"To my best knowledge and belief, I'm no one else."
Brewster laughed and swung into a chatting position by hooking one leg over the horn of his saddle. "And here I was hot-footing into town to get you out of jail."
"Kind of you, but apparently unnecessary," Seymour offered a laugh of his own. "Where did you get the idea I was in limbo?"
The sergeant did not need to feign his look of mystification. That the news of an arrest that Hardley himself did not remember had traveled to the creeks to be heard by Brewster served only to deepen the puzzle.
"Did Hardley mention jail to you?" he asked. "He didn't to me, and I saw him just before I left town."
"It wasn't Hardley—haven't seen him since he left my room last evening. But Cato said Hardley had pinched you and locked you up. He declared he had helped in the capture and was pleased with himself."
At mention of Cato, the sergeant was suddenly in the clear, although not so much as an eyelash flicker betrayed the fact. He recalled now the inordinately long arms of the man. Doubtless these had puckered the blanket around his midriff and beaten him into unconsciousness. The lovelorn old codger, fired with jealousy, must have been stalking the widow's place, mistaken him for a rival and acted under the dictates of his brandy-befuddled brain. That he had forgotten to confide the fact of imprisonment to Hardley was evident; but then, he had neglected to lock the jail. How the ox driver had got possession of the key was a detail unexplained, but Seymour would never be sufficiently curious about that to inquire into it. To have been taken single-handed by Cato was not particularly flattering, even though the gnome was possessed of superhuman strength.
"Wasn't Cato hitting the hootch yesterday?" was all he asked of the driver's employer.
"He was that," admitted Brewster, "and he had a hang-over this morning. But how he ever imagined—— Oh, well, there's no harm done, long as it was only a drunken dream. I was afraid Hardley would lose another day getting after the Seymour murderers and I didn't want to see you suffer from his foolishness. But you've picked a queer place to camp, strikes me. Didn't you know that Glacier Creek is closed?"
The sergeant had not heard this and was curious to know how any creek could be "closed." Brewster told him. The genial old missionary, Shan O'Malley, had laid the foundation for the situation in the early days of the rush. With more foresight than many laymen, he had seen what was coming. To hold the Indians of his congregation, or whatever he called it, and to keep them from contact with the white "rushers" as far as possible, he had induced them to claim, stake and register every foot of bar and bench from the cañon entrance back to the glacier. To make a close corporation of it, he and his niece Ruth had staked the two full claims between the cañon gate and the Cheena. Glacier Creek had not proved a bonanza, but O'Malley did not seem to care; the laziest Siwash could pan out a living, and the old man was keeping his flock together.