So Millard laid on the desk before me the Spanish poignard which long ago I had bought as a curiosity in Winnipeg, used for many years as a paper-cutter while stationed at Prince Albert, and finally given to Rain last summer as a wedding present. Now it was black with her blood, but it had saved her honor. I picked it up, forcing myself to indifference.
"An Italian stiletto, eh? How should an Indian woman come by that?"
"Italian, sir?" asked Millard.
"Venetian," said I, examining the hilt. "Looks like seventeenth century work. People wore the knives they used at table."
"The Indians," was Millard's comment, "have lots of curios picked up in their wars."
I put the weapon down, and lighted a cigarette, proud that no tremor of the hands betrayed my agitation. An Indian had murdered a white man—that was all—and a squaw had killed herself. There was nothing to identify Don José.
The sergeant was gray with fatigue, and I bade him sit down.
"I think," he said, "that Indian had gone mad. They do sometimes. The old woman came back as he left the teepee carrying his rifle, a Winchester. He was loading as he crossed to the agent's house.
"Mr. de Hamel says he was smoking his after-supper cigar in the veranda when he saw the Indian coming, stark staring mad. He tried to get into the house for his gun, but a bullet dropped him in the doorway. The left femur was broken six inches above the knee, but Mr. de Hamel managed to drag himself into the house and behind the front door. It opens inward. Charging Buffalo went in and looked round, but couldn't find the agent. It was after dark then. After a minute or two, he went out, running toward the pasture for his horse."
"What grudge could he have against Mr. de Hamel?"