# The Arizona Callahan/Chapter 9

pp. 188–192.

### 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!”
The three gathered again about their food, getting a fire lighted and in their clumsy ignorance of the woods heaping on fuel until the yellow flames were leaping high and far. Over such a fire, any cookery was impossible, and Hardrock chuckled at their profane efforts to make coffee without getting the pot too hot to be handled.
He, meantime, while apparently motionless and helpless, was in reality hard at work. He lay, half sitting, against a log between fire and shore, at the clearing's edge, arms bound behind him. He had been tied up with the first thing to hand—bandanna handkerchiefs produced by the Greeks, and had made the gratifying discovery that the material was old and would tear easily. Therefore he was tearing it, against the log at his back, and by the increasing looseness knew that his wrists were nearly free.
Marks conferred at length with his companions, who were obviously taking their orders from him, and presently the two Greeks rose and stamped off into the darkness along the shore, going toward the point. Marks himself rolled a cigarette and came toward Hardrock.
“If you're going to starve me,” said the latter, “you might at least starve me on a smoke. Look out your friends don't get lost.”
Marks laughed easily. “I'll get you some coffee and a smoke,” he' replied, “if you'll talk. Will you? Or shall I make you?”
“Sure thing,” exclaimed Hardrock. “It's a bargain. And cut me loose.”
“Not much,” retorted the other, and went back to the fire, where he poured out a tin cup of coffee.
Hardrock seized the instant. His arms came free. Swiftly he got a hand into his pocket—thus far, they had not searched him except for weapons—and slid out his pocketknife. His arms again in place behind him, he opened a blade of the knife, and waited. One cut at his ankles, and he would be free. Without that cut, he dared take no chances, tempting as the occasion now was.
FOR Marks now came back to him, held the lukewarm coffee to his lips as he drank, then gave him the cigarette and held a match to it. Sitting down and wiping sweat from his face, for it was hot near that big fire, the burly ruffian rolled himself another cigarette. He was almost within arm's reach of Hardrock—yet the latter controlled himself. Until his feet were free he must attempt nothing.
“Now let's have it,” said Marks. “I didn't want them two lard-eaters to get wise. What was it the Sheriff wanted to give us the third degree about?”
“About the shooting you fellows pulled off last time you were here.”
Marks nodded, a frown darkening his scarred features. Evidently he had anticipated this information.
“Aint it hell how ye can't make foreigners savvy anything?” he demanded, to the astonishment of Hardrock. “Them two fellers have just one notion o' fighting—to take a gun and kill somebody! I'll have to let 'em go. I can't make 'em savvy that there's a durned sight more danger in a murder charge than in running liquor.”
“You mean they're working for you?”
“Yep. The blamed fools run on them Beaver men the other day, found 'em lifting the trap out yonder, and riddled 'em—then let 'em go. That's a fool Greek every time. I wasn't along, dog-gone it! I was in Escanaba, sick that day, and ye can't get nothin' on me. I got to stand by them fellers, o' course, and get 'em away safe, but I don't like it a mite. This sort o' killing is bad business.”
Hardrock laughed curtly. “What about the Sheriff?”
“Oh, him! He's a Sheriff, takin' chances. Same with you—depity, aint ye? Yep. He aint killed, though. He'll drift over in the channel and'll get picked up by a barge. We'll run ye out to Gull Island and leave ye there with some grub. That's decent all around. A fight is one thing, and killin' is another thing. I been running booze a year now, and never had a speck o' trouble before this. Durn them hot-headed Greeks! They've spoiled the best little game this side the Soo.”
“You're sure frank about it,” said Hardrock dryly.”
“Why not? I want you should understand it; I aint anxious to be follered up for a killin' I didn't do! Bad enough to have my business busted up. Now I got to land this cargo and then go somewheres else. Dog-gone it! I hope they pass them immygration laws an' do it quick. A feller can't make an honest livin' no more, the way these durned foreigners are everywhere.”
Hardrock broke out laughing. Marks surveyed him darkly.
“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 Callyhan 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.
“Ye will murder poor lads, will ye?” he yelled, and struck.
Hardrock ducked the blow and answered it with a smash to the wind that stopped Hughie Dunlevy for an instant. Glancing around, Hardrock was aware of the three whisky-runners by the tent, furiously engaged with four or five other men. He and Dunlevy were for the moment alone. Only a glance—then he was driving at his opponent, hoping still to get out and aboard the boat.
That hope seemed vain. A wild swing caught Hardrock under the jaw and knocked him ten feet away; Dunlevy was after him instantly, leaping high in air to come down upon him boots first. He came down only on the shingle, however; and the man from Arizona, evading a savage kick, reached his feet and began to fight.
