THE PARTING HOUR
To Lieutenant Brant these proved days of bitterness. His sole comfort
was the feeling that he had performed his duty; his sustaining hope,
that the increasing rumors of Indian atrocity might soon lead to his
despatch upon active service. He had called twice upon Hampton, both
times finding the wounded man propped up in bed, very affable, properly
grateful for services rendered, yet avoiding all reference to the one
disturbing element between them.
Once he had accidentally met Naida, but their brief conversation left
him more deeply mystified then ever, and later she seemed to avoid him
altogether. The barrier between them no longer appeared as a figment
of her misguided imagination, but rather as a real thing neither
patience nor courage might hope to surmount. If he could have
flattered himself that Naida was depressed also in spirit, the fact
might have proved both comfort and inspiration, but to his view her
attitude was one of almost total indifference. One day he deemed her
but an idle coquette; the next, a warm-hearted woman, doing her duty
bravely. Yet through it all her power over him never slackened. Twice
he walked with Miss Spencer as far as the Herndon house, hopeful that
that vivacious young lady might chance to let fall some unguarded hint
of guidance. But Miss Spencer was then too deeply immersed in her own
affairs of the heart to waste either time or thought upon others.
The end to this nervous strain came in the form of an urgent despatch
recalling N Troop to Fort Abraham Lincoln by forced marches. The
commander felt no doubt as to the full meaning of this message, and the
soldier in him made prompt and joyful response. Little Glencaid was
almost out of the world so far as recent news was concerned. The
military telegraph, however, formed a connecting link with the War
Department, so that Brant knew something of the terrible condition of
the Northwest. He had thus learned of the consolidation of the hostile
savages, incited by Sitting Bull, into the fastness of the Big Horn
Range; he was aware that General Crook was already advancing northward
from the Nebraska line; and he knew it was part of the plan of
operation for Custer and the Seventh Cavalry to strike directly
westward across the Dakota hills. Now he realized that he was to be a
part of this chosen fighting force, and his heart responded to the
summons as to a bugle-call in battle.
Instantly the little camp was astir, the men feeling the enthusiasm of
their officers. With preparations well in hand, Brant's thoughts
veered once again toward Naida--he could not leave her, perhaps ride
forth to death, without another effort to learn what was this
impassable object between them. He rode down to the Herndon house with
grave face and sober thought. If he could only understand this girl;
if he could only once look into her heart, and know the meaning of her
ever-changing actions, her puzzling words! He felt convinced he had
surprised the reflection of love within her eyes; but soon the
reflection vanished. The end was ever the same--he only knew he loved
her.
He recalled long the plainly furnished room into which Mrs. Herndon
ushered him to await the girl's appearance--the formal look of the
old-fashioned hair-cloth furniture, the prim striped paper on the
walls, the green shades at the windows, the clean rag carpet on the
floor. The very stiffness chilled him, left him ill at ease. To calm
his spirit he walked to a window, and stood staring out into the warm
sunlight. Then he heard the rustle of Naida's skirt and turned to meet
her. She was pale from her weeks of nursing, and agitated for fear of
what this unexpected call might portend. Yet to his thought she
appeared calm, her manner restrained. Nor could anything be kinder
than her first greeting, the frankly extended hand, the words
expressive of welcome.
"Mr. Wynkoop informed me a few minutes ago that you had at last
received your orders for the north," she said, her lips slightly
trembling. "I wondered if you would leave without a word of farewell."
He bowed low. "I do not understand how you could doubt, for I have
shown my deep interest in you even from the first. If I have lately
seemed to avoid you, it has only been because I believed you wished it
so."
A slight flush tinged the pallor of her cheeks, while the long lashes
drooped over the eyes, concealing their secrets.
"Life is not always as easy to live aright as it appears upon the
surface," she confessed. "I am learning that I cannot always do just
as I should like, but must content myself with the performance of duty.
Shall we not be seated?"
There was an embarrassing pause, as though neither knew how to get
through the interview.
"No doubt you are rejoiced to be sent on active service again," she
said, at last.
"Yes, both as a soldier and as a man, Miss Naida. I am glad to get
into the field again with my regiment, to do my duty under the flag,
and I am equally rejoiced to have something occur which will tend to
divert my thoughts. I had not intended to say anything of this kind,
but now that I am with you I simply cannot restrain the words. This
past month has been, I believe, the hardest I have ever been compelled
to live through. You simply mystify me, so that I alternately hope and
despair. Your methods are cruel."
"Mine?" and she gazed at him with parted lips. "Lieutenant Brant, what
can you mean? What is it I have done?"
"It may have been only play to you, and so easily forgotten," he went
on, bitterly. "But that is a dangerous game, very certain to hurt some
one. Miss Naida, your face, your eyes, even your lips almost
continually tell me one thing; your words another. I know not which to
trust. I never meet you except to go away baffled and bewildered."
"You wish to know the truth?"
"Ay, and for ail time! Are you false, or true? Coquette, or woman?
Do you simply play with hearts for idle amusement, or is there some
true purpose ruling your actions?"
She looked directly at him, her hands clasped, her breath almost
sobbing between the parted lips. At first she could not speak. "Oh,
you hurt me so," she faltered at last. "I did not suppose you could
ever think that. I--I did not mean it; oh, truly I did not mean it!
You forget how young I am; how very little I know of the world and its
ways. Perhaps I have not even realized how deeply in earnest you were,
have deceived myself into believing you were merely amusing yourself
with me. Why, indeed, should I think otherwise? How could I venture
to believe you would ever really care in that way for such a waif as I?
You have seen other women in that great Eastern world of which I have
only read--refined, cultured, princesses, belonging to your own social
circle,--how should I suppose you could forget them, and give your
heart to a little outcast, a girl without a name or a home? Rather
should it be I who might remain perplexed and bewildered."
