“Ye may think it’s funny, but I don’t. It aint the law so much, neither. It’s these durned islanders! They’re all over the lakes, them or their relations. If they take the notion it was me responsible for the killin’, they’ll drive me off the lakes, that’s what.”
The man’s viewpoint was irresistible, and Hardrock laughed the harder, while Marks sucked at his cigarette and glowered angrily. Then came the “chug-chug” of a gas engine, and a low call from the darkness. Slowly the shape of the green fishboat drifted in upon the shore and then halted as her bows hit the shallows ten feet from the beach.
“They had to swim to get her, anyhow!” exclaimed Marks. “The durned fools needed a bath.” He rose and went past Hardrock to the shore. “Hey, boys! Toss that anchor ashore so’s she wont drift off. We’ll get away pretty quick, now.”
Hardrock moved his arm, and the little blade of the penknife flashed in the firelight as he slashed the bonds about his ankles. He was free, now—but he must let them all get ashore. His only chance, against the three of them, was to get their boat and leave them here. It was a time for strategy, rather than for fighting; so, at least, he thought. He was to discover his mistake very shortly.
The two Greeks came ashore, bearing a line. It appeared that they had cut loose the anchor rather than haul it in. There ensued a furious storm of oaths from Marks; the two men became ugly, and for a moment it looked as though a row were imminent. Then Marks cooled down, and told them to get some of the supplies from Hardrock’s tent aboard the boat. All three passed up to the tent, none of them observing that the captive was no longer bound.
This was the opportunity Hardrock had been praying for, and he gathered his muscles. Once he could shove out that boat and scramble aboard her, he had everything in his own hands! He drew up his feet, saw that the three men were busily engaged with his supplies, and rose—
While he was in the very act of rising, a voice boomed out among the trees at the clearing’s edge:
“There’s Callahan and his whole crowd—git ’em all, lads! Take ’em!”
Hardrock was already springing for the water, but a figure appeared and blocked him. It was the figure of Hughie Dunlevy. Instantly, Hardrock realized what had happened, and cursed the luck that had brought the Beaver lads here at this moment. From the brush was going up a crash of feet and wild yells, Marks was bellowing, the Greeks were cursing and fighting—beyond a question, Dunlevy thought that they were part of a gang under the direction of Hardrock Callahan.
There was no time for any explanations. The man from Arizona barely had a chance to check his leap for the water, to spring back and gain balance, when Dunlevy was upon him with a roar of battle-fury and a whirl of fists.