“Thank you for coming over, dear girl,” said Hardrock, as he gave Nelly a hand and helped her into the boat. “If I don’t come around before then, I’ll see you Thursday night. Good-by, and good luck!” “Good-by,” she answered quietly. Then, as the boat circled out from shore, he saw her turn a laughing face, and lift her fingers to her lips, blowing him a kiss. For a moment he stood astounded, then a laugh broke from him, and a long shout. “I may not wait until Thursday--after that!” he called, and she waved her hand in farewell. Then the launch was drawing around for the point, and passed from sight. Sheriff Fulsom appeared from the bushes, and he regarded Hardrock with twinkling eyes. “Gosh, ye look right happy over something!” he commented dryly. “Say, this was a good job ye done, too--got us a launch all shipshape! They’ll recognize my launch over to St. James, but no matter. Nobody’ll see it until tomorrow anyhow.” “You heard what she told me?” demanded Hardrock. The Sheriff nodded. “Yep. I don’t know that boat, but no matter. She’s our meat, I reckon, if she’ll only come and pick up that shipment o’ case goods! But what about them fellows coming over here tonight?” His shrewd gaze inspected Hardrock gayly. “Looks to me like you and Dunlevy are bound to fight it out, young fellow!” Hardrock chuckled. “We should worry about what happens tonight. I’m your prisoner and if you don’t protect me-- Hello! Sheriff, where are your binoculars? Get ’em!” “Gone with my launch, durn you! Why? What you lookin’ at?” Hardrock, who was staring out to the northeast, drew back from the shore. “Looks to me like our boat--see her? Green, sure enough; can’t tell about the red stripe. Get back out of sight, Fulsom. Here--help run this launch up a little first! Move sharp. They mustn’t suspect anyone is here. Can you make her out?” “Yep. That’s her,” affirmed Fulsom confidently. “Go get your shotgun, Hardrock.” CHAPTER VIII The round ball of the sun was hanging low above the purple line of Garden Island in the west, and the breeze was down until there was hardly a ripple on the water. From cover of bushes along the point, Hardrock and Fulsom watched that green fishboat, a red stripe running broadly around her, spin past the point and round it, and head for the floating paddle that marked the whisky-cache. “She’s fast,” said the Sheriff appraisingly. “Built for the work. She came up from the south, all right, followed the channel through past Gray’s Reef as though going to the straits, then cut straight west and headed here. She wasn’t taking any chances by coming up past Beaver.” “What’s your program?” demanded Hardrock. “Get out in that launch, and get quick. You got your shotgun, I’ve got my pistol. She’ll let us come alongside, and we’ll grab her, that’s all. No time to waste. You’re my deputy--swear!” “I swear,” said Hardrock, and laughed. “Making a prisoner into a deputy--”