Most puzzling of all was that "Bart saidyouwere coming." Who did she think he was, anyway? That she had made a faulty surmise of some sort was evidenced by the fact that she still held the crook at his assumed sergeancy value.
As for the rest of the message, nothing would please him better than to accept the strangely sent invitation to call. It would mean getting in touch with Moira quicker than he could hope to do if he continued his incognito role in the camp.
Seymour turned his attention for some time, then, to an intensive study of the blue print map of the district which he had purchased at the surveyor's office on riding into Gold that morning. His hope was to find a way toward the creeks after nightfall without asking questions.
His morning course to the point where he had overtaken the boyish-looking rider was easily traced, and thence into town. Working back, he found the trail over which Ruth Duperow had come and followed that to the mouth of Glacier Creek. Evidently the girl, for some reason, had taken a roundabout course that morning, for he found that a more direct trail to town followed the Cheena. His acquaintance with the Indian tongue was sufficient to spare him the map-maker's mistake of adding the word river to a name that really included it in the "na" suffix.
From such detail as was drawn into the map, he judged that Glacier was not much of a creek. It appeared to start in a nest of glaciers and to flow through a cañon as from the neck of a bottle. Between the Cheena and the cañon was drawn a square with a legend, "Indian Mission." That no mining claims were marked off on this creek, although those surrounding it were well staked, seemed remarkable; but the stranger did not try to guess the answer.
For no other reason than that the name had lodged in his mind, Seymour sought out Hoodoo Creek on the map and found the claim accredited to Cato—Thirteen Above. If the long-armed ox-man cited it in advancing his hopes with the widow, Seymour hoped that the number would exert its supposedly baleful influence.
From the blue-print, he turned to writing a report to his chief in Vancouver to whom word of the murder of his "Staff-Sergeant Russell Seymour" had undoubtedly been sent without delay. He took a grim sort of enjoyment in an opening after Mark Twain:
"I have the honor to state my safe arrival in Gold, B.C. Any reports of my violent death that may reach you areslightly exaggerated."
In the terse English that has made mounted police reports models of modesty, he told how he had "run into" two murder mysteries in addition to the embezzlement case which had brought him from the Far North. One of these, with its accompanying stage robbery, he believed he had solved except for stray angles that did not affect the capital crime. He was at work on the second murder case, with fair progress.
Over his final paragraph, which was headed "Suggestions," according to the form followed by the Force in official communications, he pondered deeply. Whatever he wrote there, he had reason to believe, would be incorporated into an order soon after passing under Assistant Commissioner Baxter's eyes. On this particular independent command, he was anxious not to make mistakes. Finally he wrote:
"Am not prepared to pass judgment, at this time, on the permanency of Gold. From what I have seen, however, the district sadly needs Dominion policing. Would suggest that you send at your earliest convenience one (1) sergeant and two (2) constables, mounted and with suitable camp equipment. As I may be working under cover on this second, unsolved murder, please instruct the sergeant to make camp on his own responsibility and act accordingly until he hears from me. Tell him to disregard reports of my demise as unfounded and——"
A strident "Come in!" evidently in answer to a knock he had not heard, sounded in the adjoining room and caused him to raise his pen from the paper with the sentence incomplete.
"Hello Brewster, glad I found you in."
The shrilled greeting was in an unmistakable voice. Its wording informed Seymour that the agreeable freighter of his morning's acquaintance was his immediate hotel neighbor.
"What can I do for you, Hardley, you honorable strong arm of the law?"
The voice was Brewster's—the same that had remarked the thinness of the tar-paper partitions. They were veritable sounding boards. Seymour could hear every word.
"Wanted to ask your advice, Phil, about some points in this Mountie's murder."
The genuine sergeant winced involuntarily. It was a very bad joke. He doubted that he ever would become accustomed to Sergeant Seymour spoken of as murdered—done for.
"Shoot," he heard Brewster invite.
"It's this way, Phil. Seymour must have been quite a responsible member of the Force. As you said this a.m., his snuffing is going to make a noisy roar-back. I got to report it to somebody in the Mounted—but who and whereat?"
Seymour fidgeted uneasily in the silence that followed, evidently due to Brewster's considering his answer. He detested eavesdropping; never had resorted to it on any of his cases. By way of letting the two in the adjoining room know of his presence, he scraped his chair noisily over the bare floor. This warning, however, failed to check Brewster, or even to lower his voice.
"I remember reading that Vancouver is the nearest staff-office of this new Canadian Mounted Police, but I've just been thinking—— If they send a lot of Mounties into Gold and run down these stage-robbing murderers, you're not going to get any credit. I'm strong for home industry, even in justice. Why don't you delay reporting the sergeant's death until you land your man?"
"Say you're a real friend, Phil, even if you do try to ride me sometimes. I need the credit for turning a trick like that. It might make me sheriff when the old man gets through. But—but would I dare?"
Seymour started for the hall but on the way, heard Brewster's reply:
"Write your report, Sam, but don't post it until after tomorrow's mail has gone. That'll give you a week. Then address the letter to Ottawa, which will give you a few days more. In that time, you ought to have the murderers rounded up. You can forget what I told you about there being any Vancouver headquarters."
Surprise at such advice from a seemingly public-spirited citizen delayed Seymour's knock until he had heard it through. Of course, all this might be merely a sign of real, though mistaken, friendship for Hardley. On the other hand, was it possible that Brewster had personal reasons for wishing to delay the coming of the Mounted?
With this question to the fore of his mind, Seymour knocked on the adjoining door and was invited in. His entry seemed not to disturb either of the two.
"Just wanted to tell you that the next room is occupied and that the partition between is more or less of a megaphone," he said in a light tone. "If you've any secrets——"
Brewster's laugh was natural enough to be reassuring. "If we were talking secrets, stranger, we'd take to the brush. I've lived in the Bonanza since the day it was opened, and I don't even think secrets behind these make-believe walls."
The sergeant dismissed his unintentional eavesdropping with a shrug and turned to the deputy.
"Out on the trail this morning you seemed to think you might want me later. You'll know now where to find me—Room number twelve."
"Forget this a.m., old topper. I was maybe a little mite excited out there at the scene of the crime. There ain't sech a lot of difference between deputy sheriffs and mounted sergeants. It might-a been me lying there deader than dead. Your happening along looked sort of queer. I'm seeing straighter now. You're welcome to Gold and I hope you get what you come for."
"You'll find me strong for law and order," Seymour replied.
This seemed to invite Hardley to real confidences. Beckoning Seymour from the doorway, he edged his chair closer to the cot on which Brewster reclined in his stockinged feet.
"Don't mind telling you two in confidence," he leaned forward and whispered, "that I'm in a fair way to nabbing the two who robbed the stage and killed Tabor and Seymour. Maybe I ain't seemed to be doing much, but I've got clews to burn already."
"You have?" cried Brewster, hunching himself into a sitting position on the cot.
Hardley nodded assuredly. "There were two of them in the bush lying for the sergeant this morning. One had a Winchester 30-30 and used it to kill Seymour. One rode a horse that was shod in front but plain behind." He paused, evidently, from his expression, to collect the encomiums he considered his due.
