Near this shack stood the temporary post office which divided a store room with the records of the mining recorder. The First Bank of Gold occupied a tent with a wooden floor. For the reassurance of customers and for the information of all, this tent wore a banner on which was painted: "Our palatial permanent home is under construction across the street." Glancing in that direction, the stranger saw a structure of corrugated iron, awaiting a roof.
Gold, at this season of the year, was a night town, so the streets had been practically deserted as the small procession entered. Even though most of the population was at work up the creeks, there was something of an outpouring into King Street as the news of the shooting spread.
Some fifty men and a scattering of women gathered to mill about the freight wagon soon after the oxen were halted before Hardley's shack. From the vantage of his saddle seat, Seymour studied their faces as they received the news, but caught no trace of any emotion that interested him. All seemed genuinely shocked; none, too deeply moved. He heard many express regret over such a drastic blow at the law. If any rejoiced, they did so secretly.
Deputy Hardley consulted with important citizens, identified for Seymour by the one nearest his stirrup as the bank manager, the camp doctor, and the principal realtor. Presently the deputy shrilled an announcement that in his capacity of coroner he would swear a jury and hold an inquest at one o'clock in the uncompleted bank building.
The freight wagon, its somber burden covered with tarpaulin, was drawn to a position at the rear of the unfinished structure, which was open where workmen were laying a heavy flooring for a vault. The townsmen, their curiosity satisfied, began to disperse about their mundane affairs.
In turning Kaw to be about his own, Seymour came face to face with Ruth Duperow, who evidently had just reached town and at speed, for her mount was puffing. The color of excitement was high in the girl's cheeks. But no hint that she ever had seen him before came from the young woman who, within the hour, had been so solicitous of his welfare as to try to keep him from entering the brush in search of the murderer. Her eyes did not avoid his; they simply did not know him.
Having administered this puzzling cut direct, she focused on the gallant figure of Brewster who rode alongside her, his handsome face alight with undoubted admiration.
"What has happened?" Seymour heard her ask.
"Your dashing sergeant-of-staff has been murdered." Brewster's reply was fittingly low.
The girl's eyes flashed angrily. "Terrible! I must say you don't seem greatly distressed, Mr. Brewster, and I'll thank you not to connect me with the poor brave man by saying my sergeant."