"I love you," he said, with simple honesty. "I seek you for my wife."
She started at these frankly spoken words, her hands partially
concealing her face, her form trembling. "Oh, I wish you hadn't said
that! It is not because I doubt you any longer; not that I fail to
appreciate all you offer me. But it is so hard to appear ungrateful,
to give nothing in return for so vast a gift."
"Then it is true that you do not love me?"
The blood flamed suddenly up into her face, but there was no lowering
of the eyes, no shrinking back. She was too honest to play the coward
before him.
"I shall not attempt to deceive you," she said, with a slow
impressiveness instantly carrying conviction. "This has already
progressed so far that I now owe you complete frankness. Donald Brant,
now and always, living or dead, married or single, wherever life may
take us, I shall love you."
Their eyes were meeting, but she held up her hand to restrain him from
the one step forward.
"No, no; I have confessed the truth; I have opened freely to you the
great secret of my heart. With it you must be content to leave me.
There is nothing more that I can give you, absolutely nothing. I can
never be your wife; I hope, for your sake and mine, that we never meet
again."
She did not break down, or hesitate in the utterance of these words,
although there was a piteous tremble on her lips, a pathetic appeal in
her eyes. Brant stood like a statue, his face grown white. He did not
in the least doubt her full meaning of renunciation.
"You will, at least, tell me why?" It was all that would come to his
dry lips.
She sank back upon the sofa, as though the strength had suddenly
deserted her body, her eyes shaded by an uplifted hand.
"I cannot tell you. I have no words, no courage. You will learn some
day from others, and be thankful that I loved you well enough to resist
temptation. But the reason cannot come to you from my lips."
He leaned forward, half kneeling at her feet, and she permitted him to
clasp her hand within both his own. "Tell me, at least, this--is it
some one else? Is it Hampton?"
She smiled at him through a mist of tears, a smile the sad sweetness of
which he would never forget. "In the sense you mean, no. No living
man stands between us, not even Bob Hampton."
"Does he know why this cannot be?"
"He does know, but I doubt if he will ever reveal his knowledge;
certainly not to you. He has not told me all, even in the hour when he
thought himself dying. I am convinced of that. It is not because he
dislikes you, Lieutenant Brant, but because he knew his partial
revealment of the truth was a duty he owed us both."
There was a long, painful pause between them, during which neither
ventured to look directly at the other.
"You leave me so completely in the dark," he said, finally; "is there
no possibility that this mysterious obstacle can ever be removed?"
"None. It is beyond earthly power--there lies between us the shadow of
a dead man."
He stared at her as if doubting her sanity.
"A dead man! Not Gillis?"
"No, it is not Gillis. I have told you this much so that you might
comprehend how impossible it is for us to change our fate. It is
irrevocably fixed. Please do not question me any more; cannot you see
how I am suffering? I beseech your pity; I beg you not to prolong this
useless interview. I cannot bear it!"
Brant rose to his feet, and stood looking down upon her bowed head, her
slender figure shaken by sobs. Whatever it might prove to be, this
mysterious shadow of a dead man, there could be no doubting what it now
meant to her. His eyes were filled with a love unutterable.
"Naida, as you have asked it, I will go; but I go better, stronger,
because I have heard your lips say you love me. I am going now, my
sweetheart, but if I live, I shall come again. I know nothing of what
you mean about a dead man being between us, but I shall know when I
come back, for, dead or alive, no man shall remain between me and the
girl I love."
"This--this is different," she sobbed, "different; it is beyond your
power."
"I shall never believe so until I have faced it for myself, nor will I
even say good-bye, for, under God, I am coming back to you."
He turned slowly, and walked away. As his hand touched the latch of
the door he paused and looked longingly back.
"Naida."
She glanced up at him.
"You kissed me once; will you again?"
She rose silently and crossed over to him, her hands held out, her eyes
uplifted to his own. Neither spoke as he drew her gently to him, and
their lips met.
"Say it once more, sweetheart?"
"Donald, I love you."
A moment they stood thus face to face, reading the great lesson of
eternity within the depths of each other's eyes. Then slowly, gently,
she released herself from the clasp of his strong arms.
"You believe in me now? You do not go away blaming me?" she
questioned, with quivering lips.
"There is no blame, for you are doing what you think right. But I am
coming back, Naida, little woman; coming back to love and you."
An hour later N Troop trotted across the rude bridge, and circled the
bluff, on its way toward the wide plains. Brant, riding ahead of his
men, caught a glimpse of something white fluttering from an open window
of the yellow house fronting the road. Instantly he whipped off his
campaign hat, and bowing to the saddle pommel, rode bareheaded out of
sight. And from behind the curtain Naida watched the last horseman
round the bluff angle, riding cheerfully away to hardship, danger, and
death, her eyes dry and despairing, her heart scarcely beating. Then
she crept across the narrow room, and buried her face in the coverlet
of the bed.
_PART III_
ON THE LITTLE BIG HORN
CHAPTER I
MR. HAMPTON RESOLVES
Mr. Bob Hampton stood in the bright sunshine on the steps of the hotel,
his appreciative gaze wandering up the long, dusty, unoccupied street,
and finally rising to the sweet face of the young girl who occupied the
step above. As their eyes met both smiled as if they understood each
other. Except for being somewhat pale, the result of long, inactive
weeks passed indoors, Mr. Hampton's appearance was that of perfect
health, while the expression of his face evidenced the joy of living.
"There is nothing quite equal to feeling well, little girl," he said,
genially, patting her hand where it rested on the railing, "and I
really believe I am in as fine fettle now as I ever have been. Do you
know, I believe I 'm perfectly fit to undertake that little detective
operation casually mentioned to you a few days ago. It 's got to be
done, and the sooner I get at it the easier I'll feel. Fact is, I put
in a large portion of the night thinking out my plans."