"Important if true, Sam," Brewster observed.
"Quick work," admitted the Mountie, honestly surprised; his hand was in the trousers pocket that held the cartridge case picked up that morning. "How in the world did you learn all that?"
Hardley seemed to relish supplying the details, even though he had to whisper them. Apparently he had forgotten that one of his confidants was an utter stranger both to him and to the camp, one whose name even he did not know. His was country-official vanity advanced to thenth degree.
"Dr. Pratt dug out the bullet, which fixed the brand of the gun with which the deed was done. Then I've got a half-breed boy on my staff who's keen as a Gordon setter in the bush. He found the horse track of the two from the scene of the crime. Now I'm looking for a man with a 30-30 repeater and a horse that's shy on shoes."
Surprised that Hardley should have shown so much initiative, and apprehensive that he was getting too near "home" for comfort, Seymour framed a diverting question.
"What do you know about the chap who was killed?"
"You mean this last one—Staff-Sergeant Seymour?" asked the deputy in turn, but merely as a preface, not waiting for an answer. "Kirby of the First Bank has heard of him. Says he was nicknamed 'Sergeant Scarlet' up in the Northwest territories, and is guilty of some of the hardest patrols ever made. He must have been a regular fighting machine. Autopsy proved that."
Sergeant Scarlet! That was the nickname Moira had given him! But others, to be sure, had used it before his beautiful Irisher. Perhaps his reputation as a man-getter had spread further than he knew.
Anyway, his chance to check up on Widow Caswell had arrived sooner than he expected. He showed casual but sufficient interest in the disclosures mentioned.
"The sergeant had been under fire before, and more than once," declared Hardley. "The doctor found a silver plate bracing his spine high up between the shoulders. And, would you believe it, there was a dent in that plate which looked as if he'd been hit in the identical repair spot by some later bullet!"
"Checked to a T," thought Seymour of the widow's tale.
He became more than ever anxious to be clear of the talkative deputy. With all his false surmises, the natural-born bungler had corralled some accurate information and might make a deal of trouble for him. At first chance he got back to his room.
With a few swift strokes, he completed and signed his report. His O.C. must be prepared for that murder report, whether Hardley finally acted on Brewster's advice or not.
Hurrying from the hotel into King Street, Seymour found the post office and mailed his letter. Then, although the hour was only seven, he advanced casually upon the Home Restaurant. He was eager to be on his way to the creeks before Hardley stumbled, as possibly he might, upon the fact that Seymour's rifle, stored with his outfit, was a 30-30 and that Kaw was "shod in front and plain behind."
"You were saying, Mrs. Caswell——"
Seymour's wait at one of the Home's small tables had been long drawn. The slender widow was worked "ragged" to cook and serve the tide of customers that, by perverse chance, had set in particularly strong that evening.
Fortunately, all were strangers to the sergeant and he congratulated himself that he had attracted only passing notice as he sat seemingly absorbed in an old fiction magazine, with his coffee never quite finished before him. He had gained nothing by coming early, for it was nearly nine o'clock when at last they found themselves alone.
"Are you too tired to talk, Mrs. Caswell? You've had a hard day," the sergeant interrupted himself. The widow smiled wanly, a grateful light in her eyes, but replied that she would prefer to "have it over with."
"Let me see," she considered, for appearance's sake supporting her weary self by leaning over a stool, instead of sitting down at the table beside him. "Where was I this afternoon when that old pest broke in?"
"I trust you punctured Cato's hopes?" The sergeant could not resist the momentary digression.
"The presuming ox had been drinking," she said. "He gave me,—well, let's call it an argument; but I had the last word. He'll not come bothering around here again."
After a smile and nod of approval, Seymour returned to their unfinished business. "You were telling me what Bart had in view up the creeks. Something 'richer than gold'—wasn't that the way you put it?"
"His very words," the widow went on in the glow of loving reminiscence. "Naturally, I was curious, for I thought the gold was all there was worth while up here. I asked him what he meant." With that, her lips were stilled and a dreamy look came into her eyes.
The sergeant did not believe that she had paused with aggravating intent, or even from any sense of the dramatic. Doubtless, her thoughts were with the departed rogue. But that was no place at all for her to stop; he just couldn't wait longer to learn what in Gold was richer than gold.
"Yes—yes!" he prodded, glancing at his watch to suggest a time reason for his hurry.
"Why, Bart just took me into his arms in a gentle, big-bear way he had—at times—and said—I'll never forget; it made me so happy."
Again she was living over what evidently had been the big moment of her recent life; but that fact did not ease in the least Seymour's present impatience.
"Well, what did he say?"
"Bart said—'All you'll care to know, Marge old dear, is that I'm going to put something over in the name of the law and within it. I'm going to rectify a wrong. In the name of the Royal Mounted, I'm going to loot some looters.' That's what Bart said, and you can understand, Mr. Sergeant, how happy it made me."
For another brief moment, Margaret Caswell succeeded in forgetting her recent bereavement.
"That talk was the morning after the unfortunate stage—business," she went on with just a little break in her voice at the mention of the crime. "Bart went forth in his borrowed uniform to establish himself at the hotel as befits an officer. He dropped in here for supper and we had a fine talk. He told me that nobody seemed to doubt his authority and that the whole camp was breathing easier at sight of the scarlet and gold."
Exactly like a woman to be accurate about the clothes he wore, thought Seymour, and he pictured the swath the handsome crook must have cut in the new camp all excited with its first big crime.
"Bart knew that he would have to work fast," the woman was saying. "From letters or orders he found in the bag, he was aware that you would soon be coming in plain clothes. In spite of the fact that he would be acting in the name of the Law and that all his so-called lifting would be from Montreal crooks, he'd be forced to make a getaway over the Alaskan border, from there to catch some through steamer to the States."
"Montreal crooks!" More than ever was Seymour now interested. Was it possible that, in that inexplicable way of the almost trackless wilds, his trail here would cross that of Harry Karmack's—that his unsolved assignment might be completed and his pact with Moira validated? Harry Karmack, he well knew, had been hand in glove with the worst of Montreal's underworld characters, although there the lawless element had been able to cover the embezzler.
But the woman was going on: "It was agreed that I'd stay right here running this eating place, until I heard from him. You see, it was safe enough, for we had been very careful and no one suspected that there was any relationship. After that evening, I never saw Bart again to speak to."
That she might not yield to this call upon her emotions, Seymour put out a couple of rapid fire questions. "You think, then, that one of these so-called Montreal crooks got him? Any line on them?"
"No line," she answered regretfully, after a moment's thought: "None at all, unless— There's a young woman he met up the creeks, a missionary's relative, I believe. I saw her speak to him one day on King Street and, of course, hehadto explain. He met her when he was just plain Barton Caswell and was out prospecting. From her uncle, he learned of the wrongs being done by the Montreal gang, but until that uniform fell into his hands, he did not conceive any way of getting the best of them. Perhaps these missionary folks can help you."
