until the dim mass of
the trap itself was under the canoe. Fulsom came to his assistance,
since it was no light task to haul in the heavy lines without
tipping the canoe, and together they got it to the surface. They
could see perch in it, and big Bullheads from the mud bottom, and
one lordly yellow sunfish, but no whisky.

“Hold on!” exclaimed Fulsom, who knew more about traps than did
Hardrock. “Hold her till I get a grip on that mooringline! Now let
go, and catch hold.”

Now they tugged at the line, and bit by bit worked loose the anchor
down below, and after a time got it on the up-heave. Hardrock was
leaning far over on the line, depending on Sheriff Fulsom to balance
the canoe, and giving his entire attention to the rope below him.
This came heaving up soggily from the depths, and presently
disclosed another line knotted around it and hanging straight down.

“Thought so!” came the exultant voice of Fulsom. “Haul in on the
short line, now--”

                 *       *       *       *       *

In another moment the end of this came into sight, and showed a
firmly lashed case of liquor. Hardrock glanced up over his shoulder.

“Want it aboard?”

“If we can get it, yes. No telling how many more cases there are,
but we’ll have to leave ’em for the present. We’ll see what this
is--make sure of it. Looks to me like you needn’t worry about that
murder charge any more. Better move lively, too. Looks like a boat
is heading this way from Beaver. Left my binoculars in camp, so I
can’t tell much.”

Hardrock could not pause to look--he got the box in under the canoe,
then came the ticklish matter of swinging it aboard. This was
finally accomplished, though at imminent danger of capsizing the
frail craft; then he straightened up for a look at the approaching
boat. It was still half a mile distant, and bearing up between the
islands as though heading for them.

“Better get in to shore,” said Fulsom. “I aint anxious to be
recognized around here until it’s necessary, the way things are now.
Looks like we got some Canadian Club here, all right--we’ll open her
up and make sure. Set that extry paddle in the trap to mark her
before we go.”

Hardrock nodded and made fast the paddle so that it floated on the
line from which the whisky-case had been cut, then he headed the
canoe for the point and pushed her hard. Whether that boat was
heading for them or not, he meant to take no chances.

In ten minutes he was cutting through the shallows inside the point
and was out of sight of the boat. When they came to camp, they
speedily lifted the canoe ashore and in among the trees. Then
Fulsom, obtaining Hardrock Callahan’s woods hatchet, began to pry at
the lid of the whisky-case.

“Aren’t you tampering with evidence?” said Hardrock, chuckling.

“Who, me? I aint no prohibition officer,” returned the Sheriff
dryly. “No sir, I never voted for no prohibition, but I aim to do my
duty. First thing is to find out if this stuff is whisky or not.
Can’t tell by the box, can’t tell by the label--”

“The only way is to taste it, eh?” laughed Hardrock. “All right, I’m
with you, and will give expert testimony. Go to it! We can’t afford
to make any mistakes; that’s sure.”

The case opened, Fulsom produced a bottle, unhurt by its immersion,
and attacked the cork. When this was out, he handed the bottle to
his nominal prisoner.

“Let’s have your verdict, Hardrock!”

The latter tasted the contents, and grimaced. “It’s the stuff,” he
returned, handing back the bottle. The Sheriff promptly tilted it,
and held it tilted until his breath was gone. Then, gasping, he
lowered it, and replaced the cork.

“Gosh, that’s good!” he observed. “Wisht I could keep the whole
bottle.”

“Go ahead.”

“Nope.” He slid it back into the case. “I could sort of ease my
conscience by havin’ an excuse for one drink to make certain what
the stuff was. And I sure made that drink a good one! But any more’d
be stealin’ evidence, which I don’t aim to do. S’pose you slip out
to the shore and keep an eye on that there boat. Maybe she’s the one
we’re lookin’ for. I’ll lay up out o’ sight till I see who it is.”

                 *       *       *       *       *

Smiling to himself at the odd conceit of the Sheriff, whose
regretful devotion to duty was indubitably sincere, Hardrock left
the cover of the trees and returned to his clearing. He was just in
time to see the launch which they had observed come circling around
the point and head in. To his astonishment, he saw the figure of
Nelly Callahan standing in the bow, while another figure aft was
tending the engine.

The girl waved to him eagerly, while her companion, a young fellow
no more than a boy, shut off the engine and let the boat run in
until her nose touched the sand. By the flush of excitement in the
girl’s face, Hardrock guessed that she carried news of some kind.
She jumped ashore, then turned and waved her hand at the boy.

“Hardrock, this is Tom Boyle Gallagher’s boy Micky--Vesty Gallagher
was sending him over to find you, so I came along to bring the
message myself. I knew more about it than Vesty did, anyway, because
I heard Hughie Dunlevy talking to Father last night--”

“All right,” cut in Hardrock. “Wait just a minute, will you? Come
ashore, Micky. Got any gasoline aboard?”

