Exercising the utmost caution, he worked his way eastward until he crouched opposite an exaggerated "ant hill" of activity, undoubtedly the scene of major operations. There were three sluices here, near a bench that had been shattered by a recent explosion. No crew of white miners could have shown greater industry or fewer lost motions than the natives at work there. And as below, he saw no sign of a white oppressor.
Then, from a tent near the Indian encampment, there emerged a brawny man who answered the O'Malleys' description of Bonnemort, he who nearly had done for Bart. Six feet two or three and built from the soles up, he stood looking over the busy scene.
In a flash, Seymour recognized the red-headed man who had insisted on sending wine to the young Mounties in that Montreal cabaret. Something of a change of scene, this; but not so surprising in Canada—land of far-flung opportunities.
The sergeant surmised this to be the alleged breed's first appearance of the morning. Confirmation came with the appearance of a young squaw bearing a tray of breakfast which she spread on a rough table before the tent. Indeed, this breed must have a "way" with the Siwashes, thought the sergeant, to command from them such competent service. From his reserved seat in the brush, he envied him the cup of steaming coffee and, later, the cigar which the autocrat of the wild lighted. This last was particularly tantalizing to one whose pipe must perforce remain cold.
Presently came a small man on horseback, all-white, puttee-clad, and, on reasonable supposition, one Kluger by name. Dismounted, the new arrival, reputed to be the "brains of the outfit," did not come to his partner's shoulder; but from the rapidity of his movements, Seymour judged that his small frame concealed a dynamo of energy. The two conferred a moment, then started toward the sluice box.
Peering from behind the bushes, Seymour felt as though he were watching some well-lighted motion picture. He saw Bonnemort call a couple of Siwashes to them; but no word of their conversations reached him.
For an hour he watched them as they directed the morning clean-up of the treasure gathered on the riffles—cross cleats of wood on the bottom of the sluice troughs—from the pay dirt washed the previous day. One departure from the regular placer practice stood out. The gleaners carried two sacks, one twice the size of the other. At every riffle, contributions were made to each.
If this was a division of the yield between the managing sharpers and working owners, it seemed unnecessarily clumsy. Why did it need to be done on the dump in such piecemeal fashion? Both parties to the proceeding seemed satisfied, however. There was no haggling, not even discussion over the division, if such it really was.
In the end, the two whites, between them, carried the larger and heavier sack to Bonnemort's tent, while the two Indians who had made the cleaning carried off the smaller bag to one of their wickiups.
After spending several minutes within the tent, behind closed flaps, the partners came out and started down-stream, Bonnemort walking with long strides beside the mounted Kluger. To the sergeant, the supposition seemed reasonable that they were bound for a clean-up at the lower diggings and that, for a time, the upper creek would be free of whites. He decided upon a bold stroke, the success of which would depend upon how far the Siwashes had been taken into confidence.