Evidently Bart had played his cards with the skill of an expert, thought Seymour. From the widow's impassioned admission she held no grudge against the Duperow girl. There had been no hint of slur in her tones that mentioned the younger, prettier woman. All this suggested that she must have had implicit faith in the crook's love for her.
Declaring his intention of looking up the mission folks, the sergeant returned to the subject of the loot. Had she asked no further about the nature of it?
"I surely did, but his answer was always the same. 'Richer than gold, Marge, richer than gold.' He said he'd be the first mounted policeman in the history of the Force to make a clean-up, even if he was one only for a week. This stroke was to mean luxury for me, a home in an orange grove in California, diamond rings set in platinum, fine dresses—everything! I think this morning, when he rode out so bravely, that he hoped never to come back to Gold. The loot is up there in the creeks, you know, and Alaska is still further on. Any hour the real staff-sergeant—who has turned out to be you—might have ridden in, as, in truth, you did."
Satisfied that the bandit's widow withheld nothing worth while, Seymour was anxious to be off about the invitation which Ruth Duperow had "dotted" to him. He felt, however, that he owed Bart's widow something for the information which, once she started to impart it, had been given so frankly. He was minded to pay at once, even if the coin thereof was only good advice.
"For the present, you had best sit tight here and say nothing, Mrs. Caswell," he began. "I suppose it was easy come, easy go with Bart; that he leaves you practically nothing. From what I've seen of your trade this evening, you have a paying proposition in the restaurant. I don't see any reason why you can't go on with it."
"But when people know——"
"Maybe they need never know that Bart was anything but a boarder," Seymour interposed hopefully. "You seem to have guarded your secret well when even infatuated old Cato didn't suspect your man of being more than a suitor."
The little woman had been too distressed to give thought to her own future; naturally she seemed uncertain about it. Then suddenly the flame of that love which was beyond Seymour's comprehension, but within his appreciation, flared to decision.
"But they will have to know if I save Bart's reputation!" she cried. "I'll not have the world think he killed that double-crossing stage driver in anything but defense of his own life."
Here was complication which disturbed the plans that the Mountie, impelled by his rugged conviction that every person was entitled to a square deal, had been making for her. He had no time to argue with her, so went on to impress her with what was vital to his own operations.
He could work to a better advantage toward the capture of Bart's slayer if the double unmasking was delayed. Her promise to say nothing until he gave her leave was his for the asking. The town folks would probably arrange an appropriate funeral for the dead "sergeant"; she would need to attend as a sorrowing acquaintance, but she must keep a tight rein on her emotions if she wished to aid in the capture. In this, ordeal though it would be, Mrs. Caswell promised to do her best.
As he arose to leave, he offered her his big hand. She reached out her small one timidly.
"I never thought I'd be shaking hands with a Mountie," she confessed in a murmuring voice, "I'm afraid I've hated you wearers of the scarlet, you were so all-sure of getting the men you went after and I never knew when Bart would fall into your clutches. But now——"
"That's all right, ma'am. You've helped a lot and I only hope I can get this crowd." He started for the door, but remembered one thing more. "That war bag of mine—I suppose Bart took it to the hotel when he moved. I'll be needing that other uniform when this mystery is cleared."
"The bag is still upstairs," she said quickly. "Bart only took some documents and papers besides what he wore. He didn't know but what his identity would be questioned when he suddenly changed from a mining expert to a policeman."
"And the room—is it rented?"
She shook her head.
"Then, if you'll accept me as a tenant until further notice we'll let the bag stay where it is. The rent?"
"I couldn't think of taking rent from you when you're working out my revenge," she said.
Seymour frowned. "I'm seeing that justice is done, madam," he said, referring to her use of the word revenge. "I am teaching Gold the value of human life. And I'll pay for the room—the usual rate."
To escape further discussion he hurried into the fallen night. Pondering the marvelous complexities of the women met in a day on the "Last Frontier," he nearly plumped into a mud hole which lay out front. Close to the shack lay a beaten path; this he followed. At the corner he was edging into the vacant lot which adjoined, when, without a swish of warning, something blacker than night fell over him.
Instinctively he struck out at this blackness, his knuckles denting a yielding substance that had a fibrous touch. Before he could throw off its enveloping folds, he felt a pair of strong arms go around his waist. They closed in as with a gathering string. The covering evidently was a horse blanket judging by the smell.
As a sudden surge of fury against such artful man-handling lent him strength to thrash about, a heavy blow fell upon the back of his head. He felt his knees weaken under the shock of it, but clawed and strained to break the hold about his waist. A second hammering blow descended. His ability to struggle failed him. His knees gave way. He was sinking into vast depths. The Gold garroters, whoever they were and whatever their object, had got him. "Scarlet" Seymour was out!
The awakening of Sergeant Seymour was painful; never before had he known that a head could ache with the throbs that were racking his. Presently his mind took hold of a fragmentary idea—horse-blanket. Upon this, after a mental struggle, he was able to spread a picture of his sorry going-out at the hands of some mining-camp thugs, doubtless intent on robbing him.
His next wonder was what had awakened him and by way of answering that, he opened his eyes for a look around, the greatest surprise of which was broad daylight. The sun, then, must have served as his alarm clock—called him out of that night which was darker than any he had ever known before. Now its rays were streaming into a cabin room in which he lay, fully clad, upon a straw-stuffed bunk.
He did not bother to get up just then; he merely lay back on the inadequate pillow of his slouch hat and "listened" to the ache of his head. The idea that he had been robbed persisted. To his surprise, he found that the currency belt around his waist had not been disturbed. Surely mining camp crooks would know where to look for his valuables!
Then he slid his right hand over his chest to feel the holster that hung beneath his left arm. Greater surprise! His gun lay ready in its usual concealment.
The conclusions, painful in their process, were at once comforting and disturbing. He had not been trimmed or even frisked. Robbery could not have been the motive behind the attack outside the widow's restaurant. Then—what?
Slowly he raised himself to a sitting position upon the bare bunk and permitted his eyes to rove until they settled upon another shock to his tortured comprehension. This was found in the narrow window through which the sun was streaming. Iron bars crossed the opening. He must be a prisoner in jail.
"Deputy Sheriff! Samuel Hardley, the strong arm of the law!"
He swung his feet to the floor and took a somewhat wabbly stand. Further survey convinced him beyond doubt that he was in the blundering deputy's one-cell bastile. This proved to be built of logs with a door as thick as that of an ice box and studded with nails. The two windows were near the log ceiling, narrow, oblong and barred. There were three bunks along as many walls and a Yukon stove in the cell's center—no other furnishings, but enough for a frontier jail.
So, that was the lay of the cards, he mused darkly—the explanation of the surprise attack. After their talk in Brewster's room at the Bonanza, the fat deputy must have located Kaw—shod in front but plain behind—and his 30-30 rifle which he had left in the stable. Hardley had realized, then, that his ill-considered revelation of clews would have put his man on guard. Learning that Seymour, supposed murderer and robber of the stage, was in the restaurant he had made ambush and effected his arrest along safety-first lines.
