"Flying Joss" was Ping's name for the aëroplane. His heathen mind made a joss of things he could not understand, and this machine of Traquair's had impressed him more than anything else he had ever encountered.
"I remember," answered Matt. "Siwash Charley carried you off into the timber, near the lake shore. You found the dagger there?"
"All same."
"Some Indian must have dropped it," put in Cameron. "From the way it's rusted, it looks as though the redskin must have dropped it a hundred years ago."
"Hardly as long ago as that," returned Matt. "It's a pretty dagger, as daggers go, although I don't admire things of the kind. The blade is of mighty fine steel, and the handle is of sterling silver, set with a ruby, or a piece of colored glass to represent a ruby, at the end. And here are some initials."
A little scraping with the file had bared a flat plate in the handle. Matt studied the initials.
"No," he remarked, "this couldn't have belonged to an Indian, Cameron. Redskins are not carrying silver, ruby-mounted daggers with initials engraved on them."
"Some red may have traded pelts for it," suggested the lieutenant.
"Possibly."
"What are the initials? Can you make them out?"