“Ten gallon in the tank still,” said the boy, grinning.

“Know anything about engines?”

“He knows all about ’em,” broke in the girl. “Why?”

“I have a launch down the shore that I’d like to have him look over.
She’s down by that clump of sumach, Micky, drawn up. See if you can
find the trouble, will you? We may have to put her into the water.”

“Sure,” and Micky started off. Hardrock turned to the girl, smiling.

“Excuse me for the interruption, but I had a bit of news too, and
didn’t want him to overhear. Now come and sit down and tell me
what’s on your mind.”

They sat down together on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing,
and Hardrock got his pipe alight.

“Two things,” said the girl, “or maybe three,” and she laughed.
“First, Hughie and some of his friends are coming over here tonight.
I heard him tell Father they meant to drive you away, and send you
back to Arizona.”

Hardrock, thinking of the Sheriff among the trees, broke into a
hearty laugh.

“Go on,” he said after a minute. “Go on! What next?”

“Isn’t that enough? Vesty got wind of it, and sent Micky off to warn
you. There’s no telling what they’ll do, really--and it’s nothing to
laugh about!”

“It will be, I promise you,” and Hardrock chuckled. “Not for them to
laugh about, though. Don’t mention it to anyone, for he doesn’t want
it known--but Sheriff Fulsom is over there in the trees now. It’s his
launch that is down the shore. I picked him up last night--he was
drifting up the channel, disabled and out of gas. He and I are
working on this business, and we’ve already proved my ideas right by
finding that fish-trap and a case of whisky with it. There are other
cases at the same spot, probably.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Oh, good!” she exclaimed.

“And I don’t forget that I owe the tip to you, either,” he went on.
“Well, what next?”

“Hughie thinks that you did the shooting, but he isn’t sure. He told
Father that a strange launch had been seen around here--a green boat
with a red stripe running around the house. A fishboat. I thought
right away that it might be the one--”

“Good for you, Nelly Callahan! I’ll bet a dollar she’s the one we’re
looking for. Any further news from the chap who went over to the
hospital?”

“He’s still between life and death, they said.”

“Looks bad. Well, what else is on your mind?”

She looked down at the sand, stirred a branch of ground-cedar with
her foot, colored faintly. Then her eyes, direct and searching,
lifted suddenly to meet his gaze.

“Nothing.”

Hardrock frowned. “Something you don’t want to tell me, you mean?”

“Yes. Please don’t ask.”

                 *       *       *       *       *

For a moment Hardrock looked into the troubled depths of her eyes,
and the answer came to him. He remembered his talk with her father;
he could make a shrewd guess at about what that sort of a man would
do and say to the girl.

“All right, I wont,” he said abruptly. “You remember what we were
talking about when the boat came along and you had to jump in and
go? About Arizona, and you, and Danny’s picture of you. That’s why I
came up here to the Beavers, Nelly. Now let’s not have any
discussion of the question. I don’t want to know what your father
said, or how he may have reported what I said to him. The facts are
that I came here because I had seen your picture, and now that I’ve
met you, I’m going to stay here for a while. I told your father so,
and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Here’s Micky coming back, so
let’s drop the subject until a better time. I’ll be taking you to
the dance Thursday night, as the boys say. What’s the good word,
Micky?”

The grease-smeared lad grinned widely.

“Ye can’t run an engine without a spark, can ye? Sure, she’s all
right--I’ve got some extry batteries here and can fix her up in no
time.”

“But that wont fix the leaky gas tank.” Hardrock looked at the boy’s
boat--an open launch of no great size. “See here, Micky! Could you
run off some gas into that big tin can aboard your boat, and siphon
that into the carburetor, and run my launch into the harbor? If you
can, there’s a ten-dollar bill for you. Leave your boat here and
I’ll rent it until you can get my tank soldered up.”

“You bet!” exclaimed the youth eagerly. “Half an hour and I’ll have
her in shape. You going back with me, Nelly?”

“Yes, and hurry up,” said the girl. “We don’t want to be out all day
and night.”

Between them, Hardrock and Micky got the Sheriff’s launch back into
the water, and the boy fell to work. There was no occasion to
construct a siphoning arrangement, for he discovered that the leak
lay in the piping connections, and stopped it temporarily with some
soap. When he had run five gallons of gasoline into the tank and
turned over the engine, it functioned perfectly.

“Hop in, Nelly!” he sang out. “We’ll get back ’fore dark.”

“Thank you for coming over, dear girl,” said Hardrock, as he gave
Nelly a hand and helped her into the boat. “If I don’t come around
before then, I’ll see you Thursday night. Good-by, and good luck!”

