The murder of Larry Blake the previous winter still remained a baffling mystery.  Locally it had proved, as such occurrences usually do, merely a proverbial nine days wonder.  Long since, in the stress and interest of current events, it had faded more or less from the minds of all men, excepting the Mounted Police, who, though saying little concerning it, still kept keenly on the alert for any possible clue.  Equally mystifying was the uncanny disappearance of the hobo—­Drinkwater.  So far that individual had succeeded in eluding apprehension, although minute descriptions of him had been circulated broadcast to police agencies throughout Canada and the United States.

“Eyah!” Sergeant Slavin was wont to remark sagely:  “’Tis an ould saying bhoys—­’Murdher will out’—­we’ll sure dhrop onto it sooner or lather, an’ thin belike we’ll get th’ surprise av our lives—­for I firmly believe, as Kilbride said—­’t’will prove tu be some lokil man who had a grudge agin’ pore Larry for somethin’ or another.  So—­just kape on quietly watchin’—­an’ listh’nin, an’ we’ll nail that fella yet.”

Just now that worthy was surveying his subordinates with a care-free smile of bonhomie.  “Guess we’ll dhrop inta th’ shtore on our way up” suggested he, “see’f there’s any mail, an’ have a yarn wid ould MacDavid.”

Half way up the long, winding, graded trail that led to the detachment, the trio turned into another trail which traversed it at this point.  Following this for some few hundred yards westward they reached the substantial abode of Morley MacDavid, who was, as his name suggested, the hamlet’s oldest settler and its original founder.

His habitation—­combining store, post-office, and ranch-house—­was a commodious frame dwelling, unpretentious in appearance but not wanting in evidences of prosperity.  Its rear presented the usual aspect of a ranch, with huge, well-built barns and corrals.  Although it was summer, many wide stacks of hay and green oats, apparently left over from the previous season, suggested that he was a cautious man with an eye to stock-feeding during the winter months.  To neglect of the precaution of putting up sufficient feed to tide over the severe weather might be attributed most of the annual ranching failures in the West.  The MacDavid establishment bore a well-ordered aspect, unlike many of the unthrifty, ramshackle ranches, of his neighbours.  The fencing was of the best, and there were no signs of decay or dilapidation in any of the buildings.  Dwarf pines were planted about and a Morning Glory vine over-ran the house, giving the place an air of restful domesticity.  As they entered the store the trio noticed a saddle-horse tied to the hitching-rail outside.