“But how did it come here? There’s no sign of the wrecked boat.”
Blaise shook his head in puzzlement. “I do not understand,” he said slowly.
The half-breed lad was keen witted in many ways, but the white boy’s mind worked more quickly on such a problem. “It may be,” Hugh speculated, “that they were wrecked farther along the shore. Coming on by land, they camped here and some accident happened to Black Thunder, or perhaps he had been bleeding from a hurt received in the wreck, and he changed his shirt and threw away the bloody one.”
“Where was it?” asked Blaise.
“Under this raspberry bush, rolled up.”
“And why think you they camped here?”
“I’ll show you.”
Hugh led the way to the little clearing. Carefully and absorbedly Blaise examined the spot.
“Someone has camped here,” he concluded, “but only a short time, not more than one night. He made no lodge, for there are no poles. He cut no boughs for beds, and he left scarce any litter. It may be he cooked but one meal and went on. If he lay here for the night, the marks of his body no longer remain. If anyone was slain here,” he added after a moment, “the rains washed out the stains. It was a long time ago that he was here, I think.”
“If Black Thunder was killed here,” Hugh questioned, “what was done with his body?”