“Good-by,” she answered quietly. Then, as the boat circled out from
shore, he saw her turn a laughing face, and lift her fingers to her
lips, blowing him a kiss. For a moment he stood astounded, then a
laugh broke from him, and a long shout.

“I may not wait until Thursday--after that!” he called, and she waved
her hand in farewell. Then the launch was drawing around for the
point, and passed from sight.

Sheriff Fulsom appeared from the bushes, and he regarded Hardrock
with twinkling eyes.

“Gosh, ye look right happy over something!” he commented dryly.
“Say, this was a good job ye done, too--got us a launch all
shipshape! They’ll recognize my launch over to St. James, but no
matter. Nobody’ll see it until tomorrow anyhow.”

“You heard what she told me?” demanded Hardrock. The Sheriff nodded.

“Yep. I don’t know that boat, but no matter. She’s our meat, I
reckon, if she’ll only come and pick up that shipment o’ case goods!
But what about them fellows coming over here tonight?” His shrewd
gaze inspected Hardrock gayly. “Looks to me like you and Dunlevy are
bound to fight it out, young fellow!”

Hardrock chuckled. “We should worry about what happens tonight. I’m
your prisoner and if you don’t protect me-- Hello! Sheriff, where are
your binoculars? Get ’em!”

“Gone with my launch, durn you! Why? What you lookin’ at?”

Hardrock, who was staring out to the northeast, drew back from the
shore.

“Looks to me like our boat--see her? Green, sure enough; can’t tell
about the red stripe. Get back out of sight, Fulsom. Here--help run
this launch up a little first! Move sharp. They mustn’t suspect
anyone is here. Can you make her out?”

“Yep. That’s her,” affirmed Fulsom confidently. “Go get your
shotgun, Hardrock.”




                            CHAPTER VIII


The round ball of the sun was hanging low above the purple line of
Garden Island in the west, and the breeze was down until there was
hardly a ripple on the water. From cover of bushes along the point,
Hardrock and Fulsom watched that green fishboat, a red stripe
running broadly around her, spin past the point and round it, and
head for the floating paddle that marked the whisky-cache.

“She’s fast,” said the Sheriff appraisingly. “Built for the work.
She came up from the south, all right, followed the channel through
past Gray’s Reef as though going to the straits, then cut straight
west and headed here. She wasn’t taking any chances by coming up
past Beaver.”

“What’s your program?” demanded Hardrock.

“Get out in that launch, and get quick. You got your shotgun, I’ve
got my pistol. She’ll let us come alongside, and we’ll grab her,
that’s all. No time to waste. You’re my deputy--swear!”

“I swear,” said Hardrock, and laughed. “Making a prisoner into a
deputy--”

“Oh hell, shove along! We got to move fast. I aim to catch her with
the goods.”

They hurried back along the shore and ran out the open launch.
Fulsom gave his automatic pistol to Hardrock, took the shotgun, and
scrambled into the bow.

“You ’tend the engine. We’ll get ’em back here and put ’em through
the third degree separate. Don’t say a word about the murder. Leave
me to handle it.”

“With pleasure.”

                 *       *       *       *       *

The engine spat and coughed and puffed, and presently they were
slipping out past the long point. The green fishboat had halted at
the fish-trap. She was a boat of fair size, housed over except for
foredeck, after-deck, and a narrow strip along the sides. The after
end of this house was wide open. Forward on each side were wide
openings where the lifter brought in nets and fish.

Just now, however, two men were at work forward in the bow, hauling
in better prey than fish. Several cases were piled up, and they were
getting another case aboard. A third man appeared in the stern,
stared at the launch, and called to his companions. All three
turned, watching her.

Hardrock headed as though to bear up past them for Beaver Island and
waved his hand, to which they made no response. The man from aft had
ducked out of sight, reappearing on the foredeck with the others. As
Fulsom was apparently at work on something and not interested, the
whisky-runners evinced no alarm. Then, when he was opposite their
boat and a hundred feet distant, Hardrock shoved the tiller hard
down and swung in toward her.

One of the three waved his arm and shouted:

“Git away! Sheer off! We don’t want no visitors.”

Sheriff Fulsom straightened up, pointed down, and shouted something
indistinguishable. Hardrock held on his course. Again the leader of
the three waved them off, this time with added oaths. Fulsom
grinned.

“Got something to show ye! Look here--look at this!”

The Sheriff leaned forward as though to drag something up to sight,
then came up with the shotgun leveled. The other boat was now not
thirty feet distant.

“Stand quiet and put your hands up! You’re under arrest. Hands up,
durn ye!”

The whisky-runners were caught entirely unawares. This boat,
obviously an island boat, with only two men in her, had been
unsuspected; while to lake-farers any talk of arrest among the
Beavers was in itself ludicrous. There was nothing ludicrous about
Fulsom or the way he handled his shotgun, however, and after one
surprised oath the astonished and dismayed trio put up their hands.

