“But he’s passed a big pouch of dust into the bank. We’re wise to that. Where does he work that stuff?” The man paused again. Then a sound came from behind his mask. It was a funereal sort of laugh. “I ain’t wise. But I went through with the job as it was ordered. This guy has been seen chasing around the coast at the mouth of his river. We came right down the length of that river with our eyes wide open for any blamed sign.” He shook his cowled head. “He’s got no workings anywhere along that river. But we found something. Oh, yes. We surely did. It’s a tough coast, and hard to chase up right. There’s a thousand holes an’ corners for a cache an’ that sort of truck. Anyway we located a sort of creek that was hidden all up. It was rocks and overgrowth so we mostly had a hell of a time making our way in. But we got through. And, cached right away up it, cached so as only chance could locate it, we hit on a swell motor boat fit to make a sea trip in tough weather. Yes, we located that, and located something else. She was in elegant shape, and we searched her clear through even to her gasoline tanks. And in one of her lockers we found two bags, canvas bags such as I knew as soon as I set eyes on ’em. They were empty. I turned ’em inside out. There was the remains of dust in ’em caught up in the seams, an’ I made a collection of it. Sir,” he went on, addressing himself directly to the tall figure of the Chief Light, “that’s my report, and I wait for instructions. Ther’s a few bits o’ details I ain’t spoken on that I ken hand you when you got time to go into them. Maybe they signify some. I don’t rightly know. Meanwhile, that’s the report I got to hand to this Council.”
The Chief Light nodded.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll take those details later. Meanwhile, you don’t figger this Cy Liskard is on a strike on his claim?”
Number Three shook his head promptly.
“I don’t say all that, Chief,” he said quickly. “The thing I say is the claim he’s got staked around his home place is sheer bluff. Maybe he’s blinding us. Maybe his claim lies elsewhere. That being so it’ll likely take months locating it.”
At a sign from the Chief Light, full discussion on the report of Number Three broke out. It was dealt with exhaustively. Then the meeting passed on to such other business as claimed it.
Alan Goodchurch was typical of officialdom, but possessing a leavening of real human interest in the life of which he was in official control. In Beacon Glory his prestige stood reasonably high, but simply because of that leavening. In his official capacity as Commissioner of the district and chief collector of revenues for the government he represented, there was no particular goodwill displayed towards him. But then Beacon Glory had no sort of use whatsoever for an authority that had its origin so far away that it required something in the nature of an astronomical telescope to discover its existence. As a man it was wholly different. He was a cheery creature outside his office, alive with kindly sympathy for the difficulties and troubles besetting his fellow-townsmen and really eager for the steady progress and prosperity of the heterogeneous collection of life it was his lot to endeavour to shepherd in its duty towards its Government.
He was a youngish man for his post. But then it was well enough recognised that in this especial locality his was a youngish man’s work. Beacon Glory needed a strong official hand and a strong official mind, and Goodchurch possessed these things arrayed in a tall muscular frame and a large, lean face with pronouncedly square jaws.
Ivor McLagan was on reasonably intimate terms with Goodchurch. It was his business to be so, for whatever the general attitude of the men of Beacon Glory towards their Commissioner, the oil man’s business demanded official goodwill.