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.