CHAPTER II—THE TOAST

THREE-ACE ARTIE, sprawled comfortably cally at the book he held in his hand, a copy of Hugo’s Claude Gueux in French, tossed it to the foot of the bunk, and sat up, dangling his legs over the edge.

A mood that had long been a stranger to him, a mellow mood, as he had defined it to himself, had kept him away from MacDonald’s that night. It was the glow of self-benediction, as it were, ever since he had left the boy’s room that afternoon, though it had puzzled him to some extent to explain its effect upon himself—that, for instance, the corollary should take the form of a quiet evening, a pipe, and Hugo.

He shrugged his shoulders. It had been so nevertheless. His shoulders lifted again—it was decidedly an incongruous proceeding for one known as Three-Ace Artie!

His thoughts reverted to the Kid. No one had come to the shack since he had returned from the hotel, but he knew the Kid had left the camp, for he had watched from the shack window as Bixley and the boy had passed down the street together. The Kid would not play the fool again for a while, that was certain—whatever he did eventually.

Three-Ace Artie stared introspectively at the lamp, out at full length upon his bunk, yawned, and looked at his watch. It was already after midnight. He glanced a little quizzically.

Kid, of course! He had been conscious of an inward flame for a moment—then for the third time shrugged his shoulders.

“I guess I’ll turn in,” he muttered.

He bent down to untie a shoe lace—and straightened up quickly again. A footstep sounded from without, there was a knock upon the door, the door opened—and with the inrush of air the lamp flared up. Three-Ace Artie reached out swiftly to the top of the chimney, protecting the flame with the flat of his hand, and, as the door closed again, stared with cool surprise at his visitor. The last time he had seen Sergeant Marden, of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, had been the year before at Two-Strike-Mountain, where each had followed a gold rush—for quite different reasons!

“Hello, sergeant!” he drawled. “I didn’t know you were in camp.”

“Just got in around supper-time,” replied the other. “I’ve been up on the Creek for the last few weeks.”

Three-Ace Artie smiled facetiously.

“Any luck?” he inquired.

“I got my man,” said the sergeant quietly.

“Of course!” murmured Three-Ace Artie softly. “You’ve got a reputation for doing that, sergeant.” He laughed pleasantly. “But you haven’t dropped in on me officially, have you?”

Sergeant Marden, big, thick-set, with a strong, kindly face, with gray eyes that lighted now in a gravely humorous way shook his head.

“No,” he answered. “I’m playing the ‘old friend’ rôle to-night.”

“Good!” exclaimed Three-Ace Artie heartily. “Peel off your duds then, and—will you have the bunk, or the chair? Take your choice—only make yourself at home.” He stepped over to the cupboard, and, while the sergeant pulled off his cap and mitts, and unbuttoned and threw back his overcoat, Three-Ace Artie procured a bottle of whisky and two glasses, which he set upon the table. “Help yourself, sergeant,” he invited cordially.

The sergeant shook his head again, as he drew the chair toward him and sat down.

“I don’t think I’ll take anything to-night,” he said.

“No?"—Three-Ace Artie’s voice expressed the polite regret of a perfect host. “Well, fill your pipe then,” he suggested hospitably, as he seated himself on the edge of the bunk. He began to fill his own pipe deliberately, apparently wholly preoccupied for the moment with that homely operation—but his mind was leaping in lightning flashes back over the range of the four years that he had spent in the Yukon. What exactly did Sergeant Marden of the Royal North-West Mounted want with him to-night? He had known the other for a good while, it was true—but not in a fashion to warrant the sergeant in making a haphazard social call at midnight after what must have been a long, hard day on the trail.

A match, drawn with a long sweep under the table, crackled; Sergeant Marden lighted his pipe, and flipped the match-stub stovewards.

“It looks as though Canuck John wouldn’t pull through the night,” he said gravely.

“Canuck John!” Three-Ace Artie sat up with a jerk, and glanced sharply at the other. “What’s that you say?”

Sergeant Marden removed his pipe slowly from his lips.

“Why, you know, don’t you?” he asked in surprise.

“No, I don’t know!” returned Three-Ace Artie quickly. “I haven’t been out of this shack since late this afternoon; but I saw him this morning, and he was all right then. What’s happened?”

“He shot himself just after supper—accident, of course—old story, cleaning a gun,” said the sergeant tersely.

“Good God!” cried Three-Ace Artie, in a low, shocked way—and then he was on his feet, and reaching for his cap and coat. “I’ll go up there and see him. You don’t mind, sergeant, if I leave you here? I guess I knew Canuck John better than any one else in camp did, and—” His coat half on, he paused suddenly, his brows gathering in a frown. “After supper, you said!” he muttered slowly. “Why, that’s hours ago!” Then, his voice rasping: “It’s damned queer no one came to tell me about this! There’s something wrong here!” He struggled into his coat.

“He’s been unconscious ever since they found him,” said Sergeant Marden, his eyes fixed on the bowl of his pipe as he prodded the dottle down with his forefinger. “The doctor’s just come. You couldn’t do any good by going up there, and"—his eyes lifted and met Three-Ace Artie’s meaningly—"take it all around, I guess it would be just as well if you didn’t go. Murdock Shaw and some of the boys are there, and—well, they seem to feel they don’t want you.”

For a moment Three-Ace Artie stood motionless, regarding the other in a half angry, half puzzled way; then, his weight on both hands, he leaned forward over the table toward Sergeant Marden.

“In plain English, and in as few words as you can put it, what in hell do you mean by that?” he demanded levelly.

“All right, if you want it that way, I’ll tell you,” said Sergeant Marden quietly. “I guess perhaps the short cut’s best. They’ve given you until to-morrow morning to get out of Ton-Nugget Camp.”

“I beg your pardon?” inquired Three-Ace Artie with ominous politeness.

Sergeant Marden produced a poke partially filled with gold dust and laid it on the table.

“What’s that?"—Three-Ace Artie’s eyes were hard.

“It’s the price you paid Sam MacBride for this shack and contents when he went away. The boys say they want to play fair.”

And then Three-Ace Artie laughed—not pleasantly. Methodically he removed his overcoat, hung it on its peg, and sat down again on the edge of the bunk.

“Let’s see the rest of your hand, sergeant"—his voice was deadly quiet. “I don’t quite get the idea.”

“I wasn’t here myself this afternoon,” said Sergeant Marden; “but they seem to feel that the sort of thing that happened kind of gives the community a bad name, and that separating a youngster, when he’s drunk, from his last dollar is a bit too raw even for Ton-Nugget Camp. That’s about the size of the way it was put up to me.”

It seemed to Three-Act Artie that in some way he had not quite heard aright; or that, if he had, he was being made the object of some, unknown to its authors, stupendously ironical joke—and then, as he glanced at the officer’s grim, though not altogether unfriendly countenance, and from Sergeant Marden to the bag of gold upon the table, a bitter, furious anger surged upon him. His clenched fist reached out and fell smashing upon the table.

“So that’s it, is it!” he said between his teeth. “This is some of Murdock Shaw’s work—the snivelling, psalm-singing hypocrite! Well, he can’t get away with it! I’ve a few friends in camp myself.”

“Fairweather friends, I should say,” qualified the sergeant, busy again with his pipe bowl. “You said yourself that no one had been near the shack here. The camp appears to be pretty well of one mind on the subject.”

“Including the half dozen or more who started after the Kid to begin with!"—Three-Ace Artie’s laugh was savage, full of menace. “Are they helping to run me out of camp, too!”

“You seem to have got a little of everybody’s money,” suggested Sergeant Marden pointedly. “Anyway, I haven’t seen any sign of...