“Run her alongside,” said the Sheriff to Hardrock. “Then go aboard
and disarm ’em. Go through her for guns. You three gents roost high
and quiet, or I’ll blow daylight into ye.”

“What’s this for, anyhow?” demanded the leader. He was a big,
lantern-jawed fellow marked with a scar across his cheek. His two
comrades were swarthy men, whom Hardrock took to be Greeks or
kindred foreigners. Who are you, holdin’ us up this way?”

“Sheriff,” and Fulsom put up one hand to display his star. “All
right, Hardrock.”

As the two craft came into each other, Hardrock jumped aboard the
larger boat and made fast a line. The sight of the officer’s badge
had disconcerted the trio, and they offered only sullen curses as he
swiftly went through them. From two of them he removed heavy
automatics, which he tossed into his own craft. The third man was
unarmed.

Crawling through the forward opening of the deck-house, Hardrock
paused in surprise. There was no lifter in sight, no nets were
aboard, nor fish. Under him was a pile of a dozen whisky-cases, the
white wood all brown and soggy with water, which had evidently been
picked up at some other point in the course of the afternoon. A
quick search sufficed to show that no rifles or other weapons were
in evidence, and he returned to the foredeck.

“Nothing aboard but whisky, Sheriff, and plenty of that,” he called.
“They loaded another cache aboard before coming here.”

“Right thoughtful of ’em,” said Fulsom grimly, and moved back into
the stern, after tossing the captured weapons ahead of him. “You
three birds hop down into the bow, here. Come along, now, and no
talk.”

“Can’t we fix this up, Sheriff?” demanded the leader. “We got some
money--”

“Now I’ll soak you for attempted bribery,” snapped Fulsom. “Git
down!”

                 *       *       *       *       *

Cursing anew, the scar-faced leader got into the bow of the open
launch, and his two comrades followed him. Fulsom looked up at
Hardrock.

“Cast off that anchor in her bows and make sure the line’s fast.
Give her the len’th. Good holdin’ ground here, and she’ll drift in
toward the shore and set pretty. No wind comin’ up tonight, anyhow.
I got two pair o’ handcuffs at camp, and when we get these birds
fixed up and have supper, we can figger what to do next.”

The three “birds” looked decidedly unhappy. The two Greeks began to
talk in their own language, until the Sheriff peremptorily shut them
up. Hardrock, meantime, dumped the big anchor over the bows of the
green fishboat, watched the line run out until it drew taut, and
then climbed back into his own borrowed craft. The sun was just
sinking from sight.

“Back to camp?” he asked, and Fulsom nodded assent.

The engine started up, and the boat circled out for the point, the
Sheriff standing amidships with his shotgun ready. The three
prisoners, crowded on the bow thwart, showed no symptoms of putting
up any fight, however.

“Simplest thing on earth,” said Fulsom calmly, “is to handcuff a
gent with his arms around a sapling. We’ll do that with two of these
birds, and interview the third--give ’em turn and turn about at it.
And we’ll keep ’em at far separated trees. And no supper. Make ’em
talk better, hungry.”

As they were perhaps meant to do, these words reached and stung the
trio. After a rapid-fire exchange of Greek, the leader turned
around.

“This aint legal!” he exclaimed savagely. “You aint got no warrant--”

“I got a shotgun,” said the Sheriff, a cold glint in his eyes, “and
you’ll taste it if you get gay. So turn around there and set easy.
We aint ready for you to talk yet awhile.”

The boat was around the point and heading in for the shore.
Hardrock, one hand on the tiller, swept her directly in toward the
clearing, threw out the clutch, and after a moment threw it into
reverse. With hardly a jar, the prow of the boat came into the
ground a couple of feet from shore, weighted down as it was by the
three prisoners.

“Now, then,” ordered Fulsom, “you birds hop out and draw her up.
Don’t any of you make a break, or I’ll pepper your hides!”

                 *       *       *       *       *

The big leader, with a growled oath, obeyed the order. There was no
sand at the water’s edge, the beach being composed of small stones,
which farther back ran into sand. The two Greeks likewise got out.
The leader took the prow, each of the Greeks seized the gunnel, and
they drew up the launch until the bow was on the shingle.

“Now you, Hardrock,” commanded the Sheriff. “Never mind the
guns--I’ll ’tend to ’em. Run over to my pile of stuff and fetch the
handcuffs, will you?”

“Sure.”

Hardrock stepped past the Sheriff and jumped ashore.

At the same instant, the big leader stooped; and the two Greeks
shoved outward on the boat with all their power. Fulsom, caught
unawares by the tremendous lurch of the boat, lost his balance,
dropped the shotgun, and reeled for an instant. The leader hurled a
chunk of rock that struck the staggering man squarely in the side of
the head and sent him down like a shot.