"I wish you would give it up all together, Bob," she said, anxiously.
"I shall be so dull and lonely here while you are gone."
"I reckon you will, for a fact, as it's my private impression that
lovely Miss Spencer does n't exert herself over much to be entertaining
unless there happens to be a man in sight. Great guns! how she did
fling language the last time she blew in to see me! But, Naida, it
isn't likely this little affair will require very long, and things are
lots happier between us since my late shooting scrape. For one thing,
you and I understand each other better; then Mrs. Herndon has been
quite decently civil. When Fall comes I mean to take you East and put
you in some good finishing school. Don't care quite as much about it
as you did, do you?"
"Yes, I think I do, Bob." She strove bravely to express enthusiasm.
"The trouble is, I am so worried over your going off alone hunting
after that man."
He laughed, his eyes searching her face for the truth. "Well, little
girl, he won't exactly be the first I 've had call to go after.
Besides, this is a particular case, and appeals to me in a sort of
personal way. It you only knew it, you're about as deeply concerned in
the result as I am, and as for me, I can never rest easy again until
the matter is over with."
"It's that awful Murphy, is n't it?"
"He's the one I'm starting after first, and one sight at his right hand
will decide whether he is to be the last as well."
"I never supposed you would seek revenge, like a savage," she remarked,
quietly. "You never used to be that way."
"Good Lord, Naida, do you think I 'm low down enough to go out hunting
that poor cuss merely to get even with him for trying to stick me with
a knife? Why, there are twenty others who have done as much, and we
have been the best of friends afterwards. Oh, no, lassie, it means
more than that, and harks back many a long year. I told you I saw a
mark on his hand I would never forget--but I saw that mark first
fifteen years ago. I 'm not taking my life in my hand to revenge the
killing of Slavin, or in any memory of that little misunderstanding
between the citizens of Glencaid and myself. I should say not. I have
been slashed at and shot at somewhat promiscuously during the last five
years, but I never permitted such little affairs to interfere with
either business, pleasure, or friendship. If this fellow Murphy, or
whoever the man I am after may prove to be, had contented himself with
endeavoring playfully to carve me, the account would be considered
closed. But this is a duty I owe a friend, a dead friend, to run to
earth this murderer. Do you understand now? The fellow who did that
shooting up at Bethune fifteen years ago had the same sort of a mark on
his right hand as this one who killed Slavin. That's why I'm after
him, and when I catch up he'll either squeal or die. He won't be very
likely to look on the matter as a joke."
"But how do you know?"
"I never told you the whole story, and I don't mean to now until I come
back, and can make everything perfectly clear. It would n't do you any
good the way things stand now, and would only make you uneasy. But if
you do any praying over it, my girl, pray good and hard that I may
discover some means for making that fellow squeal."
She made no response. He had told her so little, that it left her
blindly groping, yet fearful to ask for more. She stood gazing
thoughtfully past him.
"Have you heard anything lately, Bob, about the Seventh?" she asked,
finally. "Since--since N Troop left here?"
He answered with well-simulated carelessness. "No; but it is most
likely they are well into the game by this time. It's bound to prove a
hard campaign, to judge from all visible indications, and the trouble
has been hatching long enough to get all the hostiles into a bunch. I
know most of them, and they are a bad lot of savages. Crook's column,
I have just heard, was overwhelmingly attacked on the Rosebud, and
forced to fall back. That leaves the Seventh to take the brunt of it,
and there is going to be hell up north presently, or I 've forgotten
all I ever knew about Indians. Sitting Bull is the arch-devil for a
plot, and he has found able assistants to lead the fighting. I only
wish it were my luck to be in it. But come, little girl, as I said, I
'm quite likely to be off before night, provided I am fortunate enough
to strike a fresh trail. Under such conditions you won't mind my
kissing you out here, will you?"
She held up her lips and he touched them softly with his own. Her eyes
were tear-dimmed. "Oh, Bob, I hate so to let you go," she sobbed,
clinging to him. "No one could have been more to me than you have
been, and you are all I have left in the world. Everything I care for
goes away from me. Life is so hard, so hard!"
"Yes, little girl, I know," and the man stroked her hair tenderly, his
own voice faltering. "It's all hard; I learned that sad lesson long
ago, but I 've tried to make it a little bit easier for you since we
first came together. Still, I don't see how I can possibly help this.
I 've been hunting after that fellow a long while now, a matter of
fifteen years over a mighty dim trail, and it would be a mortal sin to
permit him to get away scot-free. Besides, if this affair only manages
to turn out right, I can promise to make you the happiest girl in
America. But, Naida, dear, don't cling to me so; it is not at all like
you to break down in this fashion," and he gently unclasped her hands,
holding her away from him, while he continued to gaze hungrily into her
troubled face. "It only weakens me at a time when I require all my
strength of will."
"Sometimes I feel just like a coward, Bob. It's the woman of it; yet
truly I wish to do whatever you believe to be best. But, Bob, I need
you so much, and you will come back, won't you? I shall be so lonely
here, for--for you are truly all I have in the world."
With one quick, impulsive motion he pressed her to him, passionately
kissing the tears from her lowered lashes, unable longer to conceal the
tremor that shook his own voice. "Never, never doubt it, lassie. It
will not take me long, and if I live I come straight back."
He watched her slender, white-robed figure as it passed slowly down the
deserted street. Once only she paused, and waved back to him, and he
returned instant response, although scarcely realizing the act.
"Poor little lonely girl! perhaps I ought to have told her the whole
infernal story, but I simply haven't got the nerve, the way it reads
now. If I can only get it straightened out, it'll be different."
