Then he found all three men on top of him. One of the Greeks came first, and went sprawling in the water as Hardrock’s fist met his face. The second Greek lunged in from one side, a knife in his hand, and took a kick under the chin that laid him senseless, but the leader was hurling himself forward and Hardrock could not evade. Caught in a burly grip, arms locked, both men went down, thrashing. Even then, had matters been equal, Hardrock would have won out, for with a twist he came up on top and rammed a fist into the scarred face—but just then the first Greek swung a stone that laid the man from Arizona prostrate. Dazed and almost senseless from the blow, Hardrock keeled over, and before he could recover he was pinned down under both opponents.
“Tie him up!” growled the leader, and two minutes later Hardrock was bound hand and foot, while the Greek stooped over his unconscious comrade and the burly leader stood laughing and panting. He grinned down at Hardrock.
“So that’s what we think of you and your blasted Sheriff!” he declared. “We’ll let him float to Mackinac, if he aint dead. By the time he gits back here, we’ll sure be on our way. Got a good camp here, aint you? Guess we’ll git us a bite to eat ’fore we bring up our boat and beat it.”
For a little, however, the man had his hands full. The groaning Greek, revived by his compatriot, retrieved his knife and flung himself on the bound captive; the leader interfered, and the trees resounded to bellowed oaths and orders and imprecations. Hardrock, helpless to move, watched and listened grimly. At length the arguments of the leader took effect.
“And ye don’t want to be the same damned fools ye were before, do ye?” concluded the wrathful leader. “We don’t want to be trailed for murder! Leave him be. We’ll fix him so’s he can’t hurt us none—and we wont murder him neither. Ye may think ye can pull a stunt like that more’n once, and get away with it; but ye can’t. How d’ye know that there Sheriff didn’t want ye for the other shootin’, hey?”
The sullen Greek acquiesced, put away his knife, and all three men stamped away up to the camp. Darkness was gathering upon the waters, but Hardrock no longer stared after the rapidly vanishing boat that was drifted off along the shore and toward the open lake. Those words of the leader were dinning in his brain. He knew now who had shot down those two boys from St. James.
CHAPTER IX
It was perhaps five minutes afterward, while some tins of food were being opened, that the three whisky-runners realized they had committed an error. Their leader, whose name appeared to be Marks, was the one who realized it most keenly. He came down to the shore, stared off in the gathering darkness at the boat, now a mere speck in the dusk, and cursed fervently. The shotgun had gone into the lake, and their pistols had all floated away with poor Fulsom. Hardrock chuckled.
“You fellows turn me loose,” he offered, “and I’ll tell you where there’s a boat laid up down the shore.”
Marks turned away. “You’ll tell more’n that ’fore we’re through with you. Shut up!”