CHAPTER XVI

THE "WIDDY" IN GRAY

In the slipshod procedure of Deputy Sam Hardley the professional policeman had an illustration of why the force of which he was a member was needed to supplement some county peace officers of the Dominion. Although the fat official undoubtedly believed a commissioned officer of the mounted police had been murdered in cold blood while in the pursuit of duty, his handling of the ease proved most perfunctory. There was no close study of the immediate surroundings; not even a beating of the bush to determine the point from which the fatal shot was fired.

The fact that the victim's revolver had been fired once was noted, not by Hardley, but by the citizen addressed as Phil Brewster who, it developed, operated a freight packing business between Gold and the creeks. Doubtless, the tragedy of the express driver had been handled with similar carelessness, and this unlucky Bart Caswell given every opportunity to launch his daring impersonation.

About all that Hardley did was go through the pockets of the uniform while one of the crowd made a list of contents as they were produced and placed in a large handkerchief. There was a wallet meagerly supplied with small bills, a pocket knife, a ring of keys and a briar pipe--not any of which were familiar to Seymour. But there was in addition a certified copy of his own commission as staff-sergeant of the R.C.M.P., which had been in the war bag, and a sheaf of official blanks. These proceeds of the search were knotted within the handkerchief and deposited in Hardley's pocket, presumably to be handed over to the Mounted.

Soon, the waiting freight wagon was impressed into service as a rude catafalque. With the horsemen in procession formed behind, the cortege headed for the near-by camp. Its pace, at least, was funereal, thanks to oxen deliberation.

Once into the main street, Seymour found a semblance of permanency in the town. The establishments of two rival trading companies were built of logs and surprisingly fronted by show windows. The one hotel, in distinction from several bunk houses, had two stories, with a false front atop the second. Seymour noted also a restaurant, a chop house, a pool hall, several "soft" drink emporiums--all of rough board construction.

A shack of slabs, roofed with cedar shakes, crouched beside the hotel and supported the sign:

OFFICE OF SHERIFF GOLD BRANCH OFFICE OF CORONER

Evidently it was from the door of this that Deputy Coroner Hardley had seen the imposter set out on his fatal ride.

Near this shack stood the temporary post office which divided a store room with the records of the mining recorder. The First Bank of Gold occupied a tent with a wooden floor. For the reassurance of customers and for the information of all, this tent wore a banner on which was painted: "Our palatial permanent home is under construction across the street." Glancing in that direction, the stranger saw a structure of corrugated iron, awaiting a roof.

Gold, at this season of the year, was a night town, so the streets had been practically deserted as the small procession entered. Even though most of the population was at work up the creeks, there was something of an outpouring into King Street as the news of the shooting spread.

Some fifty men and a scattering of women gathered to mill about the freight wagon soon after the oxen were halted before Hardley's shack. From the vantage of his saddle seat, Seymour studied their faces as they received the news, but caught no trace of any emotion that interested him. All seemed genuinely shocked; none, too deeply moved. He heard many express regret over such a drastic blow at the law. If any rejoiced, they did so secretly.

Deputy Hardley consulted with important citizens, identified for Seymour by the one nearest his stirrup as the bank manager, the camp doctor, and the principal realtor. Presently the deputy shrilled an announcement that in his capacity of coroner he would swear a jury and hold an inquest at one o'clock in the uncompleted bank building.

The freight wagon, its somber burden covered with tarpaulin, was drawn to a position at the rear of the unfinished structure, which was open where workmen were laying a heavy flooring for a vault. The townsmen, their curiosity satisfied, began to disperse about their mundane affairs.

In turning Kaw to be about his own, Seymour came face to face with Ruth Duperow, who evidently had just reached town and at speed, for her mount was puffing. The color of excitement was high in the girl's cheeks. But no hint that she ever had seen him before came from the young woman who, within the hour, had been so solicitous of his welfare as to try to keep him from entering the brush in search of the murderer. Her eyes did not avoid his; they simply did not know him.

Having administered this puzzling cut direct, she focused on the gallant figure of Brewster who rode alongside her, his handsome face alight with undoubted admiration.

"What has happened?" Seymour heard her ask.

"Your dashing sergeant-of-staff has been murdered." Brewster's reply was fittingly low.

The girl's eyes flashed angrily. "Terrible! I must say you don't seem greatly distressed, Mr. Brewster, and I'll thank you not to connect me with the poor brave man by saying _my_ sergeant."

"You've been seeing so much of this Bart person, Ruth, you hadn't had any time for your old friends. Of course, I'm sorry for the way he's been put out of the running, but----"

"That 'but' does you small credit. Who do you suppose----"

"Hardley hasn't decided yet." Seymour caught the flicker of contempt in the freighter's eyes. "Better come and have dinner with me at the hotel; this isn't our tragedy."

Her displeasure seemed increased, and she gathered her reins. "I wouldn't think of it," she said with decision. "I must carry the dreadful news to uncle."

Whirling her horse, she dashed away up the road over which she had so lately come.

"Some actress, but why?" murmured Seymour.

There were several why's that the sergeant found it necessary to consider. Why had she cut him at their second meeting? Why had she feigned entire ignorance of what had happened? He could only hope that the same answer would serve for all--that she had acted so in the hope of being more free to work out a solution of the mystery as to who had killed Bart.

It was evident from Brewster's complaining attitude that the imposter had paid Miss Duperow enough attention to arouse the handsome freighter's jealousy. And Brewster had misplayed his hand by allowing his feeling to crop out at such a moment when he should have shown the murderer's detection and punishment to be his chief interest. He now stood staring up the street after her, looking utterly discomfited.

