His thoughts reverted to the Kid. No one had come to the shack since he had returned from the hotel, but he knew the Kid had left the camp, for he had watched from the shack window as Bixley and the boy had passed down the street together. The Kid would not play the fool again for a while, that was certain—whatever he did eventually.
Three-Ace Artie stared introspectively at the lamp, out at full length upon his bunk, yawned, and looked at his watch. It was already after midnight. He glanced a little quizzically.
Kid, of course! He had been conscious of an inward flame for a moment—then for the third time shrugged his shoulders.
“I guess I'll turn in,” he muttered.
He bent down to untie a shoe lace—and straightened up quickly again. A footstep sounded from without, there was a knock upon the door, the door opened—and with the inrush of air the lamp flared up. Three-Ace Artie reached out swiftly to the top of the chimney, protecting the flame with the flat of his hand, and, as the door closed again, stared with cool surprise at his visitor. The last time he had seen Sergeant Marden, of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, had been the year before at Two-Strike-Mountain, where each had followed a gold rush—for quite different reasons!
“Hello, sergeant!” he drawled. “I didn't know you were in camp.”
“Just got in around supper-time,” replied the other. “I've been up on the Creek for the last few weeks.”
Three-Ace Artie smiled facetiously.
“Any luck?” he inquired.
“I got my man,” said the sergeant quietly.