CHAPTER XXXI

MCCOPPET BUSIES HIS MIND

Unfortunately for Bostwick he knew no ruffians in the camp—­none of the Trimmers who would, perhaps, accept a sum of money to waylay a man, bash him over the head, and filch required letters from his pocket.  He was not precisely willing, moreover, to broach such an undertaking to the gambler.  This, after all, was his private affair, to be shared with no one he knew.

The man had arrived at the truth concerning the letters with commendable skill in deduction.  He had himself destroyed Beth’s earlier letter to her brother, for reasons of policy.  He had found her conduct cold, if not suspicious, this morning.  How far she had been excited to distrust himself or the mails he could not estimate.  He was certain, however, she had sent a request to Van Buren to carry a letter to Glen.

Her reasons for taking precautions so extraordinary were undoubtedly significant.  He was galled; his anger against Van Buren was consuming.  But first and foremost he must block the harm Beth’s letter to her brother might accomplish.  For two days more young Kent and Beth must remain in ignorance of what was being done through the use of her money—­of the fact that no mine of Glen’s discovery was the object of the scheme he was working, and that none of his own alleged money was being employed in the game.

He made up his mind to go to Starlight himself—­to be on hand when Van Buren should arrive.  With Glenmore ill, or injured, in his bed, the case might offer simple handling, Further neglect of Glenmore might, indeed, be fatal, at a juncture so delicate.  From every possible viewpoint the thing to do was to intercept Van Buren.

He found McCoppet just returned from launching Lawrence forth upon his work.  Three of the gambler’s chosen men had accompanied the Government’s surveyor.  They had taken Bostwick’s car.  Instructions had been simple enough.  Push over the reservation line to cover the “Laughing Water” claim, by night of the following day.

Searle was taken to the private den.  McCoppet imparted his information with the utmost brevity.

“Nothing for us to do but to wait till six o’clock, day after to-morrow morning,” he concluded, “then play our cards—­and play ’em quick.”

“You’ve taken my car?” said Bostwick, whose personal plans were thrown into utter confusion, for the moment.  “I wanted that car for my own use.  I’ve got to go to Starlight to-morrow.”

“Sit down,” said McCoppet, throwing away his unsmoked cigar and taking another from his pocket.  “What’s going on at Starlight?”

Bostwick had no intention of divulging his personal affairs, but there was something in this that trenched upon “company” concerns.

“Van Buren’s going over there, to see young Kent,” he admitted.  “I’ve got to see him first.”