With his astonishing declaration of the real richer-than-gold wealth of the Glacier Greek placers, Seymour turned to Brewster for confirmation. "What is the current quotation on platinum?" he asked.
But the freighter no longer was affable. "I'm no bureau of information," he growled.
"Try me," offered Karmack with a return of his old-time effrontery. "Dear eyes, at the present time that platinum is worth a hundred and fifteen simoleons an ounce—was up to a hundred and seventy during the war!"
"And the purest gold brings a trifle over twenty dollars," the sergeant reminded the girl. "You see I was nearly exact."
With a quick glance, as if the presence of such a store of wealth frightened her, Moira lowered the lid.
"Then the Glacier Mission Indians are——" she hesitated.
"Rich—for them," he supplied. "What's more the O'Malley claims between the cañon mouth and the Cheena are heavier with frog-gold than those up the creek, or I don't know my mineralogy. You and your father and Miss Ruth will be near-millionaires."
Seymour would not have cared to explain the worried look that came unbidden into his eyes, had he been taxed with it. Complications foreseen were responsible.
He improvised a flimsy fastening to replace the lock he had broken, and pinned over the chest crack a sheet of paper on which he had written "Officially Sealed, R. Seymour, Sergeant, R.C.M.P." Then he made a young Siwash, picked by Moira, vain for life by swearing him in as a special constable and placing him on guard at the tent door. His instructions were to permit no one to pass until Seymour returned, and he was entrusted with Brewster's gun to support his authority.
Inspection showed that the Siwashes had gone back to work under "king's orders." Seymour had no thought of telling them how rich they were making themselves, until their status was fixed by the proper court. Meantime they'd be best off, continuing their labor, for "all the gold" allotted them by the spoilers.