Sergeant Marden removed his pipe slowly from his lips.
“Why, you know, don't you?” he asked in surprise.
“No, I don't know!” returned Three-Ace Artie quickly. “I haven't been out of this shack since late this afternoon; but I saw him this morning, and he was all right then. What's happened?”
“He shot himself just after supper—accident, of course—old story, cleaning a gun,” said the sergeant tersely.
“Good God!” cried Three-Ace Artie, in a low, shocked way—and then he was on his feet, and reaching for his cap and coat. “I'll go up there and see him. You don't mind, sergeant, if I leave you here? I guess I knew Canuck John better than any one else in camp did, and—” His coat half on, he paused suddenly, his brows gathering in a frown. “After supper, you said!” he muttered slowly. “Why, that's hours ago!” Then, his voice rasping: “It's damned queer no one came to tell me about this! There's something wrong here!” He struggled into his coat.
“He's been unconscious ever since they found him,” said Sergeant Marden, his eyes fixed on the bowl of his pipe as he prodded the dottle down with his forefinger. “The doctor's just come. You couldn't do any good by going up there, and”—his eyes lifted and met Three-Ace Artie's meaningly—“take it all around, I guess it would be just as well if you didn't go. Murdock Shaw and some of the boys are there, and—well, they seem to feel they don't want you.”
For a moment Three-Ace Artie stood motionless, regarding the other in a half angry, half puzzled way; then, his weight on both hands, he leaned forward over the table toward Sergeant Marden.
“In plain English, and in as few words as you can put it, what in hell do you mean by that?” he demanded levelly.
“All right, if you want it that way, I'll tell you,” said Sergeant Marden quietly. “I guess perhaps the short cut's best. They've given you until to-morrow morning to get out of Ton-Nugget Camp.”
“I beg your pardon?” inquired Three-Ace Artie with ominous politeness.