There the deputy's caution seemed to have stopped, thought the sergeant, enjoying again the reinforcing feel of his gun. Neglect to search his prisoner was quite in keeping with other official blunders which the fat man had made. Seymour would have to give Hardley credit, however, for effecting a silent, bloodless capture—with a blanket, as he remembered it.
Full assurance on this point awaited his glance. Almost at his feet lay the thing—a worn horse-blanket. Possibly the deputy had covered him with it before locking him in and, in the restlessness of thud-impelled slumber, Seymour had kicked it off.
A bottle that stood on the sheet iron stove invited inspection. Even before he picked it up, the stars on its label prepared him for the brandy smell which a sniff at its neck brought forth. If Hardley had been fortifying his courage with that high-powered stuff, it was no wonder he overlooked the gun. A drink of the liquor might have strengthened Seymour; but he realized he would need all his wit in the heated session which he meant should begin with the deputy's arrival at the jail. Lifting the stove top, he permitted the pint which remained in the bottle to gurgle into the ashes of some long-ago fire.
Seated on the edge of one of the bunks, he took stock of the situation. He had missed the late-night appointment at the O'Malley cabin on Glacier Creek. The missionary folk would think, probably, that they had left too much to his intuition in their excess of caution. That, however, meant only delay and, while hours were precious, he would make up for lost time once free of Hardley's detecting.
It began to look as though he was not a huge success as a plain clothes man. He had taken off his mask for Bart's widow. Ruth Duperow evidently believed him to be a constable come to aid the murdered "sergeant." Now it seemed likely that he would be forced to make a confidant of the talkative Hardley in order to be able to carry on at all. If Bart had not made the uniform a conspicuous target for one bad outfit of that region, he'd be tempted to at once climb into the scarlet which the bandit had left unworn. Never had he liked under-cover patrols, but in this particular case, he felt that "civies" were essential.
An hour had passed since his awakening and he was beginning to wonder when the obese deputy fed his prisoners at his perforce boarding house. If the surmise taken from the half-filled bottle of "Four Star" had been freely partaken, Hardley might sleep late that morning and awaken with a "head" that would make his visit to the guard house a second thought.
Seymour thought of firing his pistol through the window in a hope of attracting attention to his plight; he even went so far as to unlimber the weapon. But he recalled that he had not the slightest idea of where the calaboose was situated, for it had not come to his notice in the course of his one crowded day in Gold. That it did not stand immediately back of the sheriff's office he was certain, and it might be on the camp's outskirts for all he knew to the contrary. It seemed the part of wisdom to reserve his ammunition; at least to give the deputy another half-hour of grace.
In his impatience to be out and going, the sergeant began to pace the floor. Already, his physical fitness was asserting itself, returning him rapidly to normal. There was a pair of bumps on the back of his head where the two put-out blows had landed, but there was no sign of a scalp wound, thanks to the protection the thick blanket had afforded. Except for the confining bars and that ice-box door, he was entirely able to be out, carrying the law where it sadly was needed.
On his fourth or fifth round of the small room, he paused before the door, seized with a commanding impulse to expend his surplus energy in beating upon it. He had seen prisoners behave in that same futile fashion in his own guard rooms and, for the sake of quiet, had put irons on them when they persisted. But there was no one in this inhospitable place to put irons on him, so he yielded to the extent of beating a tattoo on the stout planking.
To his amazement, the door gave slightly under his touch, which was no way at all for a self-respecting jail door to behave. This "giving" suggested the application of more force. Crouching, he put his shoulder to it and the heavy portal swung open. He had been "jugged" in an uncorked "jug," and there was nothing now to keep him from going where and when he listed.
He delayed just long enough to examine the fastenings which had not fastened. A heavy padlock hung securely locked in its deep-set staple, but the hasp had been left outside, folded back against the door. For the first time that morning, Sergeant Scarlet smiled; more than that, he grinned. For once he was indebted to too much brandy.
Outside, under the blue sky, he took several deep breaths of vitalizing air. He had seen his own prisoners do that upon being released from confinement, but never understood the impulse as he did now. A moment was necessary to get his bearings; the jail stood on a knoll a hundred yards back from King Street.
To make tracks out of camp was his first inclination. But at once he rejected any attempt at escape. That would only start Hardley in pursuit, probably with that posse the coroner's jury had authorized so superfluously. Rather, he must quiet the deputy's suspicions, even to disclosing his official identity, if necessary. Picking his path, he strode down the incline to King Street.
As he neared the Bonanza, he saw Hardley come off the porch and waddle in his direction. But at first sight of him, the deputy merely added another to the morning's list of surprises. This one took the form of a cheerfully waved greeting, as from friend to friend. By no stretch of the imagination could it have been expected from an officer sighting a prisoner who had just broken out of jail. Seymour advanced, puzzled and on guard.
"You're out early this morning, stranger," Hardley shrilled when the paces that separated them were few. "Just been up to your room looking for you but heard no 'Come in.'"
The sergeant studied the man a moment, then replied: "Sorry I was out. What can I do for you, now that you've found me?"
"I noticed yesterday that you have a come-hither eye," went on the deputy in a lower voice. "I've got a hunch them murdering stage robbers are camped in a cañon south of town a-ways. Thought you might like a little frolic as one of my official posse. No danger to speak of, for I'll be leading you and we'll all be armed to the shoulder-blades. Better come if you've got the time to spare."
That Hardley did not know Seymour had spent the night in jail seemed indubitable. The Mounted officer could not explain it. Too much to blame upon the brandy this seemed, for the deputy had been absolutely sober in Brewster's room. But explanations could wait. Here was a chance to be about his police business without disclosing that he had any.
At once Seymour expressed his regret. He honestly had no time to spare. Hardley could understand how anxious he was to get to the creeks and locate something for himself. The deputy should have no trouble recruiting enough men, citizens who knew the country better than any stranger could and who already had staked their claims. He was for the law every time—Seymour was, but he'd appreciate being excused from service this once.
"Sure, I understand, friend," agreed the deputy. "Be on your way and the best of luck to you. My down-river hunch may be all wrong, so keep your eyes peeled for a horse that's shod in front and plain behind. The rider of him is the killer of Sergeant Seymour, or I'm a liar and as a deputy sheriff, not worth the powder to blow me to blazes!"
Half an hour later, a horse that was shod before and plain behind traveled north out of Gold. His rider was Sergeant Seymour himself, not his killer.
By noon, Seymour had his A-tent pitched on the hank of the Cheena, between the trail and the stream, a few rods below the point where Glacier Creek made its indigo-colored contribution. Above the scrubby timber spiralled the smoke of the hidden mission, to which the officer proposed to pay a neighborly call when he had finished the meal of bacon and beans which he was preparing.
Yesterday, O'Malley and his niece had made it plain that they wished a conference with him to be secret and under cover of night. His unexplained capture had made that impossible. Whether or not their caution was well founded, he was unwilling to await the fall of another night. He would need to make camp somewhere and felt it might better be near enough to excuse an open call. Hence he had pitched his tent here.
