Silk closed his fingers over the haft.

"Ever seen anything like it before!" he inquired.

Dan shook his head.

"Never."

"Neither have I," said the sergeant. "At least, not in Canada. It's the sort of thing you might come across in a museum. I'd say it was of Moorish workmanship. Dare say some Bedouin Arab once carried it in his waist-belt, riding across the desert, as we ride across the plains with our revolvers."

"You're going to keep it as a curiosity, I suppose?" Dan surmised.

"Where did you pick it up? Buy it? Have it given you?"

"Found it," returned the soldier policeman, puffing slowly at his pipe.

"Found it 'way back in the forest. What I'm trying to figure out is the problem of who left it there, yesterday, see?"

"Yesterday?" repeated Dan, in wonder at this precision as to time.

"Yes. You see, there's no rust on it. It's too clean and bright to have been there more than a few hours. Besides----"

"Those red stains on the cloth wrappings----" Dan interrupted. "What are they?"

Silk glanced behind him through the open window of the room, where Maple Leaf, the kitchen girl, was clearing the supper table. Maple Leaf was an Indian, and she had sharp ears. He lowered his voice as he resumed in response to his companion's inquiry--

"Not much need to ask what they are. Of course, they're blood. You see, I found the dagger sticking in the trunk of a soft maple tree. The long blade had been driven clean through a man's chest, between the ribs, pinning him against the tree. Who killed him, and why, I have yet to find out. One sure thing is that, whoever it was, he hated his victim so badly, so vindictively, that he wanted him to stay there where he was, fastened with his back against the tree, while the knife should hold him."

"Who was the victim--the dead man?" Dan asked abruptly. "You knew him?"

Silk nodded. There were not many inhabitants of the province of Alberta whom he did not know, at least by sight.

"Oh, yes!" he responded. "It was a French half-breed, Henri Jolicoeur, of Hilton's Jump--the same who won the cup at Regina races last spring, beating Flying Feather, the Iroquois Indian."

Dan Medlicott looked up sharply.

"Those two have always been rivals in horsemanship," he reminded the sergeant. "I shouldn't wonder a bit if it was that same Indian who killed poor Henri, out of revenge."

Sergeant Silk shook his head.

"It wasn't an Indian who did it," he decided. "No Indian would have left so valuable a weapon behind. An Indian would have robbed his victim of everything that was worth stealing, and would probably have taken his scalp. He would almost certainly have appropriated the poor chap's horse. No; it wasn't an Indian."

Dan Medlicott then asked--

"Would a white man--a Canadian--have been any more likely to leave the dagger behind as evidence against himself?"

"I don't feel sure that a white man would use such a weapon in any case," returned Silk. "He'd be much more likely to use his revolver, openly. But, even allowing that the criminal may have been a white Canadian, the dagger may not have been his own. It may have been the property of some one else, who had nothing to do with this crime, and his leaving it behind would provide a convenient false clue, drawing suspicion away from himself."

"Yes, I see," admitted Dan. And, after a pause, he added: "I expect they had a struggle--a fight--back there in the forest?"

"No. There was no struggle," Silk argued. "It was done stealthily, suddenly."

Dan Medlicott did not ask for an explanation of this theory; but he waited, knowing that one would come.

"I've figured it out this way," the sergeant presently resumed. "The two men met each other on the forest trail and decided to make camp together. They hobbled their ponies, and went on foot in among the trees to fix up their camping place. They made a fire beside a stream, boiled some water, and made tea. I saw the ashes of their fire, the tea leaves, and some bacon rind. I found a crust of bread, with teeth marks on it.

They were very even teeth; not the teeth of Henri Jolicoeur, which were crooked and broken."

"They seem to have been friendly enough, anyway," remarked Dan, "eating together and meaning to camp together."

"Yes," acknowledged the sergeant, "but, at the same time, there was treachery in the mind of one of them. When they had finished eating they went aside from the fire and sat together on a bank under the maple tree, where they remained for a long time, smoking cigarettes. Henri never suspected what was coming. But the other knew. He was nervous, very nervous."

"Eh?" interrupted Dan Medlicott. "Nervous? How on earth did you make such a discovery as that?"

Silk took his pipe from his mouth and knocked out the tobacco ash on the rail of the verandah.

"Well," he answered. "For one thing, it was shown by the fact that, having spoilt a cigarette paper, he tore it up into little bits. For another thing, he used quite a heap of matches to keep his cigarettes alight, and he chewed the ends of his cigarettes to tatters. He was restless, too, always moving, cutting the dry gra.s.s and ferns with his spurs, and digging his heels into the parched ground. They were high heels, like those of a cowboy's boots."

"An Indian would have worn moccasins, and no spurs," said Dan.

"Why, cert'nly," a.s.sented his companion. "It's clear he wasn't an Indian. I'm inclined to think he was a half-breed, the same as Henri himself. Still, I'm puzzled."

"I don't wonder," nodded Dan. "You don't seem to have got any clue that's of much value, except the weapon. What has become of Henri's horse? It wasn't stolen, you say."

"No. The fellow was too cunning to risk being discovered in possession of his victim's broncho. He left it hobbled in the forest, where I found it. It's there now, in charge of one of my men--Trooper Collins."

Silk had wrapped the dagger in its windings of dirty cloth, and now he thrust it back under the cover of his tunic.

"Will you do me a favour, Dannie?" he asked, as he went down the steps.

"I'll do anything you wish," returned Dan, accompanying him along the garden path. "What do you want me to do?"

"To ride to Hilton's Jump to-night," said Silk, "and break the news to Marie Jolicoeur about what has happened to her son. And perhaps while you are there in the half-breeds' village you might be able to discover who were Henri's enemies. I can trust you to be discreet."

Dan said nothing of this affair to Percy Rapson, leaving Percy to guess what he liked concerning his reason for going out on horseback after Silk had said good-night and ridden off alone along the trail.

On the next morning Sergeant Silk was back again at Rattlesnake Ranch, on the same chestnut mare. He had had no sleep, but if he was fatigued the fact was not betrayed in his appearance, for his eyes were as brightly alert as always. He had shaved. His dark moustache had its usual curl, and his brown canvas uniform--even to the shine on his long boots and the gleam of newly-polished bra.s.s in b.u.t.tons and cartridges--was as tidy as if he were going on parade.

Dan Medlicott met him as he approached the homestead.

"I see you did not fail to go to Hilton's Jump last night," the sergeant smiled.

Dan looked at him queerly.

"How do you know?" he asked.

Silk glanced down at the feet of Dan's pony.

"By the mud on your broncho's fetlocks," he answered. "You took the short cut by the edge of the marsh, and you didn't give yourself time to groom your plug this morning. Well, have you any news? Did you see Marie Jolicoeur?"

"Yes. She was in an awful state about it. Henri was her only support.

Of course, she wanted to know everything, and I told her as much as I could. When I spoke about the dagger and described it, she screamed and rushed excitedly to a corner cupboard and flung it open and brought out an old leather scabbard, which she dropped on the table. It was empty, but I saw in a moment that it was ornamented with the same sort of silver bands as those on the handle of the dagger you showed me."