The whole thing passed off swiftly, neatly, with increditable
precision and accuracy. Even as Hardrock whirled about from his
spring, Fulsom was down and the launch was darting out twenty feet
from shore.

Then he found all three men on top of him. One of the Greeks came
first, and went sprawling in the water as Hardrock’s fist met his
face. The second Greek lunged in from one side, a knife in his hand,
and took a kick under the chin that laid him senseless, but the
leader was hurling himself forward and Hardrock could not evade.
Caught in a burly grip, arms locked, both men went down, thrashing.
Even then, had matters been equal, Hardrock would have won out, for
with a twist he came up on top and rammed a fist into the scarred
face--but just then the first Greek swung a stone that laid the man
from Arizona prostrate. Dazed and almost senseless from the blow,
Hardrock keeled over, and before he could recover he was pinned down
under both opponents.

“Tie him up!” growled the leader, and two minutes later Hardrock was
bound hand and foot, while the Greek stooped over his unconscious
comrade and the burly leader stood laughing and panting. He grinned
down at Hardrock.

“So that’s what we think of you and your blasted Sheriff!” he
declared. “We’ll let him float to Mackinac, if he aint dead. By the
time he gits back here, we’ll sure be on our way. Got a good camp
here, aint you? Guess we’ll git us a bite to eat ’fore we bring up
our boat and beat it.”

For a little, however, the man had his hands full. The groaning
Greek, revived by his compatriot, retrieved his knife and flung
himself on the bound captive; the leader interfered, and the trees
resounded to bellowed oaths and orders and imprecations. Hardrock,
helpless to move, watched and listened grimly. At length the
arguments of the leader took effect.

“And ye don’t want to be the same damned fools ye were before, do
ye?” concluded the wrathful leader. “We don’t want to be trailed for
murder! Leave him be. We’ll fix him so’s he can’t hurt us none--and
we wont murder him neither. Ye may think ye can pull a stunt like
that more’n once, and get away with it; but ye can’t. How d’ye know
that there Sheriff didn’t want ye for the other shootin’, hey?”

The sullen Greek acquiesced, put away his knife, and all three men
stamped away up to the camp. Darkness was gathering upon the waters,
but Hardrock no longer stared after the rapidly vanishing boat that
was drifted off along the shore and toward the open lake. Those
words of the leader were dinning in his brain. He knew now who had
shot down those two boys from St. James.




                             CHAPTER IX


It was perhaps five minutes afterward, while some tins of food were
being opened, that the three whisky-runners realized they had
committed an error. Their leader, whose name appeared to be Marks,
was the one who realized it most keenly. He came down to the shore,
stared off in the gathering darkness at the boat, now a mere speck
in the dusk, and cursed fervently. The shotgun had gone into the
lake, and their pistols had all floated away with poor Fulsom.
Hardrock chuckled.

“You fellows turn me loose,” he offered, “and I’ll tell you where
there’s a boat laid up down the shore.”

Marks turned away. “You’ll tell more’n that ’fore we’re through with
you. Shut up!”

The three gathered again about their food, getting a fire lighted
and in their clumsy ignorance of the woods heaping on fuel until the
yellow flames were leaping high and far. Over such a fire, any
cookery was impossible, and Hardrock chuckled at their profane
efforts to make coffee without getting the pot too hot to be
handled.

He, meantime, while apparently motionless and helpless, was in
reality hard at work. He lay, half sitting, against a log between
fire and shore, at the clearing’s edge, arms bound behind him. He
had been tied up with the first thing to hand--bandanna handkerchiefs
produced by the Greeks, and had made the gratifying discovery that
the material was old and would tear easily. Therefore he was tearing
it, against the log at his back, and by the increasing looseness
knew that his wrists were nearly free.

Marks conferred at length with his companions, who were obviously
taking their orders from him, and presently the two Greeks rose and
stamped off into the darkness along the shore, going toward the
point. Marks himself rolled a cigarette and came toward Hardrock.

“If you’re going to starve me,” said the latter, “you might at least
starve me on a smoke. Look out your friends don’t get lost.”

Marks laughed easily. “I’ll get you some coffee and a smoke,” he
replied, “if you’ll talk. Will you? Or shall I make you?”

“Sure thing,” exclaimed Hardrock. “It’s a bargain. And cut me
loose.”

“Not much,” retorted the other, and went back to the fire, where he
poured out a tin cup of coffee.

Hardrock seized the instant. His arms came free. Swiftly he got a
hand into his pocket--thus far, they had not searched him except for
weapons--and slid out his pocketknife. His arms again in place behind
him, he opened a blade of the knife, and waited. One cut at his
ankles, and he would be free. Without that cut, he dared take no
chances, tempting as the occasion now was.