But Seymour had done more that morning than ride out from Gold five muddy miles and make camp. His years of detachment service had made him something of a jack-of-all-trades, and his cayuse-packed outfit was comprehensive. Kaw, grazing on the lush grass of the meadow, now was as neatly shod as he could have been at the hands of any blacksmith. No longer was the animal a fit subject for Deputy Hardley's suspicions.
The sergeant had scoured his tin dishes in the river bank sand and was returning to the tent when he saw a horseman observing him from the main trail. The man stared a moment longer, then rode toward him. Soon, Seymour recognized him and wondered at such curiosity from a man of affairs.
"You're my first visitor, Brewster!" he called as the cordial freighter drew near. "Welcome to camp. If you'd been fifteen minutes earlier, I'd have fed you. Now, if you're hungry, over there's the grub box."
"So it's really you?" The visitor's response was oddly halting, as if he was finding it difficult to believe his eyes.
"To my best knowledge and belief, I'm no one else."
Brewster laughed and swung into a chatting position by hooking one leg over the horn of his saddle. "And here I was hot-footing into town to get you out of jail."
"Kind of you, but apparently unnecessary," Seymour offered a laugh of his own. "Where did you get the idea I was in limbo?"
The sergeant did not need to feign his look of mystification. That the news of an arrest that Hardley himself did not remember had traveled to the creeks to be heard by Brewster served only to deepen the puzzle.
"Did Hardley mention jail to you?" he asked. "He didn't to me, and I saw him just before I left town."
"It wasn't Hardley—haven't seen him since he left my room last evening. But Cato said Hardley had pinched you and locked you up. He declared he had helped in the capture and was pleased with himself."
At mention of Cato, the sergeant was suddenly in the clear, although not so much as an eyelash flicker betrayed the fact. He recalled now the inordinately long arms of the man. Doubtless these had puckered the blanket around his midriff and beaten him into unconsciousness. The lovelorn old codger, fired with jealousy, must have been stalking the widow's place, mistaken him for a rival and acted under the dictates of his brandy-befuddled brain. That he had forgotten to confide the fact of imprisonment to Hardley was evident; but then, he had neglected to lock the jail. How the ox driver had got possession of the key was a detail unexplained, but Seymour would never be sufficiently curious about that to inquire into it. To have been taken single-handed by Cato was not particularly flattering, even though the gnome was possessed of superhuman strength.
"Wasn't Cato hitting the hootch yesterday?" was all he asked of the driver's employer.
"He was that," admitted Brewster, "and he had a hang-over this morning. But how he ever imagined—— Oh, well, there's no harm done, long as it was only a drunken dream. I was afraid Hardley would lose another day getting after the Seymour murderers and I didn't want to see you suffer from his foolishness. But you've picked a queer place to camp, strikes me. Didn't you know that Glacier Creek is closed?"
The sergeant had not heard this and was curious to know how any creek could be "closed." Brewster told him. The genial old missionary, Shan O'Malley, had laid the foundation for the situation in the early days of the rush. With more foresight than many laymen, he had seen what was coming. To hold the Indians of his congregation, or whatever he called it, and to keep them from contact with the white "rushers" as far as possible, he had induced them to claim, stake and register every foot of bar and bench from the cañon entrance back to the glacier. To make a close corporation of it, he and his niece Ruth had staked the two full claims between the cañon gate and the Cheena. Glacier Creek had not proved a bonanza, but O'Malley did not seem to care; the laziest Siwash could pan out a living, and the old man was keeping his flock together.
Then along came Bonnemort and Kluger, a shrewd pair from somewhere back in eastern Canada. They saw a chance of operating the Glacier Creek diggings on a large scale. The Bonnemort of the combination admitted to being a half-breed, and he knew how to handle the Siwashes. Before the missionary knew what was up, the pair had leased every Indian claim beyond the cañon gate. Moreover—and Brewster was forced to smile appreciatively as he told it—they had hired the Indians to work their own claims. When all was set, they posted a "No Trespass" sign and stationed an armed guard at the narrow entrance. When this sentry turned back the sky-pilot intent on visiting his flock, the whole district had learned of the coup.
Brewster said he had been right friendly with Ruth Duperow and her uncle at that time. Because of their fears that the Siwashes were being robbed, he had brought Sam Hardley to investigate. The B. & K. outfit had produced their leases and the Indians denied that they were being worked against their will. As no established trail ran up the creek, which was a veritable cul-de-sac because of its glacier source, Hardley had decided that the leases were within their rights and that there wasn't a thing to be done about it. The creek was still closed, and because there was only one entrance—through the narrow mouth of the cañon, where one man could hold up a regiment—it was likely to remain so until the within-the-law operators took down the bars.
"I lost out with the sky-pilot and Miss Duperow because I wouldn't storm the gate," Brewster concluded regretfully. "About that time appeared this Sergeant Seymour, then under cover as a mining expert. He fell hard for the girl, which is not against him, for there isn't a finer in all B.C. than Miss Ruth. I don't know what he thought of the monopoly or what he intended to do when he got into uniform. As you know, the stage robbers killed him before he got saddled up."
"What do you make of it yourself?"
Brewster shrugged his broad shoulders. "I may be prejudiced. You see, while I lost my best girl, I landed my B. & K. packing contract. I'll say they pay their bills. Hope you won't think I was trying to horn into your game by criticizing your camp selection. But I thought you might not know how things stood on Glacier."
Seymour thanked him, then glanced into the river. "Maybe I like the looks of the Cheena," he added.
"Scouting for dredger people, eh?" Brewster made shrewd surmise. "I hear they're cleaning up strong in the Klondike. The Cheena ought to pay rich for anyone with money enough to put in a hydraulic plant. Remember that Philip Brewster is in the freighter business in case you begin operations. Good luck to you and goodbye for the present."
The sergeant watched Brewster ride across the flat to the main trail; noted that he turned back toward the creeks. Evidently the freighter had been riding into Gold to effect, as he said, Seymour's release. An obliging individual, Brewster, even if he had given his fat deputy friend foolish advice about holding back the Mounted.
So Glacier was a closed creek. A guarded "gate" had been swung across its cañon mouth. Upon what? Upon Bart Caswell's something "richer than gold," he strongly suspected. Perhaps upon the "sergeant's" slayer as well. Seymour was part Irish; he enjoyed passing the impassable—or trying to.
Carrying an empty tin pail from his mess outfit, to lend borrowing-color to his neighborly call, Seymour trudged openly to the mission. This proved to be a sizeable log structure without cross or belfry which served both as dwelling for the missionary and a place for the Indians to worship. It had been up several years, from the dead look of the logs. The outlook was upon Glacier Creek rather than upon the Cheena. A forest of scrubby cedar and fir skirted the back of it, while not far away was that misplaced rock spur which formed one flank of the closed cañon.
His coming was announced in chorus by several malamutes chained to individual dog houses in the front yard. The venerable sky-pilot himself was at the front door ready to admit him.
"You are welcome, brother—more than welcome," was his greeting. "Your arrival relieves my daughter of the necessity of riding to Gold to assure us that nothing has happened to you."
