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.”