T 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.
OR 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.”