"Yes," Rapson signified. "I couldn't help seeing the ashes of their bivouac fire; and, of course, I've noticed the track of their wagon wheels all along the trail, as well as the footmarks of a rather big dog. But I fail to understand how you can make out all that information about the girl having fair hair and bein' an artist."
Sergeant Silk smiled as he turned to lead the way down the slope of the hill trail into the valley.
"That's only because you don't smoke a pipe that needs occasional cleaning out," he responded. "Mine needed cleaning, see? and while you and Bob Medlicott were down at the creek, watering the horses, I looked about for a stalk of sage-grass or something that would go into the stem. I found just the very thing I wanted—a hair-pin. You'll allow that a hair-pin is peculiarly a feminine piece of furniture. It's reasonable to infer that it wasn't a man who lost it; and since the one I picked up was made of gilt wire, I guess it wasn't the property of a woman with black hair. What? Don't you agree with me?"
Percy Rapson was laughing.
"It's too ridiculously obvious to be disputed," he acknowledged. "But," he added inquiringly, "how about the supposed sketch of Minnewanka Peak? That's a corker!"
Silk pushed back his hat.
"For one thing," he explained, "she sharpened a black-lead pencil, leaving the chips lying around, close beside the marks in the soil where her easel and camp-stool had stood, the dog sitting near. She had thrown away a bit of rag on which she had cleaned her paint-brushes. She'd used more azure blue than any other colour, and, say, I don't know anything quite so blue as Minnewanka Peak, of which she had an excellent view from where she had propped her easel."
"Rather a jolly idea, that—touring about Canada takin' sketches of the scenery," observed Percy Rapson. "I've often wished to be an artist. Do you suppose that she would let us have a look at her sketches, Silk?"
"There'd be no great harm in your asking her," the sergeant answered. "But we shall hardly have time to loiter around. You see, Medlicott and I are on special duty. We're not here to occupy our time with strangers; unless, of course, we can be of some help to them. We've got to follow up the trail of Nick-By-Night and his gang, and hale them off to prison—if we're lucky enough to lay hands on them."
Percy Rapson glanced forward to the cloud of dust.