Yes. Beacon must be his first objective. It would be easy enough. At the bank he was just an ordinary customer. There was, there could be no doubt about his credit there. He was wholly unknown except as a gold man from the hills. There was nothing against him except for the sentence of that absurd bunch who called themselves the Aurora Clan. They were powerless to interfere—— He stirred uneasily.
No. He would give them no chance. He would give no one any chance. He would descend upon the bank at the busiest time of the day, and be gone with his cash before a soul was wise to his presence in the city. Then——
He dismissed Beacon from his mind and his thought was caught and held where a wrecked ship that was lying on the rocks at the mouth of the Alsek River. And curiously enough the mental vision of it robbed him of something of the even train of his urgent thought. A queer feeling took hold of him in the pit of the stomach. It came of a sudden, and he stirred uneasily, and strove to moisten his lips with a tongue that had somehow become almost dry.
The stare of his dead eyes displayed nothing of his emotion. They looked and looked squarely at the lateral logs of the wall in front of him. Even the flutter of the torn cotton which covered the window directly above where he was gazing drew not a vestige of his attention. And it was not until the loose cotton ripped with a screaming tear that his gaze came back to the things about him. He looked up with a start to find himself gazing into the ominous ring of the muzzle of a heavy gun. It was thrust through the aperture of the windows where the cotton had been torn away.
“Sit right there, Julian Caspar. Don’t move a little bit. Not a finger, boy, or you’re as dead as Jim Carver you murdered for his gold.”
It was spoken quietly, almost gently, in a voice whose tones startled the man on his blankets and left him utterly unmoving. His queer eyes were fixed on the dark face peering in at him through the aperture of the window from behind the threatening gun.
But the whole position underwent a change on the instant. The door was flung open and Ivor McLagan thrust his way in.
“Up with those hands, Caspar!” he cried roughly. And his own levelled gun enforced the sharp order. “Right up—this time. That’s better. You didn’t do it right at the Speedway. You’re learning manners. No. Keep ’em up. Len Stern’s here and is yearning to sift his hands through your pockets. Get busy, Len. I’ll watch his monkey tricks.”
The man on the blankets gave no sign, and his eyes helped the illusion of submission. His hands were thrust above his head while he watched the man he hated most in the world. But Ivor bulked large and fiercely threatening behind the deadly automatic he was gripping. And the other had reason enough to know there was no play-game where McLagan was concerned.
In less than a minute the work was completed. Len Stern, relieved of his hold-up through the window, came to his task on the run. The man was deprived of his gun and a pocket full of cartridge clips. The rifle leaning against the wall was unloaded and put out of harm’s way. And furthermore, a long, razor-like sheath knife was transferred to the keeping of the man from Australia.