"Your daughter—— I thought I'd met your niece! Circumstances beyond my control made last night's appointment——"
Seymour's excuses were interrupted by the sudden entry, from what seemed to be the kitchen, of Moira, a radiant surprise in a blue gingham apron below the hem of which showed her riding boots, testimony that she, not the blond Ruth, had been about to ride to his rescue.
"When——?" was all he was able to gasp as he reached out for both her hands.
"Last night's stage— To think that you—— Oh! Ruth has told me all about how finely you've taken hold of the situation!"
"And Miss Ruth—where is she?" he asked.
"She's had a hard blow in the death of a man she had come to trust. Isn't it enough—glad enough that I'm here, Sergeant Scarlet? I know you must be hungry after that long ride from town. In a minute-and-a-half——"
Seymour reassured her, telling of the precaution he had taken to cover his visit by establishing camp near by. He pointed to the bucket. "Anyone seeing me come here with this, surely must take me for a borrowing neighbor, don't you think? Already I've been spotted as a scout for a gold-dredging outfit with designs on the Cheena."
"Then, brother, if you'll pardon me, I'll hand you over to Moira," said the Missionary. "I'm engaged in a vital work—nothing less than the translation of the Epistles into Chinook. I try to leave all temporal affairs to my daughter and my niece for my time is short—my time is short. You will find her most competent and more fully informed in the details of this outrageous intrigue than I am myself. In this grievous time of turmoil which has befallen us, I thank the good Lord every hour for the return of such a daughter."
"Father, dear!" she gently hushed him.
While the girl was engaged in settling him at a table near a window and arranging his books and papers, Seymour glanced about the comfortable living room. Every stick of furniture, he perceived, was frontier made. The few wall decorations were Indian handiwork—rude carvings in wood, garishly painted; reed basketry of beautiful design; a bow and arrows, canoe paddles. The floor coverings were skins that had never been in the hands of a professional taxidermist. There was an air of home about the place never to be found in the quarters of the longest established police detachments. In this instance, probably, it was the touch of Ruth, the grieving cousin, or of Moira herself before she had put into the Far North in behalf of her supposedly vagrant brother.
He crossed to the fireplace in which cedar logs were in a crackling blaze. Its rock was native galena in which the brownish stains of iron predominated, but so besprinkled was it with mineral facets as to look alive where the fire played upon it. On the mantel were a totem pole and several pieces of carved ivory but no trace of "Outside," not even a phonograph. Either Moira and Ruth were satisfied with existence in the wild or did not wish to be reminded of civilization.
When Moira rejoined him after having settled her father at his self-assigned task, Seymour was fingering idly several specimens of heavy, grayish mineral which lay at the end of the mantel.
"Frog-gold, my father calls that stuff," said the girl. "It's the plague of our Glacier Creek placers, cluttering up our sluices and utterly worthless except in rare instances, such as——"
She ran her eyes over the specimens and picked out one that was shaped curiously like a human hand. In the gray palm was a small nugget of gold, worth possibly a dollar.
"Take this one as a souvenir of your first visit to the mission," she said, and held it out to him.
He had been on the point of asking her for one of the curios, because of a possible connection with the case that had occurred to him, so accepted the gift gladly.
"Do you know the real story of the closing of Glacier Creek, Moira?" he asked, the matter-in-hand always on his mind.
"I heard it all last night from father and from Ruth," she assured him. "This pretended Mountie who has just been murdered made an inspection of the creek in father's behalf because of his love for my cousin. It's a trouble creek, I tell you.
"This Bart Caswell made friends with a hired gunman that Bonnemort and Kluger had on guard and slipped into the gulch where the claims are located. He showed great skill in keeping under cover and was not discovered until the next afternoon, by which time he had seen more than enough.
"His report," Moira went on, "was worse than father had feared. The conscienceless scoundrels had made slaves of all our people, plying them with liquor and working them heartrending hours under the whip. Bart thought the slavers knew their days of oppression were numbered, and were trying to strip the claims of their treasure in the shortest possible time. Undoubtedly the guard at the gate was as much to keep the slaves in as the whites out. Isn't that an intolerable state of affairs? Do you wonder that father is beside himself with anxiety, realizing his impotence until Canada wakes up to what is going on?"
There was no doubting her honest rage, or that it was unselfish, as neither her cousin's claim nor her father's was being plundered.
"Did I understand you to say that Bart was discovered up the gulch?" Seymour asked.
"Bonnemort himself discovered him slipping through the brush near one of their long sluice boxes," Moira informed him. "He would have beaten Bart to death had not his partner happened along. Kluger, who evidently is the brains of the combination, didn't want a white man murdered 'on the works,' as he put it. They brought Bart to the gate and literally kicked him into the open, warning him that he'd have no second chance. If ever they caught him trying to spy on them again, they threatened to shoot him on sight."
Seymour recalled the widow's version, undoubtedly the true one concerning Bart's motives and mental processes regarding the Glacier Creek plunderers. "Until that uniform fell into his hands, he did not see any way of getting the best of them," Mrs. Caswell had told him.
Bart's plan from that point was easily deduced. Once in uniform, it had been necessary for him to "stall" in regard to the Tabor murder—to checkmate Hardley with any citizens' investigation by pretending to make his own. He seemed to have found time, too, for a reassuring visit with Ruth Duperow and perhaps to advance whatever personal game he was playing with the girl.
Yesterday morning the imposter had set out for the guarded cañon on Glacier Creek, counting on the magic of the Mounted uniform, which, for once, had failed to cast its wonted spell. Possibly this failure was because the plunderers had recognized the counterfeit. But the sergeant was not ready to credit that explanation. He preferred to think that it pointed to the desperation of the gold strippers, who would not hesitate to add the murder of a non-commissioned officer to their other crimes.
The sergeant was forced to admit to himself the neatness of Bart's scheme as he now surmised it. Had the uniform "worked," the fake sergeant would have taken the B. & K. clean-up, ostensibly to hold it until the courts adjudicated the Indians' claims. Once the treasure was in his possession, he would have made off with it over the conveniently near Alaskan border and escaped with it on some southbound steamer that touched at no British Columbian port. Just possibly, because of that gift of tongue with women of which Seymour already had seen evidence, Bart would have persuaded Ruth Duperow to accompany him.
"I'll give the Glacier diggings a look-over," he said with a decision that was not as sudden as it sounded, and got to his feet.
Seymour's expression showed as little concern as though he proposed going to the door to glance at the weather prospects. He was not underrating the risks that would come with an attempt to work from the inside out; but he was ignoring them so far as any surface indication was concerned. From the scout he was determined to make, he had every hope of getting the needed direct evidence; at least, he would determine what was "richer than gold" that had led Bart Caswell to tempt fate once too often.
"You'll never get past the gate!" Moira cried in despair and possibly some disappointment that he had taken her own arrival so placidly. "Bonnemort himself has taken charge of the guard there. He was there yesterday morning and yelled to Ruth: 'Tell your friend a uniform makes a fine target!' It was that renewed threat that sent her toward town with her too-late warning. This morning, since you had been delayed, I went over to the creek. He was there, but kept silent—even when I called him a murderer. I tell you, Sergeant Scarlet, darling, the cañon is closed!"
