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.