The sergeant was forced to admit to himself the neatness of Bart's scheme as he now surmised it. Had the uniform "worked," the fake sergeant would have taken the B. & K. clean-up, ostensibly to hold it until the courts adjudicated the Indians' claims. Once the treasure was in his possession, he would have made off with it over the conveniently near Alaskan border and escaped with it on some southbound steamer that touched at no British Columbian port. Just possibly, because of that gift of tongue with women of which Seymour already had seen evidence, Bart would have persuaded Ruth Duperow to accompany him.
"I'll give the Glacier diggings a look-over," he said with a decision that was not as sudden as it sounded, and got to his feet.
Seymour's expression showed as little concern as though he proposed going to the door to glance at the weather prospects. He was not underrating the risks that would come with an attempt to work from the inside out; but he was ignoring them so far as any surface indication was concerned. From the scout he was determined to make, he had every hope of getting the needed direct evidence; at least, he would determine what was "richer than gold" that had led Bart Caswell to tempt fate once too often.
"You'll never get past the gate!" Moira cried in despair and possibly some disappointment that he had taken her own arrival so placidly. "Bonnemort himself has taken charge of the guard there. He was there yesterday morning and yelled to Ruth: 'Tell your friend a uniform makes a fine target!' It was that renewed threat that sent her toward town with her too-late warning. This morning, since you had been delayed, I went over to the creek. He was there, but kept silent—even when I called him a murderer. I tell you, Sergeant Scarlet, darling, the cañon is closed!"
Seymour smiled his appreciation of the care she was showing in his behalf. So she had dared call Bonnemort a murderer to his face! The wonder was she hadn't drawn a bullet for herself instead of silence.
"I'm figuring on coming out through the cañon, Moira dear—sort of unlatching the gate from the inside. There must be another way in." Seymour's tone was confident, although the other way of which he spoke was yet to be found.
"There is another way in!"
This welcome declaration boomed upon their ears from the old missionary at his desk under the window. Evidently he had not been so absorbed in his Biblical translation as they had thought him. Now he pushed back his chair and crossed to the fireplace.
"I discovered this other way while exploring the spur last spring, just before this curse of gold fell upon us," he explained. "Had I known what Bart was up to, I'd have shown him this secret way. I did not actually enter the gulch by it, not trusting muscles that are getting ragged with age, but you can, brother, if your head is level, your fingers and toes strong."
"Score one for the sky-pilot of Argonaut!" cried his daughter, throwing her arms around his neck and patting him on the back. "Since they've smitten us on every cheek we possess, it's high time we smote them back."