While he was in the very act of rising, a voice boomed out among the trees at the clearing’s edge: “There’s Callahan and his whole crowd--git ’em all, lads! Take ’em!” Hardrock was already springing for the water, but a figure appeared and blocked him. It was the figure of Hughie Dunlevy. Instantly, Hardrock realized what had happened, and cursed the luck that had brought the Beaver lads here at this moment. From the brush was going up a crash of feet and wild yells, Marks was bellowing, the Greeks were cursing and fighting--beyond a question, Dunlevy thought that they were part of a gang under the direction of Hardrock Callahan. There was no time for any explanations. The man from Arizona barely had a chance to check his leap for the water, to spring back and gain balance, when Dunlevy was upon him with a roar of battle-fury and a whirl of fists. “Ye will murder poor lads, will ye?” he yelled, and struck. Hardrock ducked the blow and answered it with a smash to the wind that stopped Hughie Dunlevy for an instant. Glancing around, Hardrock was aware of the three whisky-runners by the tent, furiously engaged with four or five other men. He and Dunlevy were for the moment alone. Only a glance--then he was driving at his opponent, hoping still to get out and aboard the boat. That hope seemed vain. A wild swing caught Hardrock under the jaw and knocked him ten feet away; Dunlevy was after him instantly, leaping high in air to come down upon him boots first. He came down only on the shingle, however; and the man from Arizona, evading a savage kick, reached his feet and began to fight. Hughie Dunlevy gasped and grunted as the blows smashed into him, while before him in the firelight danced that unhurt face with its blazing eyes and its furious unleashed anger. For all his tremendous strength, the islander helplessly gave ground, was driven backward, fists driving into him with relentless accuracy. In vain he tried to grapple, to kick, to gouge--each attempt failed and only drew upon him another terrific smash under the heart. Wanned as he was by white liquor, having great strength in place of stamina, Dunlevy could not stand up under this battering. Never once did Hardrock strike for the face, but drove in fists like hammers that pounded heart and stomach in frightful repetition. * * * * * On the other side of the fire, one Greek was thrashing over the ground with Jimmy Basset pounding him into submission. Connie Dunlevy was down, trying to quench a knife slash that ran from shoulder to elbow. The other three island men were battering Marks, who was badly hurt and groaning as he fought, and the second Greek whose knife flashed crimson in the firelight. Now Marks gave way and came crashing down, and the snarling Greek reeled as a stone smashed into his face.