“‘No. 3’ has a report for the Council,” he said, in that curious hollow tone which his masking hood gave to his voice. “We’ll take his report next.”
He paused for an instant while the eyes behind his mask surveyed his supporters. Then he went on in the quiet business-like fashion which marked his conduct of affairs at all times.
“There is need for explanation,” he said. “‘Number Three’ was delegated to certain work at a meeting of the Supreme Executive which met in emergency awhile back. Many of this Council were not present at the time. You need to get it that his work was of more than usual importance to the general community. Maybe you’ll all likely remember there was a tough guy called Cy Liskard who blew into the Speedway on the night of Max’s celebration, and raised particular sort of hell there. ‘Number Three’s’ report concerns this man. This man Cy Liskard is reputed to have made a big strike of gold way back on the Lias River. And, anyway, he’s sold big dust at the bank and holds a credit there. It’s reckoned he’s hugging this strike to his bosom and we’ve made it our special business to see, if it’s right, that the field outside his claim is made available to the folks of our city.”
There was a slight but definite movement amongst the Chief Light’s audience. Those who were sitting turned in the direction of ‘Number Three.’ Those who were standing gazed round on the sturdy figure expectantly.
“We’ll take Number Three’s report.”
The Chief Light leant back against his furnace support prepared to listen with the rest.
“Number Three” plunged at once into his story. He began formally, but quickly drifted into the vernacular common to them all.
“By the will of the Supreme Executive I set out to investigate under the orders received. Six Clansmen accompanied me. It was a darn big trip, an’ we were chasing a wily guy an’ a pretty bright trailman. I was lucky in having ‘Number Twenty-Six’ with me, who’s wise to the country of the Lias River. Well, I don’t guess to worry you folks with the details of that trip. We made it all right, all right. We tracked our man right up to his home in the hills. He was there, an’ we doped him and his dogs quiet so we could work easy. And a pretty fancy hiding hole he’s got. It lies well nigh back on the Canadian Border.”
“Number Three” paused. And a shuffling of feet and the clearing of throats indicated the deepening interest of his audience.
“Say, it’s queer,” the sturdy figure went on reflectively. “He’s got a claim there all right. He’s got a swell sluice on a creek, and a big dump of stuff piled around it. He’s got a shanty on the hillside, and corrals for his ponies. He’s got a bunch of trail dogs to carry him anywhere on a winter trail. Then he’s got a swell canoe, and all the gear of the goldman. But—” He broke off and, as he gazed round on his audience, it was almost as if he were smiling behind his mask. “—we couldn’t see he’d washed an ounce of dust since ever he set up his sluice. I want to tell you right here, folks, if there’s a thing I’m a’mighty wise to in this darn country it’s washing the yellow stuff I’ve been chasing twenty years. There’s no guy on the Lias River can put me wise to any notion I haven’t got. Well, I tell you right now that boy hasn’t washed out any gold on that claim ever since it was staked. He’s set it all out. It ’ud look good to a bum tenderfoot. Maybe, even, some of you boys ’ud fall for his show down. But he can’t bluff me a thing. That claim, and all his fancy gear, is a mighty big bluff. That’s all. He hain’t worked fi’ cents of gold—there.