Then along came Bonnemort and Kluger, a shrewd pair from somewhere back in eastern Canada. They saw a chance of operating the Glacier Creek diggings on a large scale. The Bonnemort of the combination admitted to being a half-breed, and he knew how to handle the Siwashes. Before the missionary knew what was up, the pair had leased every Indian claim beyond the cañon gate. Moreover—and Brewster was forced to smile appreciatively as he told it—they had hired the Indians to work their own claims. When all was set, they posted a "No Trespass" sign and stationed an armed guard at the narrow entrance. When this sentry turned back the sky-pilot intent on visiting his flock, the whole district had learned of the coup.
Brewster said he had been right friendly with Ruth Duperow and her uncle at that time. Because of their fears that the Siwashes were being robbed, he had brought Sam Hardley to investigate. The B. & K. outfit had produced their leases and the Indians denied that they were being worked against their will. As no established trail ran up the creek, which was a veritable cul-de-sac because of its glacier source, Hardley had decided that the leases were within their rights and that there wasn't a thing to be done about it. The creek was still closed, and because there was only one entrance—through the narrow mouth of the cañon, where one man could hold up a regiment—it was likely to remain so until the within-the-law operators took down the bars.
"I lost out with the sky-pilot and Miss Duperow because I wouldn't storm the gate," Brewster concluded regretfully. "About that time appeared this Sergeant Seymour, then under cover as a mining expert. He fell hard for the girl, which is not against him, for there isn't a finer in all B.C. than Miss Ruth. I don't know what he thought of the monopoly or what he intended to do when he got into uniform. As you know, the stage robbers killed him before he got saddled up."
"What do you make of it yourself?"
Brewster shrugged his broad shoulders. "I may be prejudiced. You see, while I lost my best girl, I landed my B. & K. packing contract. I'll say they pay their bills. Hope you won't think I was trying to horn into your game by criticizing your camp selection. But I thought you might not know how things stood on Glacier."
Seymour thanked him, then glanced into the river. "Maybe I like the looks of the Cheena," he added.
"Scouting for dredger people, eh?" Brewster made shrewd surmise. "I hear they're cleaning up strong in the Klondike. The Cheena ought to pay rich for anyone with money enough to put in a hydraulic plant. Remember that Philip Brewster is in the freighter business in case you begin operations. Good luck to you and goodbye for the present."
The sergeant watched Brewster ride across the flat to the main trail; noted that he turned back toward the creeks. Evidently the freighter had been riding into Gold to effect, as he said, Seymour's release. An obliging individual, Brewster, even if he had given his fat deputy friend foolish advice about holding back the Mounted.
So Glacier was a closed creek. A guarded "gate" had been swung across its cañon mouth. Upon what? Upon Bart Caswell's something "richer than gold," he strongly suspected. Perhaps upon the "sergeant's" slayer as well. Seymour was part Irish; he enjoyed passing the impassable—or trying to.