"There's no woman in this man's case," he whispered, and motioned for silence.
Phil Brewster walked into the tent a moment later, and Seymour realized it was the first time he had seen him on foot. The affable freighter stepped with a limp.
"What you sitting there for, you big boob?" Brewster put his question to Karmack before glancing about the tent.
"Thinking it over, perhaps." From a point back of Brewster, where he had stood unnoticed, Seymour broke in before the pretender could speak for himself.
Brewster whirled, and with the move his gun appeared from handy concealment. But the sergeant had expected some such desperate act and was ready. His left hand caught the freighter's right at the wrist and swung it upward. Brewster's bullet let a look of blue sky through the canvas roof, while the muzzle of the Mountie's revolver prodded the ribs of his suspect. The freighter saw fit to obey a command to drop his weapon.
"Sorry I haven't more bracelets with me," Seymour said. "Moira, if you'll look under the clothes rack, where I found that boot just now, you'll find a length of rope."
"What's all this about, you high-binder?" Brewster demanded.
"You remind me—I neglected to introduce myself when we met yesterday and the day before. Karmack, there, might tell you that I call myself Seymour, sergeant of the Royal Mounted."
"But he's dead!" blurted out Brewster.
"Not that he knows of," Seymour assured him quietly; "but you have a very good reason for thinking so. Now, if you'll oblige by putting your hands behind you—"