RICHER THAN GOLD
There was no one visible in the Home Restaurant when Seymour entered.
While talking to Cato, however, he had seen the woman unlock the door
and disappear within, and now, after he had shut the door noisily
behind him, he heard someone moving behind the partition in the rear.
He had time to make choice between a seat at one of the two small
tables or a stool at the oilcloth-covered counter beside the range.
Presently she came into the room. He was seated at the counter.
That she had been crying was evident; also that she had made an
effort to remove the traces. Inwardly Seymour regretted that he had
not left her alone longer with her grief.
"I'll leave it to you, ma'am," he said as she came to take his order.
"Whatever is easiest for you in the way of a square meal."
She murmured an apology for Gold's scanty markets, but thought she'd
be able to feed him without falling back on the can-opener. Bread
had been baked that morning, she told him, as she set out a stack of
soft slices. But she could not speak as encouragingly about the
butter's age.
Seymour liked her voice, understanding its sad inflection, and he
could feel full sympathy for her wan smile. Fortunately the range
was directly in front of his seat; he could study her without seeming
rude as she placed a steak to broil and sliced potatoes for a raw-fry.
In the course of his intent study of her, his hope grew that
something valuable could be drawn from her. With the second sip of
coffee, he broke bluntly into the matter in hand. "Well, they got
poor Bart at last, I see!" he remarked.
He could see that he had startled her, as he had intended to do. She
looked at him sharply, as if to make sure he was the stranger she had
taken him to be. For a moment he feared she was going to break into
tears, but with an effort she controlled herself, evidently being no
stranger to sorrow.
"You knew Bart--the sergeant?" she asked, choking back a sob.
"In a way of speaking--yes," said Seymour. "I know that he was not
an officer of the Royal Mounted."
With uncertain steps she felt her way along the lunch counter.
"Not--not an officer?" she faltered. "Why, what do you mean, sir?"
"Just what I say, madam. What's more, I know that Bart's sudden
taking makes you a sure-enough widow, instead of a pretended one.
You have my deepest sympathy, Mrs. Caswell."
To himself, Seymour justified his seeming harshness of utterance on
grounds of professional necessity; that there might be real mercy for
the woman also involved, in case he succeeded in breaking through her
reserve, was another consideration. Everything depended upon her
reaction to this "shot" assertion. He had followed her on a hunch
bred of her emotions at the imposter's bier. Old man Cato had given
him a plausible reason for her showing of grief. While studying her
when she stood over the range, however, the idea had come to him that
she had been Bart Caswell's wife. He was prepared to be shown that
the woman herself was not a criminal, even by inclination. In fact,
he was predisposed to believe that she would prove essentially honest.
"You're wrong, stranger--wrong on both counts!" the woman replied.
She had steadied herself, was forcing her voice to hold an even tone.
Seymour could not yet be sure that his hunch was right.
"Mr. Seymour was a staff-sergeant," she went on. "The coward that
murdered him will learn that to his sorrow when Russell's mates come
from headquarters to avenge his death. As for my being his
widow----" She essayed a little laugh that was almost too much a
strain upon her histrionic powers. "I'm not saying what might have
come to pass had not death stepped in; but as it stands, he was just
a brave friend and a good-paying boarder."
A moment the sergeant merely stared at her; then he leaned along the
counter toward her. "You'd like to see your brave friend's slayer
punished, wouldn't you?"
A flash of fury lit her worn face; her teeth clicked ominously and
her small, work-roughened hands clinched.
"I'd give the world if it were mine and count it well spent!" she
cried. "If ever I find out who--" She checked herself, evidently
fearing that she was going too far in behalf of a "brave friend and a
good-paying boarder."
"Then tell me all you can about Bart, his recent movements and what
he had planned for the future," urged Seymour quietly. "I'm here to
get the man who killed him, Mrs. Caswell."
Probably it was more his repetition of that "Mrs. Caswell" than his
declaration of purpose that suddenly unnerved her. It was such
convincing indication that her denials had not been believed. She
sank into a chair that stood by the front window and buried her face
in her hands. She looked so hopeless that Seymour's heart was wrung
with pity for her. His hunch had been right, but there was no need
now to press it unfeelingly. She should have all the time she needed
for sobbing readjustment.
"How come you to think you know so much about him--about us?" she
asked presently without looking up.
"I know, ma'am. I am the real Russell Seymour--the sergeant whose
uniform he wore."
His mask was off. He had been more frank than at first he intended
to be, but, in all circumstances, he considered the temporary secret
of his identity safe with her.
Bart's widow started up in her chair. "Here so soon!" she exclaimed.
"Not soon enough, though, I'm sorry to say. If the Force had planted
a detachment here with the first Chinook, probably your husband would
not have been tempted to hold up the B.C.X."
Mrs. Caswell groaned in her anguish. "You know--about--about that,
too?"
"Naturally. How else would he get possession of my uniform? Tell
me, madam; what did he expect to gather in when he held up the
baggage stage? It's a cinch that he couldn't have known that my
clothes were in transit."
