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.”