“If we can get it, yes. No telling how many more cases there are, but we’ll have to leave ’em for the present. We’ll see what this is--make sure of it. Looks to me like you needn’t worry about that murder charge any more. Better move lively, too. Looks like a boat is heading this way from Beaver. Left my binoculars in camp, so I can’t tell much.” Hardrock could not pause to look--he got the box in under the canoe, then came the ticklish matter of swinging it aboard. This was finally accomplished, though at imminent danger of capsizing the frail craft; then he straightened up for a look at the approaching boat. It was still half a mile distant, and bearing up between the islands as though heading for them. “Better get in to shore,” said Fulsom. “I aint anxious to be recognized around here until it’s necessary, the way things are now. Looks like we got some Canadian Club here, all right--we’ll open her up and make sure. Set that extry paddle in the trap to mark her before we go.” Hardrock nodded and made fast the paddle so that it floated on the line from which the whisky-case had been cut, then he headed the canoe for the point and pushed her hard. Whether that boat was heading for them or not, he meant to take no chances. In ten minutes he was cutting through the shallows inside the point and was out of sight of the boat. When they came to camp, they speedily lifted the canoe ashore and in among the trees. Then Fulsom, obtaining Hardrock Callahan’s woods hatchet, began to pry at the lid of the whisky-case. “Aren’t you tampering with evidence?” said Hardrock, chuckling. “Who, me? I aint no prohibition officer,” returned the Sheriff dryly. “No sir, I never voted for no prohibition, but I aim to do my duty. First thing is to find out if this stuff is whisky or not. Can’t tell by the box, can’t tell by the label--” “The only way is to taste it, eh?” laughed Hardrock. “All right, I’m with you, and will give expert testimony. Go to it! We can’t afford to make any mistakes; that’s sure.” The case opened, Fulsom produced a bottle, unhurt by its immersion, and attacked the cork. When this was out, he handed the bottle to his nominal prisoner. “Let’s have your verdict, Hardrock!” The latter tasted the contents, and grimaced. “It’s the stuff,” he returned, handing back the bottle. The Sheriff promptly tilted it, and held it tilted until his breath was gone. Then, gasping, he lowered it, and replaced the cork. “Gosh, that’s good!” he observed. “Wisht I could keep the whole bottle.” “Go ahead.” “Nope.” He slid it back into the case. “I could sort of ease my conscience by havin’ an excuse for one drink to make certain what the stuff was. And I sure made that drink a good one! But any more’d be stealin’ evidence, which I don’t aim to do. S’pose you slip out to the shore and keep an eye on that there boat. Maybe she’s the one we’re lookin’ for. I’ll lay up out o’ sight till I see who it is.” * * * * *