The next thing was to check up on the team of bay horses and the sleigh. It was not hard for Nicholson to do, because just as one’s comings and goings are a matter of general knowledge in sections such as Ponoka, so is the matter of teams and vehicles.
The owner of the horses was found. He had bought them two years before — from a bow-legged man.
He told Nicholson that the man had put up at the Ponoka hotel for the night, had left town the next day and upon his return several days later had sold the team and sleigh.
He did not know the man’s name. It was an out-and-out cash transaction.
“It was Joe Hindahl, though, that left town with him. I knew Joe,” the farmer offered. “The fellow I bought the team from said Joe went back home to the States.”
“Know where he lived?”
“Let’s see now. I did know. Yes — Bemidji, Minnesota.”
IV
A week or so later Nicholson, posing as a Canadian wheat grower desirous of purchasing a farm in the neighborhood, appeared in Bemidji.
He was working on a hunch — a hunch that told him it was Hindahl who had been murdered on the lonely trail outside of Ponoka and whose crushed skull had been found in the rusty stove.
Furthermore, his hunch told him that through some queer quirk of fate the murderer had succeeded in successfully posing as Hindahl.
A few inquiries and Nicholson learned that the Bemidji Bank was holding overdue mortgages on several farms and was desirous of selling the properties.
He went to the bank and there he had another break. Among the mortgages was one in the name of Joseph Hindahl.
Nicholson feigned interest in the Hindahl farm. But first, he told the bank, he wanted to see the place and talk with the owner. The bank officials agreed that this was only natural, told him he would find Hindahl out at the farm most any time, and assured him that if the place met with his approval they would be glad to close the deal with him.
Nicholson waited until nightfall before he drove out to the Hindahl farm. As he cautiously made his way through the darkness toward the house, he was anxiously wondering whether fate was playing a trick on him or whether his hunch was right.
Well, it wouldn’t be long before he knew.
With utmost care not to make any noise he approached a window from which the light of a kerosene lamp cast a pale glow, and looked in.
A man was standing before the stove. Now he turned toward the table. He had a beard, while Koenig had been smooth shaven. But the beard could not disguise the man Nicholson was seeking. Furthermore, he had bow legs.
When Nicholson pushed open the door, Koenig whipped about. Seeing the Mounty, he uttered a snarl of rage, snatched up a butcher knife and swept the kerosene lamp from the table.
He had the advantage in the darkness because he knew the room, but Nicholson had his revolver and he did not hesitate to use it. His second bullet found Koenig’s leg. He dropped the knife as he fell to the floor. A moment later Nicholson had snapped handcuffs on him. This time he did not take them off until Koenig was safely lodged in jail.
Koenig was hanged early in 1910 for the murder of Joe Hindahl, while Nicholson was restored to the rank of sergeant and with the rank went a sergeant’s back pay for the time he had spent in clearing up the mystery of the torn and blood-stained muskrat skin cap.