HE boats went out Monday morning, went out early. They went out from the St. James harbor and from the scattered holdings on the other islands, boats of Indians and white men, out to the fishing grounds where lacy gill-nets and hidden trap-nets and long bloater lines and other legal and illegal methods of obtaining the finny prey were put into effect. Boats bobbed here and there against the horizon of island or sea or reef, and engines whirred as the lifters brought the nets aboard, while trout and whitefish and perch went tumbling down into the tubs. There was heavy work to be done, since the fish must be all cleaned and boxed and in to St. James to make that afternoon's mailboat.
All that morning Hardrock's canoe bobbed here and there off the end of Hog Island, with a drag out from bow and stern, countering back and forth. It was too shallow hereabout for the big fish, and the waters looked all deserted, with only a sparkling flash of gulls off the blue line that marked the north end of Garden to show that a boat was working there beneath the horizon.
Back and forth they went, and found nothing, though they searched hard enough for any sign of the black ropes that might mark a trap. Nothing came near them on the water, excepting a covey of young ducks that bore down and then wheeled and went flashing away through the waves in a hurry. With noon, they returned to camp, where the Sheriff's launch was drawn safely out of sight among the bushes down the shore, and lunched leisurely, and then returned again to the search.
It was nearly three o'clock when at last they found the trap, and then only by accident, for one of the drags picked up the mooring line, and Hardrock hauled the canoe along this until the dim mass of the trap itself was under the canoe. Fulsom came to his assistance, since it was no light task to haul in the heavy lines without tipping the canoe, and together they got it to the surface. They could see perch in it, and big bullheads from the mud bottom, and one lordly yellow sunfish, but no whisky.
“Hold on!” exclaimed Fulsom, who knew more about traps than did Hardrock. “Hold her till I get a grip on that mooring-line! Now let go, and catch hold.”
Now they tugged at the line, and bit by bit worked loose the anchor down below, and after a time got it on the up-heave. Hardrock was leaning far over on the line, depending on Sheriff Fulsom to balance the canoe, and giving his entire attention to the rope below him. This came heaving up soggily from the depths, and presently disclosed another line knotted around it and hanging straight down.
“Thought so!” came the exultant voice of Fulsom. “Haul in on the short line, now—”
N another moment the end of this came into sight, and showed a firmly lashed case of liquor. Hardrock glanced up over his shoulder.
“Want it aboard?”
“If we can get it, yes. No telling how many more cases there are, but we'll have to leave 'em for the present. We'll see what this is—make sure of it. Looks to me like you needn't worry about that murder charge any more. Better move lively, too. Looks like a boat is heading this way from Beaver. Left my binoculars in camp, so I can't tell much.”
Hardrock could not pause to look—he got the box in under the canoe, then came the ticklish matter of swinging it aboard. This was finally accomplished, though at imminent danger of capsizing the frail craft; then he straightened up for a look at the approaching boat. It was still half a mile distant, and bearing up between the islands as though heading for them.
“Better get in to shore,” said Fulsom. “I aint anxious to be recognized around here until it's necessary, the way things are now. Looks like we got some Canadian Club here, all right—we'll open her up and make sure. Set that extry paddle in the trap to mark her before we go.”
Hardrock nodded and made fast the paddle so that it floated on the line from which the whisky-case had been cut, then he headed the canoe for the point and pushed her hard. Whether that boat was heading for them or not, he meant to take no chances.
In ten minutes he was cutting through the shallows inside the point and was out of sight of the boat. When they came to camp, they speedily lifted the canoe ashore and in among the trees. Then Fulsom, obtaining Hardrock Callahan's woods hatchet, began to pry at the lid of the whisky-case.
“Aren't you tampering with evidence?” said Hardrock, chuckling.
“Who, me? I aint no prohibition officer,” returned the Sheriff dryly. “No sir, I never voted for no prohibition, but I aim to do my duty. First thing is to find out if this stuff is whisky or not. Can't tell by the box, can't tell by the label—”