                 *       *       *       *       *

For Marks now came back to him, held the lukewarm coffee to his lips
as he drank, then gave him the cigarette and held a match to it.
Sitting down and wiping sweat from his face, for it was hot near
that big fire, the burly ruffian rolled himself another cigarette.
He was almost within arm’s reach of Hardrock--yet the latter
controlled himself. Until his feet were free he must attempt
nothing.

“Now let’s have it,” said Marks. “I didn’t want them two lard-eaters
to get wise. What was it the Sheriff wanted to give us the third
degree about?”

“About the shooting you fellows pulled off last time you were here.”

Marks nodded, a frown darkening his scarred features. Evidently he
had anticipated this information.

“Aint it hell how ye can’t make foreigners savvy anything?” he
demanded, to the astonishment of Hardrock. “Them two fellers have
just one notion o’ fighting--to take a gun and kill somebody! I’ll
have to let ’em go. I can’t make ’em savvy that there’s a durned
sight more danger in a murder charge than in running liquor.”

“You mean they’re working for you?”

“Yep. The blamed fools run on them Beaver men the other day, found
’em lifting the trap out yonder, and riddled ’em--then let ’em go.
That’s a fool Greek everytime. I wasn’t along, dog-gone it! I was in
Escanaba, sick that day, and ye can’t get nothin’ on me. I got to
stand by them fellers, o’ course, and get ’em away safe, but I don’t
like it a mite. This sort o’ killing is bad business.”

Hardrock laughed curtly. “What about the Sheriff?”

“Oh, him! He’s a Sheriff, takin’ chances. Same with you--depity, aint
ye? Yep. He aint killed, though. He’ll drift over in the channel
and’ll get picked up by a barge. We’ll run ye out to Gull Island and
leave ye there with some grub. That’s decent all around. A fight is
one thing, and killin’ is another thing. I been running booze a year
now, and never had a speck o’ trouble before this. Durn them
hot-headed Greeks! They’ve spoiled the best little game this side
the Soo.”

“You’re sure frank about it,” said Hardrock dryly.”

“Why not? I want you should understand it; I aint anxious to be
follered up for a killin’ I didn’t do! Bad enough to have my
business busted up. Now I got to land this cargo and then go
somewheres else. Dog-gone it! I hope they pass them immygration laws
an’ do it quick. A feller can’t make an honest livin’ no more, the
way these durned foreigners are everywhere.”

Hardrock broke out laughing. Marks surveyed him darkly.

“Ye may think it’s funny, but I don’t. It aint the law so much,
neither. It’s these durned islanders! They’re all over the lakes,
them or their relations. If they take the notion it was me
responsible for the killin’, they’ll drive me off the lakes, that’s
what.”

The man’s viewpoint was irresistible, and Hardrock laughed the
harder, while Marks sucked at his cigarette and glowered angrily.
Then came the “chug-chug” of a gas engine, and a low call from the
darkness. Slowly the shape of the green fishboat drifted in upon the
shore and then halted as her bows hit the shallows ten feet from the
beach.

“They had to swim to get her, anyhow!” exclaimed Marks. “The durned
fools needed a bath.” He rose and went past Hardrock to the shore.
“Hey, boys! Toss that anchor ashore so’s she wont drift off. We’ll
get away pretty quick, now.”

Hardrock moved his arm, and the little blade of the penknife flashed
in the firelight as he slashed the bonds about his ankles. He was
free, now--but he must let them all get ashore. His only chance,
against the three of them, was to get their boat and leave them
here. It was a time for strategy, rather than for fighting; so, at
least, he thought. He was to discover his mistake very shortly.

The two Greeks came ashore, bearing a line. It appeared that they
had cut loose the anchor rather than haul it in. There ensued a
furious storm of oaths from Marks; the two men became ugly, and for
a moment it looked as though a row were imminent. Then Marks cooled
down, and told them to get some of the supplies from Hardrock’s tent
aboard the boat. All three passed up to the tent, none of them
observing that the captive was no longer bound.

                 *       *       *       *       *

This was the opportunity Hardrock had been praying for, and he
gathered his muscles. Once he could shove out that boat and scramble
aboard her, he had everything in his own hands! He drew up his feet,
saw that the three men were busily engaged with his supplies, and
rose--

While he was in the very act of rising, a voice boomed out among the
trees at the clearing’s edge:

“There’s Callahan and his whole crowd--git ’em all, lads! Take ’em!”

Hardrock was already springing for the water, but a figure appeared
and blocked him. It was the figure of Hughie Dunlevy. Instantly,
Hardrock realized what had happened, and cursed the luck that had
brought the Beaver lads here at this moment. From the brush was
going up a crash of feet and wild yells, Marks was bellowing, the
Greeks were cursing and fighting--beyond a question, Dunlevy thought
that they were part of a gang under the direction of Hardrock
Callahan.