Dismounting, Seymour led Kaw across the street and joined Brewster, who snapped out of his mood upon being addressed. The information the sergeant sought was pleasantly given.

The stranger undoubtedly could get a room, such as it was, at the Bonanza Hotel. Brewster himself lived there. The "eats" weren't much, but he could take pot-luck at the restaurant. If his room wasn't airy enough, he could get ample ventilation by poking his finger through the partitions. He'd find the stables "around back." There was no telegraph office--yet, and no radio. Yes, the camp was a little slow in catching up with the times. The next mail would go out in the morning.

"Guess I'd better tell that suspicious deputy where I'm stopping," Seymour remarked when duly posted.

Brewster laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't mind Sam Hardley, stranger. By now his mind is loping along some other line of suspicion. Better come to the inquest, though. With Hardley in the coroner's seat it will be better than vaudeville."

The sergeant did attend the inquest in the unroofed bank building, where the workmen had "laid off" for the "event." That he did not find it as amusing as Brewster had promised was not entirely due to the queer feeling that came with every mention of his name as that of the central figure. He writhed at the official flounderings of Hardley, who made an exhibition of a jury which, under sensible direction, would have proved competent.

Seymour had heard strange coroners' verdicts before, but that which this fat deputy sponsored was a prize-winning oddity. Hardley read it aloud:

"We, the jury in this murder case duly impaneled, do and now hereby report that Staff-Sergeant Russell Seymour of the Royal Mounted Canadian Police, in the pursuit of duty in the proximity of Gold, B.C., did come to an untimely death to the regret of this afflicted law-abiding community.

"We, the jury, etc., do find and hereby report further that the aforesaid lamented Seymour was murdered by a rifle bullet fired by the man who held up the B.C.X. stage and killed Ben Tabor, driver thereof and subject of the last preceding inquest of this court, both being foul and fatal murders.

"We, the jury, etc., do find and hereby report still further, that Deputy Coroner Samuel Hardley, Esq., reached the scene of the tragedy with commendable promptitude. We direct him to draw such posse as he finds necessary from amongst the citizens of Gold and run to earth the perpetrator of these dastardly crimes; and, furthermore, we express our confidence that he will leave no stone unturned to justify his reputation as a fearless officer with the encomiums of a successful capture dead or alive."

Hardley's shrill voice was softened by the huskiness of proudful emotion as he finished the reading. From his seat on an empty packing box in the front row of spectators, Phil Brewster uttered a fervent "A-men!" then, catching the eye of Seymour who stood along the wall, he winked sardonically.

"Needless to say, fellow citizens of Gold," Hardley shrilled on after having cleared his throat, "your officer appreciates the confidence of which this jury of his peers has so fitly delivered itself. He will leave no stone unturned to bring to a rope's end the foul fiend guilty of sending to perdition these two men, one a brave officer of the law and the other a worthy driver of the B.C.X. mules. He would respectfully suggest that before you leave this temporary temple of justice, so kindly loaned for the occasion by the public-spirited manager of the First Bank of Gold, each and every one of you look for the last time on one who gave his life that this should be a more decent and law-loving mining camp."

For this last suggestion, Seymour could forgive Hardley's astonishing lack of modesty, even his consigning to "perdition" the two casualties. Although the fat deputy could not have imagined it, he had done the sergeant a pronounced favor.

Seymour lost no time in gaining a position from which he could watch the reaction on every face that looked upon Bart. His attention was caught by a little woman of pleasing countenance, in a drab dress and the beflowered hat of an outsider, whom he had noticed casually during the hearing. Now that the line had thinned to nothing and even the deputy had left his guard-of-honor post, the little woman came forward haltingly and bent over the rude catafalque. Seymour could not see her face for the moment as it was shadowed by her hat brim, but he heard a stifled sob. For an instant, she tottered and seemed so likely to fall that he took a quick step toward her. His aid, however, proved unnecessary. With a shudder, she recovered herself and hurried away, dabbing at her eyes with a bit of cambric.

As the only individual who had shown the least personal emotion, the policeman's interest followed her. So did his steps. Outside, he felt fortunate when he fell in with an acquaintance of the morning, Cato, the driver of oxen.

"Who is the little woman in gray?" he asked casually.

"She's a widdy, but not looking for a second," Cato's face was more twisted than usual by its sarcastic grin.

"And I'm not seeking a first," Seymour set him straight. "I asked because she seemed more affected than the other women by Hardley's tribute line."

The old ox driver seemed reassured. "She's just a big-hearted Jane, owner and cook of the Home Restaurant down the street yonder. The sergeant boarded with her before he bloomed out in the royal uniform. I boarded there too, until she turned me down. I'm just wondering--was it him in the offing that made her cold towards me? Course, he wouldn't look at her, not serious; him being a staff-sergeant in secret. But women nurse wild hopes--'specially widdies. Maybe I'd have a chance now he's been plugged into the discard."

Seymour glanced at him in amazement; that he, with his caricature of a face, could speak of women nursing wild hopes.

Evidently Cato read his thoughts. "You needn't look so doubtful, stranger." He flared with resentment. "Ox driving brings mighty smart wages up here, and I got a claim on Hoodoo Creek that may make me one of them mill'onaires when I get round to working of it next winter. Women can read behind the mask--'specially widdies."

Anxious to be off on the trail of his hunch, the sergeant was not sorry when they came to the Brewster warehouse and Cato left to inquire about his next load of freight for the creeks. Russell Seymour felt suddenly hungry--for home cooking.