UNDAY on Beaver Island was theoretically a day of devotion. Not even the mailboat came over from Charlevoix, since there were no fish-boxes to be transported. It was a day for visiting, for going to the church down the highway three miles from St. James, for eating and drinking and talking. The only man on the island who went his way regardless was old Cap'n Fallows, who was a socialist and proud of it; but as the old skipper had been here thirty years and was by this time related to everyone else, he was regarded with unusual tolerance—a shining bad example of a godless old man, happy in his iniquity and glorying in his lonesome politics. Also, the Cap'n was something of a doctor, after a fashion.
He was in demand this Sunday. Marty Biddy Basset was dead and buried that day, and Owen John had gone to Charlevoix on the mailboat, talking in his fever but talking no sense; but down the island by the old Russian baron's farm lay Matt Big Mary Callahan, with a hurt leg and a hurt head. Matt had been struck by a big pile and had fallen over the engine of the boat, and would not walk again for two days, so he had gone home to the farm and Cap'n Fallows was doctoring him with liniment and talk on the rights of man.
There was much to talk about, and there was a gathering at the store all day long, while out at Jimmy Basset's farm the keg of white liquor grew lower every hour. The Bassets and Dunlevys were taking counsel here and there, the older heads advising patience, the younger heads listening to Hughie Dunlevy and his brother Connie, who was badly bruised but not seriously hurt. Connie was two years younger than Hughie, and if not so strong, was just about as hard to kill.
It was true enough that Vesty Gallagher spoke a word to the priest; and the priest, who was the only man obeyed by other men on Beaver Island, passed along the word. Thus it came about that Hardrock Callahan was accepted as neither a revenue man nor an enemy, and his affair with the Dunlevy brothers was taken for what it was—a private matter. Hughie Dunlevy heard of this, and moved cautiously and spoke softly; but with his brother Connie and four other lads he was neither cautious nor soft. He and they gathered in Jimmy Basset's kitchen that evening and went into the affair at length.
Among the six of them it was not hard to guess close to the truth. Connie Dunlevy knew that Marty Biddy and Owen John had gone out in the launch to catch Hardrock; nobody else knew this, but he knew it, for he had sent them. And he knew that they, like himself, had been up and raising deviltry all that Thursday night, and like himself had been in liquor.
“They had no guns,” he swore solemnly to Hughie and the other four. “What would they be havin' guns for, now? It was this felly Hardrock that had a shotgun anyhow, and likely carried a pistol.”
“He told me,” said Hughie, stirring his hot one, “That it was whisky-runners had shot up the lads.”
“How'd he know that?” demanded Jimmy Basset. “If they sunk his boat and he shot 'em, it's hangin' he needs. He told ye the tale of whisky-runners, Hughie, for a blind.”
“Most like he did,” agreed Hughie. “We'll have no outlanders comin' in here and murderin' poor helpless lads like them! What story was told on the mainland about it?”
A cousin of the dead man spoke up, his face black and gloomy.
“It was told they had put a box of cartridges into the stove by mistake. Irene Dunlevy is a nurse in the hospital yonder, and Owen John's father did go over wid him, so there'd be no chance of Owen's talkin' to outside ears.”
“Then the matter's up to us to settle?”
“It is that. There'll be no officers pokin' their heads into the island.”
Hughie sipped his hot one reflectively. They looked to him for leadership, and he was not backward in accepting the guidon; at the same time, he was not going to rush headlong into trouble. There had been altogether too much trouble of late, and any rash actions that would compel the law to make an investigation would make everybody on the islands irritated with Hughie Dunlevy.
“We'll 'tend to him,” said Hughie. “We'll give him a dose that'll send him away where he come from. I got a little score of my own to be settlin' wid him.”
“So I hear,” said one, and there was a snicker. “What'd he hit ye wid, Hughie?”
“Blessed if I know, but he'll not do it again! You felleys go easy wid your talk, now. We got other things to mind besides him. I'm goin' to cut loose every fish-trap up and down the shores that aint ours, and if we meet them Cheboygan or Manistique lads, we'll make 'em like it.”
“That's the stuff, Hughie!” came the chorus of affirmation.