“You done some swift action gettin’ out of that fire, sure enough! Here, take a gun and stretch yourself. All right, boys, put your hands down. I’m doin’ the talking for a spell—remember that. What’s the matter with Hughie Dunlevy?”
“I knocked him out,” and Hardrock chuckled. “Connie got knifed by one of these Greeks—badly slashed, I think.”
“All right, Connie, you go climb aboard that there launch, and do it quick—no talk! Jimmy Basset, go with him. We’ll ’tend to your arm quick enough; long’s you can move your hand it aint broke. Git!”
The two men, dazed, obeyed the order and stumbled toward the boat at the shore. Fulsom looked at the other three, grimly enough.
“Now, I want you three boys for deputies. We got to take this whisky boat over to Charlevoix and lock up these birds. Hardrock, got any information to spill?”
The man from Arizona briefly recounted what Marks had told him about the murder by the Greeks. Fulsom comprehended at once, and nodded.
“All right. Willy John, I s’pose you snuck up here in a boat and left her laying down the shore?”
“Yes,” said Willy John, rather sheepishly. “She’s down to Belmore Bay.”
“All right. You three deputies take the pris’ners and get aboard. I’ll rustle up some handcuffs, if you rascals aint lost ’em. Hardrock, get aboard likewise.”
Hardrock smiled. “Sorry, Sheriff. Can’t be done.”