Mechanically he thrust an unlighted cigar between his teeth, and
descended the steps, to all outward appearance the same reckless,
audacious Hampton as of old. Mrs. Guffy smiled happily from an open
window as she observed the square set of his shoulders, the easy,
devil-may-care smile upon his lips.
The military telegraph occupied one-half of the small tent next the
Miners' Retreat, and the youthful operator instantly recognized his
debonair visitor.
"Well, Billy," was Hampton's friendly greeting, "are they keeping you
fairly busy with 'wars and rumors of wars' these days?"
"Nuthin' doin', just now," was the cheerful reply. "Everything goin'
ter Cheyenne. The Injuns are gittin' themselves bottled up in the Big
Horn country."
"Oh, that's it? Then maybe you might manage to rush a message through
for me to Fort A. Lincoln, without discommoding Uncle Sam?" and Hampton
placed a coin upon the rough table.
"Sure; write it out."
"Here it is; now get it off early, my lad, and bring the answer to me
over at the hotel. There 'll be another yellow boy waiting when you
come."
The reply arrived some two hours later.
"FORT A. LINCOLN, June 17, 1876.
"HAMPTON, Glencaid:
"Seventh gone west, probably Yellowstone. Brant with them. Murphy,
government scout, at Cheyenne waiting orders.
"BITTON, Commanding."
He crushed the paper in his hand, thinking--thinking of the past, the
present, the future. He had borne much in these last years, much
misrepresentation, much loneliness of soul. He had borne these
patiently, smiling into the mocking eyes of Fate. Through it all--the
loss of friends, of profession, of ambition, of love, of home--he had
never wholly lost hold of a sustaining hope, and now it would seem that
this long-abiding faith was at last to be rewarded. Yet he realized,
as he fronted the facts, how very little he really had to build
upon,--the fragmentary declaration of Slavin, wrung from him in a
moment of terror; an idle boast made to Brant by the surprised scout; a
second's glimpse at a scarred hand,--little enough, indeed, yet by far
the most clearly marked trail he had ever struck in all his vain
endeavor to pierce the mystery which had so utterly ruined his life.
To run this Murphy to cover remained his final hope for retrieving
those dead, dark years. Ay, and there was Naida! Her future, scarcely
less than his own, hung trembling in the balance.
The sudden flashing of that name into his brain was like an electric
shock. He cursed his inactivity. Great God! had he become a child
again, to tremble before imagined evil, a mere hobgoblin of the mind?
He had already wasted time enough; now he must wring from the lips of
that misshapen savage the last vestige of his secret.
The animal within him sprang to fierce life. God! he would prove as
wary, as cunning, as relentless as ever was Indian on the trail.
Murphy would never suspect at this late day that he was being tracked.
That was well. Tireless, fearless, half savage as the scout
undoubtedly was, one fully his equal was now at his heels, actuated by
grim, relentless purpose. Hampton moved rapidly in preparation. He
dressed for the road, for hard, exacting service, buckling his loaded
cartridge-belt outside his rough coat, and testing his revolvers with
unusual care. He spoke a few parting words of instruction to Mrs.
Guffy, and went quietly out. Ten minutes later he was in the saddle,
galloping down the dusty stage road toward Cheyenne.
CHAPTER II
THE TRAIL OF SILENT MURPHY
The young infantryman who had been detailed for the important service
of telegraph operator, sat in the Cheyenne office, his feet on the rude
table his face buried behind a newspaper. He had passed through two
eventful weeks of unremitting service, being on duty both night and
day, and now, the final despatches forwarded, he felt entitled to enjoy
a period of well-earned repose.
"Could you inform me where I might find Silent Murphy, a government
scout?"
The voice had the unmistakable ring of military authority, and the
soldier 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 become
a martyr to the strict laws of service secrecy was not sufficiently
strong to cause him to take the doubtful chances of a lie. "He was
here, 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, somewhere
near the mouth of the Powder, although he may have left there by this
time, moving down the Yellowstone. That was the plan mapped out.
Murphy's orders were to intercept his column somewhere between the
Rosebud and the Big Horn, and I figure there is about one chance out of
a hundred that the Indians let him get that far alive. No other scout
along this border would take such a detail. I know, for there were two
here who failed to make good when the job was thrown at them--just
naturally faded away," and the soldier's eyes sparkled. "But that old
devil of a Murphy just enjoys such a trip. He started off as happy as
ever I see him."
"How far will he have to ride?"
"Oh, 'bout three hundred miles as the crow flies, a little west of
north, and the better part of the distance, they tell me, it's almighty
rough country for night work. But then Murphy, he knows the way all
right."
Hampton turned toward the door, feeling fairly sick from
disappointment. The operator stood regarding him curiously, a question
on his lips.
"Sorry you didn't come along a little earlier," he said, genially. "Do
you know Murphy?"
"I 'm not quite certain. Did you happen to notice a peculiar black
scar on the back of his right hand?"
"Sure; looks like the half of a pear. He said it was powder under the
skin."
A new look of reviving determination swept into Hampton's gloomy
eyes--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 the
trip?"
"What, him? He never talks, that fellow. He can't do nothing but
sputter if he tries. But I wrote out his orders, and they give him to
the twenty-fifth to make the Big Horn. That's maybe something like
fifty miles a day, and he's most likely to keep his horses fresh just
as long as possible, so as to be good for the last spurt through the
hostile country. That's how I figure it, and I know something about
scouting. 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 two
days; my business is of some importance."
"Well, stranger, I should reckon you might do that with a dog-gone good
outfit. Murphy 's sure to take things pretty easy to-day, and he's
almost certain to follow the old mining trail as far as the ford over
the Belle Fourche, and that's plain enough to travel. Beyond that
point the devil only knows where he will go, for then is when his hard
ridin' begins."
