CHAPTER II
THE TRAIL OF SILENT MURPHY
The young infantryman who had been detailed for the important serviceof telegraph operator, sat in the Cheyenne office, his feet on the rudetable his face buried behind a newspaper. He had passed through twoeventful weeks of unremitting service, being on duty both night andday, and now, the final despatches forwarded, he felt entitled to enjoya period of well-earned repose.
"Could you inform me where I might find Silent Murphy, a governmentscout?"
The voice had the unmistakable ring of military authority, and thesoldier operator instinctively dropped his feet to the floor.
"Well, my lad, you are not dumb, are you?"
The telegrapher's momentary hesitation vanished; his ambition to becomea martyr to the strict laws of service secrecy was not sufficientlystrong to cause him to take the doubtful chances of a lie. "He washere, but has gone."
"Where?"
"The devil knows. He rode north, carrying despatches for Custer."
"When?"
"Oh, three or four hours ago."
Hampton swore softly but fervently, behind his clinched teeth.
"Where is Custer?"
"Don't know exactly. Supposed to be with Terry and Gibbons, somewherenear the mouth of the Powder, although he may have left there by thistime, moving down the Yellowstone. That was the plan mapped out.Murphy's orders were to intercept his column somewhere between theRosebud and the Big Horn, and I figure there is about one chance out ofa hundred that the Indians let him get that far alive. No other scoutalong this border would take such a detail. I know, for there were twohere who failed to make good when the job was thrown at them--justnaturally faded away," and the soldier's eyes sparkled. "But that olddevil of a Murphy just enjoys such a trip. He started off as happy asever I see him."
"How far will he have to ride?"
"Oh, 'bout three hundred miles as the crow flies, a little west ofnorth, and the better part of the distance, they tell me, it's almightyrough country for night work. But then Murphy, he knows the way allright."
Hampton turned toward the door, feeling fairly sick fromdisappointment. The operator stood regarding him curiously, a questionon his lips.
"Sorry you didn't come along a little earlier," he said, genially. "Doyou know Murphy?"
"I 'm not quite certain. Did you happen to notice a peculiar blackscar on the back of his right hand?"
"Sure; looks like the half of a pear. He said it was powder under theskin."
A new look of reviving determination swept into Hampton's gloomyeyes--beyond doubt this must be his man.
"How many horses did he have?"
"Two."
"Did you overhear him say anything definite about his plans for thetrip?"
"What, him? He never talks, that fellow. He can't do nothing butsputter if he tries. But I wrote out his orders, and they give him tothe twenty-fifth to make the Big Horn. That's maybe something likefifty miles a day, and he's most likely to keep his horses fresh justas long as possible, so as to be good for the last spurt through thehostile country. That's how I figure it, and I know something aboutscouting. You was n't planning to strike out after him, was you?"
"I might risk it if I only thought I could overtake him within twodays; my business is of some importance."
"Well, stranger, I should reckon you might do that with a dog-gone goodoutfit. Murphy 's sure to take things pretty easy to-day, and he'salmost certain to follow the old mining trail as far as the ford overthe Belle Fourche, and that's plain enough to travel. Beyond thatpoint the devil only knows where he will go, for then is when his hardridin' begins."
The moment the operator mentioned that odd scar on Murphy's hand, everyvestige of hesitation vanished. Beyond any possibility of doubt he wason the right scent this time. Murphy was riding north upon a missionas desperate as ever man was called upon to perform. The chance of hiscoming forth alive from that Indian-haunted land was, as the operatortruthfully said, barely one out of a hundred. Hampton thought of this.He durst not venture all he was so earnestly striving after--love,reputation, honor--to the chance of a stray Sioux bullet. No! and heremembered Naida again, her dark, pleading eyes searching his face. Tothe end, to the death if need were, he would follow!
The memory of his old plains craft would not permit any neglect of thefew necessaries for the trip. He bought without haggling over prices,but insisted on the best. So it was four in the afternoon when hefinally struck into the trail leading northward. This proved at firsta broad, plainly marked path, across the alkali plain. He rode amettlesome, half-broken bronco, a wicked-eyed brute, which required tobe conquered twice within the first hour of travel; a second and morequiet animal trailed behind at the end of a lariat, bearing thenecessary equipment. Hampton forced the two into a rapid lope,striving to make the most possible out of the narrow margin of daylightremaining.
He had, by persistent questioning, acquired considerable information,during that busy hour spent in Cheyenne, regarding the untrackedregions lying before him, as well as the character and disposition ofthe man he pursued. Both by instinct and training he was able tocomprehend those brief hints that must prove of vast benefit in thepathless wilderness. But the time had not yet arrived for him to dwellon such matters. His thoughts were concentrated on Murphy. He knewthat the fellow was a stubborn, silent, sullen savage, devoid ofphysical fear, yet cunning, wary, malignant, and treacherous. That waswhat they said of him back in Cheyenne. What, then, would ever inducesuch a man to open his mouth in confession of a long-hidden crime? Tobe sure, he might easily kill the fellow, but he would probably die,like a wild beast, without uttering a word.