There was no time for any explanations. The man from Arizona barely
had a chance to check his leap for the water, to spring back and
gain balance, when Dunlevy was upon him with a roar of battle-fury
and a whirl of fists.

“Ye will murder poor lads, will ye?” he yelled, and struck.

Hardrock ducked the blow and answered it with a smash to the wind
that stopped Hughie Dunlevy for an instant. Glancing around,
Hardrock was aware of the three whisky-runners by the tent,
furiously engaged with four or five other men. He and Dunlevy were
for the moment alone. Only a glance--then he was driving at his
opponent, hoping still to get out and aboard the boat.

That hope seemed vain. A wild swing caught Hardrock under the jaw
and knocked him ten feet away; Dunlevy was after him instantly,
leaping high in air to come down upon him boots first. He came down
only on the shingle, however; and the man from Arizona, evading a
savage kick, reached his feet and began to fight.

Hughie Dunlevy gasped and grunted as the blows smashed into him,
while before him in the firelight danced that unhurt face with its
blazing eyes and its furious unleashed anger. For all his tremendous
strength, the islander helplessly gave ground, was driven backward,
fists driving into him with relentless accuracy. In vain he tried to
grapple, to kick, to gouge--each attempt failed and only drew upon
him another terrific smash under the heart.

Wanned as he was by white liquor, having great strength in place of
stamina, Dunlevy could not stand up under this battering. Never once
did Hardrock strike for the face, but drove in fists like hammers
that pounded heart and stomach in frightful repetition.

                 *       *       *       *       *

On the other side of the fire, one Greek was thrashing over the
ground with Jimmy Basset pounding him into submission. Connie
Dunlevy was down, trying to quench a knife slash that ran from
shoulder to elbow. The other three island men were battering Marks,
who was badly hurt and groaning as he fought, and the second Greek
whose knife flashed crimson in the firelight. Now Marks gave way and
came crashing down, and the snarling Greek reeled as a stone smashed
into his face.

Hardrock got home to the wind with one direct punch that sent Hughie
Dunlevy two steps backward and brought down his hands--drove in
another that rocked him, and then set himself deliberately for the
finish. His feet shifting perfectly to keep balance, he now put over
a light tap to the mouth, and then laughed.

“How d’ye like it, Hughie? Come and get it, boy, come and get it--”

With a gasping bellow of anguished fury, the other obeyed, rushed
blindly into the blow that Hardrock smashed in with full force--a
perfect solar-plexus knockout. Dunlevy simply doubled up and rolled
to the ground.

Two leaps took Hardrock to the boat. As he splashed through the
water, wild yells chorused up behind him, and he glanced around to
see dark figures bounding after him. He set himself against the
heavy bow of the boat and shoved--vainly. He could not budge her.
Desperate, he gave up the attempt and with a leap was dragging
himself over her rail.

Too late! They were upon him, three of them; that effort to shove
her off had lost him his fighting chance. Mad with battlelust and
moonshine whisky, they dragged him back and bore him down, all three
hurtling in upon him bodily, careless of his blows, so that only
they might land blows upon him. Slipping on the stones, he lost
balance, went down, was stamped into the knee-deep water--

That was all he knew, for a time.

Presently, half strangled and exhausted, Hardrock came to himself
again. This time he found ankles and arms fast lashed by men who
knew how to handle ropes. Beside him lay one of the Greeks, dark
features masked by blood, beaten senseless and bound; the other
Greek lay farther away, muttering low curses.

Hardrock realized that some terrible sound had dragged him to life,
and now it came once more--a low scream of agony. His head cleared
slowly, as he visualized the scene before him. In the circle of
firelight lay Hughie Dunlevy, still unconscious, and by him sat his
brother Connie, weak and white and rather drunk, his arm all swathed
in crimsoned bandages.

The other four men, by the fire, held the frantically struggling
figure of Marks, and were shoving his feet into the red embers. From
the man broke another scream, this time rising shrill with pain and
horror.

“Quit it! Quit it! I’ll tell!”

“Then talk, ye domned murderer,” growled Jimmy Basset. “Pull him out
and give him a drink to make him talk, lads--”

The groaning Marks waited for no drink. “It was them Greeks done
it!” he cried desperately. “I wasn’t along with ’em, I tell ye! It
was them two done it!”

“All right,” snapped Bassett, lurching a little as he glared down at
the captive. “And what about this Hardrock felly? Is he your boss?”

“I don’t know him,” returned the unfortunate Marks.

“Shove him in again, lads--”

Marks screamed and twisted terribly. “No, no! Yes, he’s my boss.
Sure he is.”

“Don’t you fools know a man will swear to anything under torture?”
demanded Hardrock furiously. “You’re going too far here. Cut this
business out!”

Marks was hastily flung aside. They all turned to stare at him.
Connie Dunlevy, waving a bottle in his free hand, gave a weak,
drunken laugh.