The moment the operator mentioned that odd scar on Murphy's hand, every
vestige of hesitation vanished. Beyond any possibility of doubt he was
on the right scent this time. Murphy was riding north upon a mission
as desperate as ever man was called upon to perform. The chance of his
coming forth alive from that Indian-haunted land was, as the operator
truthfully 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 he
remembered Naida again, her dark, pleading eyes searching his face. To
the end, to the death if need were, he would follow!
The memory of his old plains craft would not permit any neglect of the
few necessaries for the trip. He bought without haggling over prices,
but insisted on the best. So it was four in the afternoon when he
finally struck into the trail leading northward. This proved at first
a broad, plainly marked path, across the alkali plain. He rode a
mettlesome, half-broken bronco, a wicked-eyed brute, which required to
be conquered twice within the first hour of travel; a second and more
quiet animal trailed behind at the end of a lariat, bearing the
necessary equipment. Hampton forced the two into a rapid lope,
striving to make the most possible out of the narrow margin of daylight
remaining.
He had, by persistent questioning, acquired considerable information,
during that busy hour spent in Cheyenne, regarding the untracked
regions lying before him, as well as the character and disposition of
the man he pursued. Both by instinct and training he was able to
comprehend those brief hints that must prove of vast benefit in the
pathless wilderness. But the time had not yet arrived for him to dwell
on such matters. His thoughts were concentrated on Murphy. He knew
that the fellow was a stubborn, silent, sullen savage, devoid of
physical fear, yet cunning, wary, malignant, and treacherous. That was
what they said of him back in Cheyenne. What, then, would ever induce
such a man to open his mouth in confession of a long-hidden crime? To
be 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, uncouth
exterior this Murphy possessed a conscience not altogether dead. Over
some natures, and not infrequently to those which seem outwardly the
coarsest, superstition wields a power the normal mind can scarcely
comprehend. Murphy might be spiritually as cringing a coward as he was
physically 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 had
lived sufficiently long on the frontier to know that men may become
inured to that special form of danger to which they have grown
accustomed through repetition, and yet fail to front the unknown and
mysterious. Perhaps here might be discovered Murphy's weak point.
Without doubt the man was guilty of crime; that its memory continued to
haunt him was rendered evident by his hiding in Glencaid, and by his
desperate attempt to kill Hampton. That knife-thrust must have been
given with the hope of thus stopping further investigation; it alone
was sufficient proof that Murphy's soul was haunted by fear.
"Conscience doth make cowards of us all." These familiar words floated
in Hampton's memory, seeming to attune themselves to the steady gallop
of his horse. They appealed to him as a direct message of guidance.
The night was already dark, but stars were gleaming brilliantly
overhead, and the trail remained easily traceable. It became terribly
lonely on that wilderness stretching away for unknown leagues in every
direction, yet Hampton scarcely noted this, so watchful was he lest he
miss the trail. To his judgment, Murphy would not be likely to ride
during the night until after he had crossed the Fourche. There was no
reason to suspect that there were any hostile Indians south of that
stream, and probably therefore the old scout would endeavor to conserve
his own strength and that of his horses, for the more perilous travel
beyond. Hampton hastened on, his eyes peering anxiously ahead into the
steadily 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 had
changed considerably, becoming more broken, the view circumscribed by
towering cliffs and deep ravines. Hampton swung forward his
field-glasses, and, from the summit of every eminence, studied the
topography 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 a
broad valley, bounded with precipitous bluffs. The trail, now scarcely
perceptible, led directly down, winding about like some huge snake,
across the lower level, toward where a considerable stream of water
shone silvery in the sun, half concealed behind a fringe of willows.
Beyond doubt this was the Belle Fourche. And yonder, close in against
those distant willows, some black dots were moving. Hampton glued his
anxious eyes to the glass. The levelled tubes clearly revealed a man
on horseback, leading another horse. The animals were walking. There
could be little doubt that this was Silent Murphy.
Hampton lariated his tired horses behind the bluff, and returned to the
summit, lying flat upon the ground, with the field-glass at his eyes.
The distant figures passed slowly forward into the midst of the
willows, and for half an hour the patient watcher scanned the surface
of the stream beyond, but there was no sign of attempted passage. The
sun sank lower, and finally disappeared behind those desolate ridges to
the westward. Hampton's knowledge of plains craft rendered Murphy's
actions sufficiently clear. This was the Fourche; beyond those waters
lay the terrible peril of Indian raiders. Further advance must be made
by swift, secret night riding, and never-ceasing vigilance. This was
what Murphy had been saving himself and his horses for. Beyond
conjecture, 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 see
if Indian fires would afford any guidance. Confident of this, he
passed back to his horses, rubbed them down with grass, and then ate
his lonely supper, not venturing to light a fire, certain that Murphy's
eyes were scanning every inch of sky-line.
Darkness came rapidly, while Hampton sat planning again the details of
his night's work. The man's spirits became depressed by the gloom and
the silence. Evil fancies haunted his brain. His mind dwelt upon the
past, upon that wrong which had wrecked his life, upon the young girl
he had left praying for his safe return, upon that miserable creature
skulking yonder in the black night. Hampton could not remember when he
had ever performed such an act before, nor could he have explained why
he did so then, yet he prayed--prayed for the far-off Naida, and for
personal guidance in the stern work lying before him. And when he rose
to his feet and groped his way to the horses, there remained no spirit
of vengeance in his heart, no hatred, merely a cool resolve to succeed
in his strange quest. So, the two animals trailing cautiously behind,
he felt his slow way on foot down the steep bluff, into the denser
blackness of the valley.
CHAPTER III
THE HAUNTING OF A CRIME
Murphy rested on his back in the midst of a thicket of willows, wide
awake, yet not quite ready to ford the Fourche and plunge into the
dense shadows shrouding the northern shore. Crouched behind a log, he
had so far yielded unto temptation as to light his pipe.
