CHAPTER XIX

INTO THE NIGHT

"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, he _had_ to 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!