There was one chance, a faint hope, that behind his gruff, uncouthexterior this Murphy possessed a conscience not altogether dead. Oversome natures, and not infrequently to those which seem outwardly thecoarsest, superstition wields a power the normal mind can scarcelycomprehend. Murphy might be spiritually as cringing a coward as he wasphysically a fearless desperado. Hampton had known such cases before;he had seen men laugh scornfully before the muzzle of a levelled gun,and yet tremble when pointed at by the finger of accusation. He hadlived sufficiently long on the frontier to know that men may becomeinured to that special form of danger to which they have grownaccustomed through repetition, and yet fail to front the unknown andmysterious. Perhaps here might be discovered Murphy's weak point.Without doubt the man was guilty of crime; that its memory continued tohaunt him was rendered evident by his hiding in Glencaid, and by hisdesperate attempt to kill Hampton. That knife-thrust must have beengiven with the hope of thus stopping further investigation; it alonewas sufficient proof that Murphy's soul was haunted by fear.
"Conscience doth make cowards of us all." These familiar words floatedin Hampton's memory, seeming to attune themselves to the steady gallopof his horse. They appealed to him as a direct message of guidance.The night was already dark, but stars were gleaming brilliantlyoverhead, and the trail remained easily traceable. It became terriblylonely on that wilderness stretching away for unknown leagues in everydirection, yet Hampton scarcely noted this, so watchful was he lest hemiss the trail. To his judgment, Murphy would not be likely to rideduring the night until after he had crossed the Fourche. There was noreason to suspect that there were any hostile Indians south of thatstream, and probably therefore the old scout would endeavor to conservehis own strength and that of his horses, for the more perilous travelbeyond. Hampton hastened on, his eyes peering anxiously ahead into thesteadily increasing gloom.
About midnight, the trail becoming obscure, the rider made camp,confident he must have already gained heavily on the man he pursued.He lariated his horses, and flinging himself down on some soft turf,almost immediately dropped asleep. He was up again before daylight,and, after a hasty meal, pressed on. The nature of the country hadchanged considerably, becoming more broken, the view circumscribed bytowering cliffs and deep ravines. Hampton swung forward hisfie
ld-glasses, and, from the summit of every eminence, studied thetopography of the country lying beyond. He must see before being seen,and he believed he could not now be many miles in the rear of Murphy.
Late in the afternoon he reined up his horse and gazed forward into abroad valley, bounded with precipitous bluffs. The trail, now scarcelyperceptible, led directly down, winding about like some huge snake,across the lower level, toward where a considerable stream of watershone silvery in the sun, half concealed behind a fringe of willows.Beyond doubt this was the Belle Fourche. And yonder, close in againstthose distant willows, some black dots were moving. Hampton glued hisanxious eyes to the glass. The levelled tubes clearly revealed a manon horseback, leading another horse. The animals were walking. Therecould be little doubt that this was Silent Murphy.
Hampton lariated his tired horses behind the bluff, and returned to thesummit, lying flat upon the ground, with the field-glass at his eyes.The distant figures passed slowly forward into the midst of thewillows, and for half an hour the patient watcher scanned the surfaceof the stream beyond, but there was no sign of attempted passage. Thesun sank lower, and finally disappeared behind those desolate ridges tothe westward. Hampton's knowledge of plains craft rendered Murphy'sactions sufficiently clear. This was the Fourche; beyond those waterslay the terrible peril of Indian raiders. Further advance must be madeby swift, secret night riding, and never-ceasing vigilance. This waswhat Murphy had been saving himself and his horses for. Beyondconjecture, he was resting now within the shadows of those willows,studying the opposite shore and making ready for the dash northward.Hampton believed he would linger thus for some time after dark, to seeif Indian fires would afford any guidance. Confident of this, hepassed back to his horses, rubbed them down with grass, and then atehis lonely supper, not venturing to light a fire, certain that Murphy'seyes were scanning every inch of sky-line.
Darkness came rapidly, while Hampton sat planning again the details ofhis night's work. The man's spirits became depressed by the gloom andthe silence. Evil fancies haunted his brain. His mind dwelt upon thepast, upon that wrong which had wrecked his life, upon the young girlhe had left praying for his safe return, upon that miserable creatureskulking yonder in the black night. Hampton could not remember when hehad ever performed such an act before, nor could he have explained whyhe did so then, yet he prayed--prayed for the far-off Naida, and forpersonal guidance in the stern work lying before him. And when he roseto his feet and groped his way to the horses, there remained no spiritof vengeance in his heart, no hatred, merely a cool resolve to succeedin his strange quest. So, the two animals trailing cautiously behind,he felt his slow way on foot down the steep bluff, into the denserblackness of the valley.
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