Murphy had been amid just such unpleasant environments many times
before, and the experience had grown somewhat prosaic. He realized
fully the imminent peril haunting the next two hundred miles, but such
danger was not wholly unwelcome to his peculiar temperament; rather it
was an incentive to him, and, without a doubt, he would manage to pull
through somehow, as he had done a hundred times before. Even
Indian-scouting degenerates into a commonplace at last. So Murphy
puffed contentedly at his old pipe. Whatever may have been his
thoughts, they did not burst through his taciturnity, and he reclined
there motionless, no sound breaking the silence, save the rippling
waters of the Fourche, and the occasional stamping of his horses as
they cropped the succulent valley grass.
But suddenly there was the faint crackle of a branch to his left, and
one hand instantly closed over his pipe bowl, the other grasping the
heavy revolver at his hip. Crouching like a startled tiger, with not a
muscle moving, he peered anxiously into the darkness, his arm half
extended, scarcely venturing to breathe. There came a plain,
undisguised rustling in the grass,--some prowling coyote, probably;
then his tense muscles immediately relaxed, and he cursed himself for
being so startled, yet he continued to grasp the "45" in his right
hand, his eyes alert.
"Murphy!"
That single word, hurled thus unexpectedly out of the black night,
startled him more than would a volley of rifles. He sprang half erect,
then as swiftly crouched behind a willow, utterly unable to articulate.
In God's name, what human could be out there to call? He would have
sworn that there was not another white man within a radius of a hundred
miles. For the instant his very blood ran cold; he appeared to shrivel
up.
"Oh, come, Murphy; speak up, man; I know you're in here."
That terror of the unknown instantly vanished. This was the familiar
language of the world, and, however the fellow came to be there, it was
assuredly a man who spoke. With a gurgling oath at his own folly,
Murphy's anger flared violently forth into disjointed speech, the
deadly gun yet clasped ready for instant action.
"Who--the hell--are ye?" he blurted out.
The visitor laughed, the bushes rustling as he pushed toward the sound
of the voice. "It's all right, old boy. Gave ye quite a scare, I
reckon."
Murphy could now dimly perceive the other advancing through the
intervening willows, and his Colt shot up to the level. "Stop!--ye
take another--step an' I 'll--let drive. Ye tell me--first--who ye be."
The invader paused, but he realized the nervous finger pressing the
trigger and made haste to answer. "It's all right, I tell ye. I 'm
one o' Terry's scouts."
"Ye are? Jist the same--I've heard--yer voice--afore."
"Likely 'nough. I saw service in the Seventh."
Murphy was still a trifle suspicious. "How'd ye git yere? How 'd ye
come ter know--whar I wus?"
The man laughed again. "Sorter hurts yer perfessional feelins, don't
it, old feller, to be dropped in on in this unceremonious way? But it
was dead easy, old man. Ye see I happened thro' Cheyenne only a couple
o' hours behind ye, with a bunch o' papers fer the Yellowstone. The
trail's plain enough out this far, and I loped 'long at a pretty fair
hickory, so thet I was up on the bluff yonder, and saw ye go into camp
yere just afore dark. You wus a-keepin' yer eyes skinned across the
Fourche, and naturally didn't expect no callers from them hills behind.
The rest wus nuthin', an' here I am. It's a darn sight pleasanter ter
hev company travellin', ter my notion. Now kin I cum on?"
Murphy reluctantly lowered his Colt, every movement betraying
annoyance. "I reckon. But I 'd--a damn sight--rather risk it--alone."
The stranger came forward without further hesitation. The night was
far too dark to reveal features, but to Murphy's strained vision the
newcomer appeared somewhat slender in build, and of good height.
"Whar'd--ye say ye--wus bound?"
"Mouth o' the Powder. We kin ride tergether fer a night or two."
"Ye kin--do as ye--please, but--I ain't a huntin'--no company,--an' I'm
a'--goin' 'cross now."
He advanced a few strides toward his horses. Then suddenly he gave
vent to a smothered cry, so startling as to cause the stranger to
spring hastily after him.
"Oh! My God! Oh! Look there!"
"What is it, man?"
"There! there! The picture! Don't you see?"
"Naw; I don't see nuthin'. Ye ain't gone cracked, hev ye? Whose
picture?"
"It's there!--O Lord!--it's there! My God! can't ye see?--An' it's his
face--all a-gleamin' with green flames--Holy Mary--an' I ain't seen
it--afore in--fifteen year!"
He seemed suddenly to collapse, and the stranger permitted him to drop
limp to the earth.
"Darn if I kin see anythin', old man, but I 'll scout 'round thar a
bit, jest ter ease yer mind, an' see what I kin skeer up."
He had hardly taken a half-dozen steps before Murphy called after him:
"Don't--don't go an' leave me--it's not there now--thet's queer!"
The other returned and stood gazing down upon his huddled figure.
"You're a fine scout! afeard o' spooks. Do ye take these yere turns
often? Fer if ye do, I reckon as how I 'd sooner be ridin' alone."
Murphy struggled to his feet and gripped the other's arm. "Never hed
nuthin' like it--afore. But--but it was thar--all creepy--an'
green--ain't seen thet face--in fifteen year."
"What face?"
"A--a fellow I knew--once. He--he's dead."
The other grunted, disdainfully. "Bad luck ter see them sort," he
volunteered, solemnly. "Blame glad it warn't me es see it, an' I don't
know as I keer much right now 'bout keepin' company with ye fer very
long. However, I reckon if either of us calculates on doin' much
ridin' ternight, we better stop foolin' with ghosts, an' go ter
saddlin' up."
They made rapid work of it, the newcomer proving somewhat loquacious,
yet holding his voice to a judicious whisper, while Murphy relapsed
into his customary sullen silence, but continued peering about
nervously. It was he who led the way down the bank, the four horses
slowly splashing through the shallow water to the northern shore.