But the little woman was not persuaded to answer at once. Seymour
had to show her his official shield, which he had taken from its
place of concealment in his trail pack when he stabled the horses
before the inquest. He went to some pains, also, to show her that
although she was an accessory after the crime, no charge would be
placed against her if she helped in unraveling the latest murder.
He pointed out that, in view of the stolen uniform in which Bart had
been killed, she could not hope to prevent the fatal stage robbery
from being laid to him.
"But I can save his memory the disgrace of a brutal murder!" the
widow cried, as though suddenly persuaded that the officer was a
genuine one. She fluttered out of her chair into a more confidential
position at the counter.
"Bart did shoot Ben Tabor but he had to fire in self-defense. It was
his life or Tabor's; he made a brave man's choice." She paused a
moment to catch a sob that seemed determined to escape, then
proceeded to eulogize as best she might. "Bart Caswell was the
gentlest of men. I never knew of his harming a soul before. Except
for his wrong idea that the world owed him a living and his peculiar
way of collecting it, there is nothing that could be said against
him."
"I'm ready to be shown, Mrs. Caswell," the sergeant encouraged her.
He listened then to the old, old story of the double-cross in a new
setting and with unusual variations. The First Bank of Gold,
according to the widow, used considerable currency in its purchase of
dust from the miners. To guard against robbery, the shipments were
made in supposed secrecy by the weekly baggage stage, but the driver
knew of the valuable load he carried occasionally. Caswell and Tabor
had been friends in Vancouver before either came into the north
country and soon after their meeting in Gold, the robbery had been
planned.
Bart had "stuck" the stage at the agreed point, only to be told by
Tabor that the expected $30,000 shipment for that week had been
withheld. Not then suspicious, Bart had accepted the statement as
fact, expressed his hope that they'd have better luck next time, and
was disappearing into the brush when Tabor fired upon him. The
bullet struck a silver plate in Bart's back that had been placed
there to repair a wound received during a Seattle gun-fight some
years before.
The blow staggered him, but he was uninjured. Turning as his friend
was in the act of firing again, he had brought down the traitor with
a single shot.
A hurried search of the express book showed that the currency
shipment had been made. Driving the stage off the trail, Bart had
examined the load thoroughly but had found no bank package. He
concluded that Tabor had concealed it somewhere along the trail,
meaning to get the whole of the loot for himself after putting the
blame on the friend he expected to kill.
Watchful for flaws in the widow's account, Seymour seized upon a
seeming one. "But if Bart had been killed in the brush, no loot
would have been found on him," he pointed out. "Tabor still would
have been held responsible for the currency."
"They had planned in advance," she smiled wearily, "that Tabor should
report his stage robbed by three masked men. He need only have sworn
that the other two got away with the bank package."
Seymour made mental note of at least one way of checking up on Mrs.
Caswell's account, then asked her about the uniform.
"Your bag was the only thing on the wagon that Bart thought might be
of use to him," she admitted with an air of frankness that was
convincing. "He brought it here--to a room he was supposed to have
been renting from me--in the half story above the restaurant. When I
found him there trying on the suit, he told me about his hard luck."
The sergeant felt that the crux of the interview was approaching, but
meant to get at it gradually, retaining the full advantage of the
confidence he had established.
"The idea of impersonating an officer of the Mounted--was that merely
to assure him a getaway for the Tabor killing?" he asked.
"Partly to delay an investigation of that by pretending to have
undertaken it himself; more to help him in another enterprise he had
in view up the creeks."
Considering a moment, Seymour ventured:
"Having failed in landing the bank currency, he was going after gold
in the raw, perhaps?"
"He told me there was something richer than gold----"
The noisy opening of the street door interrupted. They glanced up to
see Cato entering. Looking like a horrid gnome, with his long arms
dangling almost to the ground from his misshapen shoulders, the ox
driver advanced to a stool one removed from Seymour. Upon this he
pulled himself, after giving his neighbor the merest of nods. From
the odor of his breath, he evidently had fortified himself for this
untimely visit with bottled courage. He leered at the widow as if he
considered himself assured of welcome now that his attractive rival
had been eliminated.
"'Tis a starving man you see before you, Mary, Queen of Scots," he
declared. "But a starving man with a jingle in his pockets. With
all the goings-on in camp, I'm rejoiced that the Home is open for
serving meals that is meals."
Recalling the hope which Cato had expressed on the street a short
while before, Seymour wondered how long he would have to wait for an
opportunity to finish his interview. He attacked the steak that had
been neglected, hoping that the old man would be too engrossed in his
"chances" to notice that the meat was cold.
"I haven't forgotten that second cup of coffee, sir," the widow had
presence of mind enough to offer. "If you'll be wishing for supper
this evening, please come in by eight as I'll be closing early."
Seymour took this as both his dismissal and an appointment for the
widow to finish. Until eight o'clock, then, he would have to wait to
know what Bart Caswell had in mind that was richer than gold and was
to be had on the Creeks of Argonaut with the aid of a Royal Canadian
police uniform.