Seymour smiled his appreciation of the care she was showing in his behalf. So she had dared call Bonnemort a murderer to his face! The wonder was she hadn't drawn a bullet for herself instead of silence.
"I'm figuring on comingoutthrough the cañon, Moira dear—sort of unlatching the gate from the inside. There must be another way in." Seymour's tone was confident, although the other way of which he spoke was yet to be found.
"Thereisanother way in!"
This welcome declaration boomed upon their ears from the old missionary at his desk under the window. Evidently he had not been so absorbed in his Biblical translation as they had thought him. Now he pushed back his chair and crossed to the fireplace.
"I discovered this other way while exploring the spur last spring, just before this curse of gold fell upon us," he explained. "Had I known what Bart was up to, I'd have shown him this secret way. I did not actually enter the gulch by it, not trusting muscles that are getting ragged with age, but you can, brother, if your head is level, your fingers and toes strong."
"Score one for the sky-pilot of Argonaut!" cried his daughter, throwing her arms around his neck and patting him on the back. "Since they've smitten us on every cheek we possess, it's high time we smote them back."
In planning for the hazardous attempt immediately, Moira O'Malley's insistence on going along proved a complication. Before the sergeant realized her trend, he had admitted knowing only a smattering of Chinook. The girl, it seemed, spoke the tongue of the provincial Indians fluently.
"These Siwashes are by no means as dumb as they look," she said. "They will know who left the diggings on this murder ride yesterday morning. They'll tell me and then you'll know the man you're after."
Seymour at once rejected her offer as rash beyond reason. Her father, however, seemed passive, perhaps silenced by his admiration for her courage.
"Why, I'll be safe enough with such an officer as you to protect me," Moira declared. "Think what you've already done for me!"
But her trustfulness did not appeal in this extremity. Seymour insisted that such a piece of scouting was no work for a woman. She might cross-examine her Siwashes after he had cleared the creek of whites, but not before. In the end, therefore, there was a compromise, to the extent that Moira should come as far as the edge of the gulch—to see that her father got home safely.
The sergeant departed from the mission openly, carrying his tin pail. He even hoped that the house was, as the girl feared, being watched through a glass from the cañon's mouth. At his camp, he made hurried preparations, pocketing a supply of "hard" rations and extra cartridges for his gun. Down in the meadow, he unpicketed both horses. They could be trusted to stay near the tent and, in case his return was delayed, they must not suffer from want of grass and water. Although the Rev. O'Malley had said nothing about need of a rope for his "other way in," Seymour quickly spliced the two picket strings and coiled the length over his shoulder. Gaining cover of the timber, he made his way as rapidly as possible to the rear of the mission house where the O'Malleys awaited him.
The spur proved a hard climb and the missionary needed help over several of the rougher places. But at length he brought them to a point where the sheer wall of the boxed-in gulch was many feet lower than the remainder.
Even there, a dizzy drop intervened between the top and a narrow ledge that promised a path to timber line for one who was certain of foot. The old man pointed out certain crevices and projections by which a daring climber might work his way down to the ledge; but the sergeant was glad he had brought his rope with which to simplify the start.
The risk that anyone would catch sight of him as he lowered himself seemed slim, for the creek at this point was some distance away and a thick growth of fir lay between. At any rate, this was a risk to be taken; he must negotiate that ledge in daylight.
"You'll come out at the Indian burying ground," said the missionary. "I'm sure it lies in front of this dip in the wall. Conceal yourself there for the night. The Siwashes will be anywhere else after darkness falls."
With this sage advice, the veteran missionary started back over the trail, his mind already speeding to other matters now that he had done all he might in the one at hand.
For just a moment the lovers who had been through so many trying experiences enjoyed their first interval alone since the Montreal parting. This was more mental than physical in view of the stress of the situation.
"You've explained to Ruth?" Seymour asked presently.
"In part—that you're the real Russell Seymour. She still thinks that this Bart was an officer but using your name for some official reason. I haven't told father about Oliver yet, and—should I tell him?"
As often, Seymour's expression was an enigma to her.
"Not yet," he said finally. "It just may take some of the sting away if you can present him with a son-in-law in partial place of his first-born who cannot be returned."
"You think, Russell—oh, do you think you are on the track——"
"I'll get him—Karmack—somewhere," he assured her.
Having knotted his rope at fifteen-inch intervals, the sergeant made one end fast to a sturdy young cedar which grew near the edge and cast the loose end into the cañon. As nearly as he could determine by peering over, the hemp reached almost, if not quite, to the ledge.
"How soon shall we look for your return?" Moira asked a bit hysterically when all was ready.
"When I come out through the cañon gate." He hoped his laugh was reassuring.
The rope proved long enough but there was no overhang. And the ledge was a path down the face of the cliff, but so fragmentary that many times the hold of his fingers forced into crevices alone made it passable. At the very start, an apparently solid piece broke off under his weight and almost cast him into the depths. After that lesson, which came so near to being his last, he sidled along the wall so that his toes might set as near the face of it as possible.
Fifty feet from the bottom of the gulch the ledge ended. He was forced to stake all on a hazardous leap into the top of the nearest fir tree. While the upper branches gave under his hundred and eighty pounds and countless needles pricked him, his fall was broken and eventually stayed by the stouter limbs below.
In the gathering dusk he gained the burial ground of which O'Malley had spoken. Familiar as he was with the native customs of the Northland, he felt thankful, when this settlement of the dead loomed up in the gloom, that he had been prepared for the spectral effect. Built on stilts above each grave were huts of bizarre woodwork. In each, he knew, were housed the particular personal treasures of some departed brave, but nothing of intrinsic worth.
Seymour was not superstitious and, much as he might have preferred other habitation for the night, he did not hesitate to borrow a lodging here. Selecting the most commodious of the "hatches," he climbed under its roof. Although this particular 8x10 boot-box boasted both a spire and a dome it was open on one side, presumably for the purpose of exhibiting a black bottle, an alarm clock from which the works had been removed, and other heirlooms of some Siwash gone to happier hunting grounds. It offered a measure of protection, however, against the chill that came with darkness. As he had no blanket and dared not light a fire, this "spook roost," as he thought of it, was more than welcome.
A short distance up the creek from his refuge and on the opposite bank lay an Indian camp of four or five families, to judge by the number of supper fires. He watched the natives through their meal, the while munching a tasteless emergency ration that was guaranteed to be rich in calories.
The Indian camp proved unusually quiet. He had heard Eskimo hunting parties make far more of a powwow around their night fires of blubber. There was no ribald song or laughter, no fighting, which were to be expected if the despoilers were supplying the natives with liquor, as Moira had told the sergeant.
The yelping of many hungry dogs warned him of the folly of trying to scout the camp under cover of darkness. He decided to stay where he was and to begin his explorations in the morning when work was under way. Gradually, with the fires, the noise of the camp died out, as if the sleeping mats were superattractive to the natives after a hard day's work on the placers.