Before them stretched a broad plain, the surface rocky and uneven, the
northern stars obscured by ridges of higher land. Murphy promptly gave
his horse the spur, never once glancing behind, while the other
imitated his example, holding his animal well in check, being
apparently the better mounted.
They rode silently. The unshod hoofs made little noise, but a loosened
canteen tinkled on Murphy's led horse, and he halted to fix it,
uttering a curse. The way became more broken and rough as they
advanced, causing them to exercise greater caution. Murphy clung to
the hollows, apparently guided by some primitive instinct to choose the
right path, or else able, like a cat, to see the way through the gloom,
his beacon a huge rock to the northward. Silently hour after hour,
galloping, trotting, walking, according to the ground underfoot, the
two pressed grimly forward, with the unerring skill of the border, into
the untracked wilderness. Flying clouds obscured the stars, yet
through the rifts they caught fleeting glimpses sufficient to hold them
to their course. And the encroaching hills swept in closer upon either
hand, leaving them groping their way between as in a pocket, yet ever
advancing north.
Finally they attained to the steep bank of a considerable stream, found
the water of sufficient depth to compel swimming, and crept up the
opposite shore dripping and miserable, yet with ammunition dry. Murphy
stood swearing disjointedly, wiping the blood from a wound in his
forehead where the jagged edge of a rock had broken the skin, but
suddenly stopped with a quick intake of breath that left him panting.
The other man crept toward him, leading his horse.
"What is it now?" he asked, gruffly. "Hev' ye got 'em agin?"
The dazed old scout stared, pointing directly across the other's
shoulder, his arm shaking desperately.
"It's thar!--an' it's his face! Oh, God!--I know it--fifteen year."
The man glanced backward into the pitch darkness, but without moving
his body.
"There 's nuthin' out there, 'less it's a firefly," he insisted, in a
tone of contempt. "You're plum crazy, Murphy; the night's got on yer
nerves. What is it ye think ye see?"
"His face, I tell ye! Don't I know? It's all green and ghastly, with
snaky flames playin' about it! But I know; fifteen years, an' I ain't
fergot."
He sank down feebly--sank until he was on his knees, his head craned
forward. The man watching touched the miserable, hunched-up figure
compassionately, and it shook beneath his hand, endeavoring to shrink
away.
"My God! was thet you? I thought it was him a-reachin' fer me. Here,
let me take yer hand. Oh, Lord! An' can't ye see? It's just there
beyond them horses--all green, crawlin', devilish--but it's him."
"Who?"
"Brant! Brant--fifteen year!"
"Brant? Fifteen years? Do you mean Major Brant, the one Nolan killed
over at Bethune?"
"He--he didn't--"
The old man heaved forward, his head rocking from side to side; then
suddenly he toppled over on his face, gasping for breath. His
companion caught him, and ripped open the heavy flannel shirt. Then he
strode savagely across in front of his shrinking horse, tore down the
flaring picture, and hastily thrust it into his pocket, the light of
the phosphorus with which it had been drawn being reflected for a
moment on his features.
"A dirty, miserable, low-down trick," he muttered. "Poor old devil!
Yet I've got to do it, for the little girl."
He stumbled back through the darkness, his hat filled with water, and
dashed it into Murphy's face. "Come on, Murphy! There's one good
thing 'bout spooks; they don't hang 'round fer long at a time. Likely
es not this 'un is gone by now. Brace up, man, for you an' I have got
ter get out o' here afore mornin'."
Then Murphy grasped his arm, and drew himself slowly to his feet.
"Don't see nuthin' now, do ye?"
"No. Where's my--horse?"
The other silently reached him the loose rein, marking as he did so the
quick, nervous peering this way and that, the starting at the slightest
sound.
"Did ye say, Murphy, as how it wasn't Nolan after all who plugged the
Major?"
"I 'm damned--if I did. Who--else was it?"
"Why, I dunno. Sorter blamed odd though, thet ghost should be
a-hauntin' ye. Darn if it ain't creepy 'nough ter make a feller
believe most anythin'."
Murphy drew himself up heavily into his saddle. Then all at once he
shoved the muzzle of a "45" into the other's face. "Ye say nuther
word--'bout thet, an' I 'll make--a ghost outer ye--blame lively. Now,
ye shet up--if ye ride with me."
They moved forward at a walk and reached a higher level, across which
the night wind swept, bearing a touch of cold in its breath as though
coming from the snow-capped mountains to the west. There was renewed
life in this invigorating air, and Murphy spurred forward, his
companion pressing steadily after. They were but two flitting shadows
amid that vast desolation of plain and mountain, their horses' hoofs
barely audible. What imaginings of evil, what visions of the past, may
have filled the half-crazed brain of the leading horseman is
unknowable. He rode steadily against the black night wall, as though
unconscious of his actions, yet forgetting no trick, no skill of the
plains. But the equally silent man behind clung to him like a shadow
of doom, watching his slightest motion--a Nemesis that would never let
go.
When the first signs of returning day appeared in the east, the two
left their horses in a narrow canyon, and crept to the summit of a
ridge. Below lay the broad valley of the Powder. Slowly the misty
light strengthened into gray, and became faintly tinged with crimson,
while the green and brown tints deepened beneath the advancing light,
which ever revealed new clefts in the distant hills. Amid those more
northern bluffs a thin spiral of blue smoke was ascending. Undoubtedly
it was some distant Indian signal, and the wary old plainsman watched
it as if fascinated. But the younger man lay quietly regarding him, a
drawn revolver in his hand. Then Murphy turned his head, and looked
back into the other's face.
