Sheriff Fulsom listened to the story without a word, puffing as methodically after his pipe had smoked out as before; he sat like an image of bronze, giving no sign of what was passing in his mind. With such a man Hardrock was at his ease, for he knew now that he might expect some measure of justice, and not hasty jumping at conclusions for the sake of political prestige. “You got your nerve to tell me all this,” said Fulsom, when he had finished. Hardrock knocked out his pipe and filled it anew. “No witnesses present. Besides, I figure you as square.” “That’s the hell of it--I got to be square all around. You’re under arrest for that shootin’, Hardrock Callahan.” “Eh?” Hardrock stared, for the Sheriff had not moved an inch. “You’re in earnest?” “Yep, so far as it goes.” Fulsom wiped his mustache and chuckled. “Got to do it. I been nosing around the hospital, and heard that wounded man talkin’ in his fever. Mentioned your name. Now, I’m right well acquainted with the Beavers--too durned well acquainted to come over here on business without a posse, unless I come alone. These lads over here may have their faults, but they’re men clear through. If I come over alone, I get a square deal. If I come with a posse, I’m liable to get most anything. Well, now, I come over to look you up and see what I could learn. And, from hearin’ your story, looks like it’s my duty to arrest you. Any law officer would have to do it on the evidence.” “All right,” said Hardrock whimsically. “Then what? You can’t prove my story.” “Nope. All I figure on is doin’ my duty and breakin’ square with all concerned. Now, you’re arrested, and charged with murder. You’re in my custody. You and me understand each other, I guess. I don’t believe for a minute that things aint exactly as you’ve told ’em to me, and I figure to stay right here a spell and help you work ’em out. Let’s see that there fish-flag.” Hardrock dived into the tent and looked up the bit of canvas. In his heart he felt a queer sense of relief, a dropping away of all oppression. This officer was not to be feared. He was under arrest, and if nothing turned up, he would have to stand trial, and the evidence was bound to be bad--yet Fulsom was square, and this counted for everything. “I’m mighty glad we met up,” he said as he came back to the fire. “And I reckon we do understand each other, Sheriff. Here’s the flag. Know it?” The Sheriff gave it a glance, then laid it down. “Yep. Belongs to Johnson Brothers of Ludington. But they aint fished up around these parts--aint fished at all since last year. Sold out, lock stock an’ barrel, to some fellows from Escanaba, I heard, who were carrying on the business. Now, either those fellows are running nets up this way, which I don’t hardly think is so, or else it’s like you say--they’re running something else for bigger money. S’pose you and me go out early in your canoe and look for that fish-trap. Eh?” “You’re on,” said Hardrock cheerfully.