Politics made strange bedfellows, Seymour had heard. Well, he stood ready to testify that police duty in the Argonaut Valley brought one to strange beds, too. His first night in a jail bunk; his second in a Siwash mausoleum! And on both occasions, nothing softer than his hat for a pillow!
But the murmur of the rushing creek and the soughing of the firs invited sleep; he yielded to the lullaby.
A crash like thunder awoke him at one time in the night, but he found the sky clear on looking out. Not until a second report came could he locate the source—the glacier in which the creek had its source. The green monster was sloughing off its ice. There came variations in the alarm whenever new crevasses were split with a terrific, smashing noise.
The worst start of the night, however, came in a sense of falling and landing with a thump that shook every bone in his body. That he had fallen and landed, not dreamed the sensations, became clear when he found himself on the ground and looking up at the hut. He had rolled out of "bed."
Seymour was up the next morning with the klootchmen, and they arose with the sun. Before the Indian camp was thoroughly awake, he had slipped out of the burying ground and gained the cover of the timber fringe along the south wall of the gulch.
From what he could see now of the formation, he determined that Glacier Creek was not as inaccessible as reputed. There were other possible entrances, at least one of which appeared less hazardous than that by which he had come. In the past, the natural entrance to the cañon had always been open and no one had ever found it necessary to work out another.
Refreshing himself at a spring upon which he had stumbled, he turned first to an investigation of the cañon a quarter of a mile below. So nearly did the wings of the rocky spur meet that there was scarcely a hundred feet between walls at the narrowest point. Through this gap, Glacier Creek poured without hindrance. Along the opposite wall ran a wagon-width trail.
At a point about halfway through the cañon stood two tents, the canvas of which still was white. Doubtless this was the camp of the guards and, perhaps, that of the promoters of the steal. Just now he was satisfied with placing this camp; close investigation could wait until he learned what "richer than gold" was being gleaned up the gulch.
Slowly he worked up the stream, keeping back from the bank and well screened by the brush. Breakfast was over at the camp near which he had spent the night. Twenty Indians, men and women, were at work picking and shoveling in a near-by bench and wheeling loaded barrows to a long wooden sluice box into which a small stream of water had been diverted. The onlooker was puzzled that they were working with such seeming good-will. In fact, he had never seen natives so industrious. Nowhere was any whip-armed master visible.
A blast from upstream did not concern him greatly, as he thought the glacier was cutting daylight capers. But when other reverberations crashed out at regular intervals, he felt certain that dynamite was being exploded. This would explain why the Siwashes were able to work so freely in the frozen gravel and gave color to Bart's report that the claims were being "stripped."
Exercising the utmost caution, he worked his way eastward until he crouched opposite an exaggerated "ant hill" of activity, undoubtedly the scene of major operations. There were three sluices here, near a bench that had been shattered by a recent explosion. No crew of white miners could have shown greater industry or fewer lost motions than the natives at work there. And as below, he saw no sign of a white oppressor.
Then, from a tent near the Indian encampment, there emerged a brawny man who answered the O'Malleys' description of Bonnemort, he who nearly had done for Bart. Six feet two or three and built from the soles up, he stood looking over the busy scene.
In a flash, Seymour recognized the red-headed man who had insisted on sending wine to the young Mounties in that Montreal cabaret. Something of a change of scene, this; but not so surprising in Canada—land of far-flung opportunities.
The sergeant surmised this to be the alleged breed's first appearance of the morning. Confirmation came with the appearance of a young squaw bearing a tray of breakfast which she spread on a rough table before the tent. Indeed, this breed must have a "way" with the Siwashes, thought the sergeant, to command from them such competent service. From his reserved seat in the brush, he envied him the cup of steaming coffee and, later, the cigar which the autocrat of the wild lighted. This last was particularly tantalizing to one whose pipe must perforce remain cold.
Presently came a small man on horseback, all-white, puttee-clad, and, on reasonable supposition, one Kluger by name. Dismounted, the new arrival, reputed to be the "brains of the outfit," did not come to his partner's shoulder; but from the rapidity of his movements, Seymour judged that his small frame concealed a dynamo of energy. The two conferred a moment, then started toward the sluice box.
Peering from behind the bushes, Seymour felt as though he were watching some well-lighted motion picture. He saw Bonnemort call a couple of Siwashes to them; but no word of their conversations reached him.
For an hour he watched them as they directed the morning clean-up of the treasure gathered on the riffles—cross cleats of wood on the bottom of the sluice troughs—from the pay dirt washed the previous day. One departure from the regular placer practice stood out. The gleaners carried two sacks, one twice the size of the other. At every riffle, contributions were made to each.
If this was a division of the yield between the managing sharpers and working owners, it seemed unnecessarily clumsy. Why did it need to be done on the dump in such piecemeal fashion? Both parties to the proceeding seemed satisfied, however. There was no haggling, not even discussion over the division, if such it really was.
In the end, the two whites, between them, carried the larger and heavier sack to Bonnemort's tent, while the two Indians who had made the cleaning carried off the smaller bag to one of their wickiups.
After spending several minutes within the tent, behind closed flaps, the partners came out and started down-stream, Bonnemort walking with long strides beside the mounted Kluger. To the sergeant, the supposition seemed reasonable that they were bound for a clean-up at the lower diggings and that, for a time, the upper creek would be free of whites. He decided upon a bold stroke, the success of which would depend upon how far the Siwashes had been taken into confidence.
Going down the creek bank in the brush until he was out of sight of the camp, he gained the trail and started back. He walked as openly as though he belonged to the outfit; stopped at several points to look critically at the work being done, then strode on with a nod or grunt of approval. None challenged his advance; not even a look questioned him. He entered the tent as though he had every right to do so, as, indeed, he had, although it was a right of a different sort than any who observed him might have imagined.
As the canvas flaps fell behind him, he made a rapid survey of the interior—two folding cots with bedding, camp stools, a table built of empty dynamite boxes with the labels of the "Kingdom Come" brand much in evidence, and an improvised clothes horse hung with an assortment of masculine apparel. His particular interest settled on what looked like a carpenter's tool chest, but which, for want of any likelier container, he took to be the camp's treasury box. Without much hope; he stooped and tried the lid. It was locked.
In the act of kneeling to examine this, the tent was suffused in sunlight from the opening of a flap. He straightened and turned as a young squaw entered, her head bound in a bright-colored bandanna. Possibly she was the fastidious Bonnemort's chambermaid, he thought, come to make the bed. His heart was pounding. An alarm would ruin all.
"Kla-how-yah!" she grunted the usual Chinook greeting, but evinced no surprise at finding him in the tent.
"Don't mind me," he managed to reply with a well assumed assurance, hoping she at least could understand English, even though she did not speak it.
But she spoke it, and to his utter consternation. "Right good make-up if it fools a Mountie," she said with a lilting laugh that was controlled not to carry beyond the canvas. "How do you like me as aklootch?"
"Moira!" he whispered.
"None other, Sergeant Scarlet."