“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.