“This aint legal!” he exclaimed savagely. “You aint got no warrant—”
“I got a shotgun,” said the Sheriff, a cold glint in his eyes, “and you’ll taste it if you get gay. So turn around there and set easy. We aint ready for you to talk yet awhile.”
The boat was around the point and heading in for the shore. Hardrock, one hand on the tiller, swept her directly in toward the clearing, threw out the clutch, and after a moment threw it into reverse. With hardly a jar, the prow of the boat came into the ground a couple of feet from shore, weighted down as it was by the three prisoners.
“Now, then,” ordered Fulsom, “you birds hop out and draw her up. Don’t any of you make a break, or I’ll pepper your hides!”
The big leader, with a growled oath, obeyed the order. There was no sand at the water’s edge, the beach being composed of small stones, which farther back ran into sand. The two Greeks likewise got out. The leader took the prow, each of the Greeks seized the gunnel, and they drew up the launch until the bow was on the shingle.
“Now you, Hardrock,” commanded the Sheriff. “Never mind the guns—I’ll ’tend to ’em. Run over to my pile of stuff and fetch the handcuffs, will you?”
“Sure.”
Hardrock stepped past the Sheriff and jumped ashore.
At the same instant, the big leader stooped; and the two Greeks shoved outward on the boat with all their power. Fulsom, caught unawares by the tremendous lurch of the boat, lost his balance, dropped the shotgun, and reeled for an instant. The leader hurled a chunk of rock that struck the staggering man squarely in the side of the head and sent him down like a shot.
The whole thing passed off swiftly, neatly, with increditable precision and accuracy. Even as Hardrock whirled about from his spring, Fulsom was down and the launch was darting out twenty feet from shore.