Hughie Dunlevy gasped and grunted as the blows smashed into him, while before him in the firelight danced that unhurt face with its blazing eyes and its furious unleashed anger. For all his tremendous strength, the islander helplessly gave ground, was driven backward, fists driving into him with relentless accuracy. In vain he tried to grapple, to kick, to gouge—each attempt failed and only drew upon him another terrific smash under the heart. Warmed as he was by white liquor, having great strength in place of stamina, Dunlevy could not stand up under this battering. Never once did Hardrock strike for the face, but drove in fists like hammers that pounded heart and stomach in frightful repetition.
ON the other side of the fire, one Greek was thrashing over the ground with Jimmy Basset pounding him into submission. Connie Dunlevy was down, trying to quench a knife slash that ran from shoulder to elbow. The other three island men were battering Marks, who was badly hurt and groaning as he fought, and the second Greek whose knife flashed crimson in the firelight. Now Marks gave way and came crashing down, and the snarling Greek reeled as a stone smashed into his face.
Hardrock got home to the wind with one direct punch that sent Hughie Dunlevy two steps backward and brought down his hands—drove in another that rocked him, and then set himself deliberately for the finish. His feet shifting perfectly to keep balance, he now put over a light tap to the mouth, and then laughed.
“How d'ye like it, Hughie? Come and get it, boy, come and get it—”
With a gasping bellow of anguished fury, the other obeyed, rushed blindly into the blow that Hardrock smashed in with full force—a perfect solar-plexus knockout. Dunlevy simply doubled up and rolled to the ground.
Two leaps took Hardrock to the boat. As he splashed through the water, wild yells chorused up behind him, and he glanced around to see dark figures bounding after him. He set himself against the heavy bow of the boat and shoved—vainly. He could not budge her. Desperate, he gave up the attempt and with a leap was dragging himself over her rail.
Too late! They were upon him, three of them; that effort to shove her off had lost him his fighting chance. Mad with battle-lust and moonshine whisky, they dragged him back and bore him down, all three hurtling in upon him bodily, careless of his blows, so that only they might land blows upon him. Slipping on the stones, he lost balance, went down, was stamped into the knee-deep water—
That was all he knew, for a time.
Presently, half strangled and exhausted, Hardrock came to himself again. This time he found ankles and arms fast lashed by men who knew how to handle ropes. Beside him lay one of the Greeks, dark features masked by blood, beaten senseless and bound; the other Greek lay farther away, muttering low curses.
Hardrock realized that some terrible sound had dragged him to life, and now it came once more—a low scream of agony. His head cleared slowly, as he visualized the scene before him. In the circle of firelight lay Hughie Dunlevy, still unconscious, and by him sat his brother Connie, weak and white and rather drunk, his arm all swathed in crimsoned bandages.
The other four men, by the fire, held the frantically struggling figure of Marks, and were shoving his feet into the red embers. From the man broke another scream, this time rising shrill with pain and horror.
“Quit it! Quit it! I'll tell!”
“Then talk, ye domned murderer,” growled Jimmy Basset. “Pull him out and give him a drink to make him talk, lads—”
The groaning Marks waited for no drink. “It was them Greeks done it!” he cried desperately. “I wasn't along with 'em, I tell ye! It was them two done it!”
“All right,” snapped Bassett, lurching a little as he glared down at the captive. “And what about this Hardrock felly? Is he your boss?”
“I don't know him,” returned the unfortunate Marks.
“Shove him in again, lads—”
Marks screamed and twisted terribly. “No, no! Yes, he's my boss. Sure he is.”
“Don't you fools know a man will swear to anything under torture?” demanded Hardrock furiously. “You're going too far here. Cut this business out!”
Marks was hastily flung aside. They all turned to stare at him. Connie Dunlevy, waving a bottle in his free hand, gave a weak, drunken laugh.
“Glory be, he's awake! Burn the boots off'm him, byes!”
The four lurched over. Hardrock made one desperate effort to pierce through the liquor fumes to their fuddled brains.
“Hold on, there, boys! You've got this thing all wrong. These men are whisky-runners, and they had captured me before you came along. I was getting away—”
Jimmy Basset leaned over and struck him across the mouth, heavily.
“Shut up wid you and your lies! Well we know it's you that's the whisky-runner, and behind all this deviltry. So it was them Greeks done the killin', was it? Well, it was you behind it all, and it's you we'll have a bit o' fun wid the night. Up wid him, lads! Up and shove him in!”
Hardrock felt himself picked up. The next instant, with a wild yell, the four men shoved him at the fire, shoved his feet and legs into the heart of the blazing embers. He made one frantic, frightful effort, kicked himself out of the flames, rolled aside. The four gripped him and lifted him again, with a maudlin yell of glee.
“All together, now!” howled Basset. “One, two—”