“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.”