Sergeant Marden produced a poke partially filled with gold dust and laid it on the table.
“What's that?”—Three-Ace Artie's eyes were hard.
“It's the price you paid Sam MacBride for this shack and contents when he went away. The boys say they want to play fair.”
And then Three-Ace Artie laughed—not pleasantly. Methodically he removed his overcoat, hung it on its peg, and sat down again on the edge of the bunk.
“Let's see the rest of your hand, sergeant”—his voice was deadly quiet. “I don't quite get the idea.”
“I wasn't here myself this afternoon,” said Sergeant Marden; “but they seem to feel that the sort of thing that happened kind of gives the community a bad name, and that separating a youngster, when he's drunk, from his last dollar is a bit too raw even for Ton-Nugget Camp. That's about the size of the way it was put up to me.”
It seemed to Three-Act Artie that in some way he had not quite heard aright; or that, if he had, he was being made the object of some, unknown to its authors, stupendously ironical joke—and then, as he glanced at the officer's grim, though not altogether unfriendly countenance, and from Sergeant Marden to the bag of gold upon the table, a bitter, furious anger surged upon him. His clenched fist reached out and fell smashing upon the table.
“So that's it, is it!” he said between his teeth. “This is some of Murdock Shaw's work—the snivelling, psalm-singing hypocrite! Well, he can't get away with it! I've a few friends in camp myself.”
“Fairweather friends, I should say,” qualified the sergeant, busy again with his pipe bowl. “You said yourself that no one had been near the shack here. The camp appears to be pretty well of one mind on the subject.”
“Including the half dozen or more who started after the Kid to begin with!”—Three-Ace Artie's laugh was savage, full of menace. “Are they helping to run me out of camp, too!”