“You seem to think, Matt, that I’m a boy to obey you. I’m not. I don’t intend to put up a ‘No Trespass’ sign and keep folks off, but I’m not taking orders from you, and I’m not scared worth a damn. If you bring a fight to me, I’ll meet you halfway every time. I’ve tried to be decent with you, because I want no trouble. Now, I have to be in St. James tomorrow morning, and I’ll expect you to see that my camp here isn’t disturbed while I’m gone; you’re square enough to keep your men away from it. Think things over. When I come back, I’ll see you. If you’ve made up your mind to avoid trouble and meet me halfway, I’ll be glad. If not, we’ll settle things in a hurry. What d’you say to that?” Matt Big Mary laughed slowly. “Aye,” said he. “That’s fair, Hardrock. But you’ll not come back from the island, if what Hughie did be tellin’ us is so. Connie Dunlevy will be waitin’ for you, or his friends.” “So will Vesty Gallagher.” Hardrock grinned cheerfully. “I’ll be back tomorrow night or next day. Anything you want me to fetch with me--mail or grub?” Matt stared at him a moment, then rose to his feet. “Damned if I can make ye out,” said he reflectively. “So long. I’ll answer that the boys don’t touch your camp.” He strode away and vanished along the shore. * * * * * When daylight died, the storm was blown out and the rollers were already going down. Hardrock Callahan, after luxuriously dining on beans and biscuit and hot tea, smoked his pipe and watched the stars, then laid out his blankets and rolled up. He was asleep almost at once. It was two in the morning when he wakened, as he had set himself to do. A glance at his watch confirmed the hour. He dressed, and went down to the shore. Everything was quiet, save for the wash of waves and the whisper of breeze in the trees overhead. Off to the northwest came the swift, clear flash of the Garden Shoal light, and farther west, the red flash from Squaw Island light glimmered over the horizon. Nodding, Hardrock returned to his tent, produced an electric torch and for ten minutes pored over an unrolled chart of the island group. Then, satisfied, he laced up the tentflap, turned to the shore, and went to where the wide lake-cruising canoe was laid up under the bushes. In ten minutes the light craft was standing out under the breeze, rounding the point and holding south for Beaver Island and St. James. The dawn was breaking when he drew down toward the long and narrow harbor. Instead of holding for it, however, he went to the right of the unwinking red eye of the lighthouse, came to shore on the point amid the thick trees and half-ruined dwellings there, and drew up the canoe from sight. Hardrock Callahan was learning caution. He set out afoot, and presently came to the road that wound along the bay and was the artery of the straggling row of houses circling the bay-shore for a mile or more and forming the town of St. James.