“Glory be, he’s awake! Burn the boots off’m him, byes!”

The four lurched over. Hardrock made one desperate effort to pierce
through the liquor fumes to their fuddled brains.

“Hold on, there, boys! You’ve got this thing all wrong. These men
are whisky-runners, and they had captured me before you came along.
I was getting away--”

Jimmy Basset leaned over and struck him across the mouth, heavily.

“Shut up wid you and your lies! Well we know it’s you that’s the
whisky-runner, and behind all this deviltry. So it was them Greeks
done the killin’, was it? Well, it was you behind it all, and it’s
you we’ll have a bit o’ fun wid the night. Up wid him, lads! Up and
shove him in!”

Hardrock felt himself picked up. The next instant, with a wild yell,
the four men shoved him at the fire, shoved his feet and legs into
the heart of the blazing embers. He made one frantic, frightful
effort, kicked himself out of the flames, rolled aside. The four
gripped him and lifted him again, with a maudlin yell of glee.

“All together, now!” howled Basset.

“One, two--”




                             CHAPTER X


As the shot rang out, Jimmy Basset jumped into the air, then stood
staring at his arm that dripped blood. A voice struck on the
silence--a voice from the edge of the trees.

“All right, boys--hands up all around! Sheriff Fulsom talking, and
two guns to talk with. First man moves gets a bullet in the leg.”

That crisp, businesslike voice bit into their drunken senses like
acid. Hardrock lay where they dropped him. Sheriff Fulsom stepped
forward into the circle of light, a pistol in each hand, and not one
of the islanders moved, after reaching upward.

“Cut loose that man Hardrock and do it durned quick. He’s a Deputy
Sheriff of this county, if ye want to know who he is. Cut him loose,
Willy John. Move sharp.”

One of the men stooped and fumbled with Hardrock’s bonds. They were
all struck silent and were held in a stupefaction of dismay and
consternation by the appearance of Fulsom, whom they all knew. A
sudden and terrible sanity crept upon them.

“You boys are shoving a good thing too far,” continued Fulsom.
“Hardrock and me got them murderers, and then they jumped us. Lucky
I aint as soft in the head as I look to be, for a fact! Took me
quite a spell to get ashore and come back here, at that. H’are ye,
Hardrock?”

“All right,” said the latter, getting to his feet.

“You done some swift action gettin’ out of that fire, sure enough!
Here, take a gun and stretch yourself. All right, boys, put your
hands down. I’m doin’ the talking for a spell--remember that. What’s
the matter with Hughie Dunlevy?”

“I knocked him out,” and Hardrock chuckled. “Connie got knifed by
one of these Greeks--badly slashed, I think.”

“All right, Connie, you go climb aboard that there launch, and do it
quick--no talk! Jimmy Basset, go with him. We’ll ’tend to your arm
quick enough; long’s you can move your hand it aint broke. Git!”

The two men, dazed, obeyed the order and stumbled toward the boat at
the shore. Fulsom looked at the other three, grimly enough.

“Now, I want you three boys for deputies. We got to take this whisky
boat over to Charlevoix and lock up these birds. Hardrock, got any
information to spill?”

The man from Arizona briefly recounted what Marks had told him about
the murder by the Greeks. Fulsom comprehended at once, and nodded.

“All right. Willy John, I s’pose you snuck up here in a boat and
left her laying down the shore?”

“Yes,” said Willy John, rather sheepishly. “She’s down to Belmore
Bay.”

“All right. You three deputies take the pris’ners and get aboard.
I’ll rustle up some handcuffs, if you rascals aint lost ’em.
Hardrock, get aboard likewise.”

Hardrock smiled. “Sorry, Sheriff. Can’t be done.”

“Eh?” Fulsom eyed him sharply. “We got to have your evidence--”

“You’ll get it. I’ll come over on the mailboat tomorrow.” Hardrock
motioned to the figure of Hughie Dunlevy. “I’ve got a little
business to settle with this chap, first--I may have to convince him
a little more that I’m the better man. Then we’ll have to get his
launch and Micky’s boat back to St. James. And I have a very
important errand there.”

“Oh!” Fulsom broke into a grin. “Oh! So that’s it, eh? That Callahan
girl, eh? Dog-gone you, Hardrock, here’s luck to you! See you later,
then.”

He went for his handcuffs. Hardrock looked down at the slowly
wakening Hughie Dunlevy.

“Looks like that textbook for engineers is never going to get
written!” he murmured. “Sure looks that way. I’ve got to convince
this fellow, then I’ve got to convince Matt Big Mary that I’m a good
man to marry his daughter, and then I’ve got to convince the
daughter of the same thing--but, I guess an Arizona Callahan can do
it, by gosh!”

And he grinned happily.

                              The End



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