"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 Jolicœur, 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.