Part 3 (1/2)

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 workmans.h.i.+p. 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 horsemans.h.i.+p,” 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.