Part 41 (1/2)

”He sat down here, for some time, did he not?” Alex was pointing to a depression in the earth well under the car, between two ties, and to the marks of bootheels. The superintendent went to his knees and closely examined the impressions left by the heels.

”Good! Look here,” he said with satisfaction. ”The marks of spurs! Our 'tramp' was a horseman.”

Alex turned to look about. ”Where would he have kept his horse?”

Superintendent Finnan led the way beyond the cars into the open. A mile distant, and hidden from the boarding-train by the cars on the sidings, was a depression in the prairie bordered with low scrub. ”We'll have a look there,” he said.

Some minutes later they stood in the bottom of the miniature valley, beside the unmistakably fresh hoofprints of a hobbled pony.

The official was grimly silent as they retraced their steps toward the construction-train. They had almost reached it when Alex, who had been examining the fragments of burned shavings, broke the silence. ”Mr.

Finnan, let me see the bit of shaving we found by the rear car, please.”

There was a touch of excitement in Alex's voice, and the superintendent halted.

”What is it?” he asked as he produced the whittling.

Alex glanced at it, and smiling, placed it beside two of the charred fragments in his hand. ”Look at these little ridges, sir! The same knife whittled them all. The blade had two small nicks in it.

”All we have to do now, sir, is to find the owner of the knife!”

”A bright idea, Ward! Splendid!” exclaimed the superintendent heartily.

”But,” he added as they moved on, ”how are we going to find him? We can't very well round up the whole Dog Rib country, and hold a jack-knife inspection.”

They came within sight of the bleached-out dining-cars. Basking in the morning sun on the steps of one of the old coaches was the figure of a young Indian, who had come from no one knew where the first day of their arrival, and had attached himself to the kitchen department.

Alex laid his hand on the superintendent's arm. ”Mr. Finnan, why not try Little Hawk?”

”It occurred to me just as you spoke. I will. Right now.

”You go on in to breakfast, Ward,” he directed. ”And say nothing of our suspicions or discoveries.”

”Very well, sir.”

The members of the telegraph-car party were leaving for the diner as Alex appeared.

”h.e.l.lo, Ward! Catch the early worm?” inquired one of the track-foremen jocularly.

”You mean, 'did he shoot it?'” corrected a time-clerk.

At this there was a general laugh, and glancing about for an explanation, Alex saw Elder, Superintendent Finnan's personal clerk and aide de camp, hastily remove a cartridge-belt and revolver from his waist and toss them into his bunk.

Elder was the one unpopular man in the telegraph-car. An undersized, aggressively important individual, just out of college, and affecting a stylish khaki hunting-suit, natty leather leggings and a broad-brimmed hat, he bore himself generally as though second in importance only to the construction superintendent himself. And naturally he had promptly been made the b.u.t.t of the party.

”But you know,” gravely observed one of the inspectors, as they took their places about the plain board table in the dining-car, ”some of these tramps are dangerous fellows. They'd just as soon pull a gun on you as borrow a dime. So there's nothing like being prepared. Particularly when one carries about such evidence of wealth and rank as friend Elder, here.”

At the chuckles which followed the clerk bridled angrily.

”Well, anyway, Ryan,” he retorted, ”I am ready to fight if one of them interferes with me. I'll not stick up my hands and let him go through me, as you did once.”

”Oh, you wouldn't, eh?”