“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.”
CHAPTER VIII
The round ball of the sun was hanging low above the purple line of Garden Island in the west, and the breeze was down until there was hardly a ripple on the water. From cover of bushes along the point, Hardrock and Fulsom watched that green fishboat, a red stripe running broadly around her, spin past the point and round it, and head for the floating paddle that marked the whisky-cache.
“She’s fast,” said the Sheriff appraisingly. “Built for the work. She came up from the south, all right, followed the channel through past Gray’s Reef as though going to the straits, then cut straight west and headed here. She wasn’t taking any chances by coming up past Beaver.”
“What’s your program?” demanded Hardrock.
“Get out in that launch, and get quick. You got your shotgun, I’ve got my pistol. She’ll let us come alongside, and we’ll grab her, that’s all. No time to waste. You’re my deputy—swear!”
“I swear,” said Hardrock, and laughed. “Making a prisoner into a deputy—”