Seymour waited for Moira to speak. When she came toward him her face wore the bravest smile he had ever seen on a woman.
"What next, pardner?" she asked whimsically.
"The first step," he told her, "is to rig up some sort of an M.P. seal for that treasure chest I broke open."
Without ceremony, the sergeant lifted Karmack to his feet and ushered him to the left-hand cot. From that seat, the disfigured ne'er-do-well might glare more conveniently at Brewster.
"But that chest holds only frog-gold," Moira reminded Seymour. "The Siwashes have all the real gold, and it belongs to them."
"You don't really think that a close and crooked corporation like Brewster, Kluger and Karmack would supply food, dynamite and expert management for a bunch of Indians only to take their pay in pretty specimens, do you, Moira?"
She studied the proposition from the new angle which his question presented. "It doesn't seem reasonable, but——"
"It isn't reasonable," he interposed, raising the lid of the chest that she might feast her eyes upon its heaping gray store. "This frog-gold, as your father calls it, happens to be platinum—worth six times its weight in gold."