"Stop your noise, Cato!" shrilled the deputy. "There was a perfectly good reason for my being first on the scene. I saw the sergeant ride past my shack all uniformed-up and looking as if he meant business!"
"More'n you'd know how to look," goaded Cato, playfully prodding the deputy with one of his inordinately long arms.
"Want me to bash you up?" Hardley demanded, irritated; then went on with his explanation. "For reasons best known to himself and beyond my ken, now never to be disclosed to mortal understanding, Seymour hadn't been taking me into his confidence either before or after uncovering himself. It wasn't good policemanship on his part, I'll say, but I'm big enough of a man——"
Cato's crackling laughter interrupted. "Big enough, I'll say—but of a man?" he burst out.
"Anyway, I figgered I knew the breed of wolves up the creek better than he did and that he might need help. You know Sam Hardley's gun is always ready. So I saddled up old Loafer there and took out after him, prepared to lend a hand to law and order as was my sworn duty."
There was further exchange among the Goldites—theories regarding the new crime, gratuitous advice for the fat deputy, speculation regarding its effect on the outside reputation of the camp. Glad that interest had shifted from himself, Seymour listened subconsciously.
Suddenly his attention was claimed by a decoration which had not been on the uniform when he had at first scrutinized it. Into the breast opening of the serge coat was tucked a spray of snow flowers.
"Her last tribute," his thoughts whispered. "And an ill-considered one if she has any reason for not wanting her little world to know that she first discovered the crime."
It was unlikely that the imposter had been anywhere that morning where he could pluck flowers which Seymour knew to grow only in the deeper gulches where the packed snow of winter resisted the thaws of spring to the last. The wearing of the nosegay was so out of keeping with the character that Bart had assumed as to attract attention. The sergeant wondered that the men arguing behind him had not already noticed and questioned its presence.
Kneeling ostensibly to tie a bootlace, he rectified the girl's mistake by plucking forth the flowers and tucking them into an inside pocket of his coat. The others, although approaching, evidently had not noticed this deft appropriation. Ruth Duperow's connection with the tragedy was her secret unless later she wished to take the camp into her confidence.