CHAPTER IV
THE VERGE OF CONFESSION
Murphy uttered one sputtering cry of surprise, flinging his hand
instinctively to his hip, but attempted no more. Hampton's ready
weapon was thrusting its muzzle into the astounded face, and the gray
eyes gleaming along the polished barrel held the fellow motionless.
"Hands up! Not a move, Murphy! I have the drop!" The voice was low,
but stern, and the old frontiersman obeyed mechanically, although his
seamed face was fairly distorted with rage.
"You! Damn you!--I thought I knew--the voice."
"Yes, I am here all right. Rather odd place for us to meet, isn't it?
But, you see, you've had the advantage all these years; you knew whom
you were running away from, while I was compelled to plod along in the
dark. But I 've caught up just the same, if it has been a long race."
"What do ye--want me fer?" The look in the face was cunning.
"Hold your hands quiet--higher, you fool! That's it. Now, don't play
with me. I honestly didn 't know for certain I did want you, Murphy,
when I first started out on this trip. I merely suspected that I
might, from some things I had been told. When somebody took the
liberty of slashing at my back in a poker-room at Glencaid, and drove
the knife into Slavin by mistake, I chanced to catch a glimpse of the
hand on the hilt, and there was a scar on it. About fifteen years
before, I was acting as officer of the guard one night at Bethune. It
was a bright starlit night, you remember, and just as I turned the
corner of the old powder-house there came a sudden flash, a report, a
sharp cry. I sprang forward only to fall headlong over a dead body;
but in that flash I had seen the hand grasping the revolver, and there
was a scar on the back of it, a very peculiar scar. It chanced I had
the evening previous slightly quarrelled with the officer who was
killed; I was the only person known to be near at the time he was shot;
certain other circumstantial evidence was dug up, while Slavin and one
other--no, it was not you--gave some damaging, manufactured testimony
against me. As a result I was held guilty of murder in the second
degree, dismissed the army in disgrace, and sentenced to ten years'
imprisonment. So, you see, it was not exactly you I have been hunting,
Murphy,--it was a scar."
Murphy's face was distorted into a hideous grin. "I notice you bear
exactly that kind of a scar, my man, and you spoke last night as if you
had some recollection of the case."
The mocking grin expanded; into the husky voice crept a snarl of
defiance, for now Murphy's courage had come back--he was fronting flesh
and blood. "Oh, stop preachin'--an' shoot--an' be damned ter ye!"
"You do me a grave injustice, Murphy. In the first place, I do not
possess the nature of an Indian, and am not out for revenge. Your
slashing at me down in Glencaid has n't left so much as a sting behind.
It's completely blotted out, forgotten. I haven't the slightest desire
to kill you, man; but I do want to clear my name of the stain of that
crime. I want you to tell the whole truth about that night's work at
Bethune; and when you have done so, you can go. I 'll never lay a
finger on you; you can go where you please."
"Bah!--ye ain't got no proof--agin me--'sides, the case is closed--it
can't be opened agin--by law."
"You devil! I 'd be perfectly justified in killing you," exclaimed
Hampton, savagely.
Murphy stared at him stupidly, the cunning of incipient insanity in his
eyes. "En' whar--do ye expect--me ter say--all this, pervidin', of
course--I wus fule 'nough--ter do it?"
"Up yonder before Custer and the officers of the Seventh, when we get
in."
"They'd nab me--likely."
"Now, see here, you say it is impossible for them to touch you, because
the case is closed legally. Now, you do not care very much for the
opinion of others, while from every other standpoint you feel perfectly
safe. But I 've had to suffer for your crime, Murphy, suffer for
fifteen years, ten of them behind stone walls; and there are others who
have suffered with me. It has cost me love, home, all that a man holds
dear. I 've borne this punishment for you, paid the penalty of your
act to the full satisfaction of the law. The very least you can do in
ordinary decency is to speak the truth now. It will not hurt you, but
it will lift me out of hell."
Murphy's eyes were cunning, treacherously shifting under the thatch of
his heavy brows; he was like an old rat seeking for any hole of refuge.
"Well--maybe I might. Anyhow, I'll go on--with ye. Kin I sit up? I
'm dog tired--lyin' yere."
"Unbuckle your belt, and throw that over first."
"I'm damned--if I will. Not--in no Injun--country."
"I know it's tough," retorted Hampton, with exasperating coolness, his
revolver's muzzle held steady; "but, just the same, it's got to be
done. I know you far too well to take chances on your gun. So
unlimber."
"Oh, I--guess not," and Murphy spat contemptuously. "Do ye think--I 'm
afeard o' yer--shootin'? Ye don't dare--fer I 'm no good ter ye--dead."
"You are perfectly right. You are quite a philosopher in your way.
You would be no good to me dead, Murphy, but you might prove fully as
valuable maimed. Now I 'm playing this game to the limit, and that
limit is just about reached. You unlimber before I count ten, you
murderer, or I 'll spoil both your hands!"
The mocking, sardonic grin deserted Murphy's features. It was sullen
obstinacy, not doubt of the other's purpose, that paralyzed him.
"Unlimber! It's the last call."
With a snarl the scout unclasped his army belt, dropped it to the
ground, and sullenly kicked it over toward Hampton. "Now--now--you,
you gray-eyed--devil, kin I--sit up?"
The other nodded. He had drawn the fangs of the wolf, and now that he
no longer feared, a sudden, unexplainable feeling of sympathy took
possession of him. Yet he drew farther away before slipping his own
gun into its sheath. For a time neither spoke, their eyes peering
across the ridge. Murphy sputtered and swore, but his victorious
companion neither spoke nor moved. There were several distant smokes
out to the northward now, evidently the answering signals of different
bands of savages, while far away, beneath the shadow of the low bluffs
bordering the stream, numerous black, moving dots began to show against
the light brown background. Hampton, noticing that Murphy had stopped
swearing to gaze, swung forward his field-glasses for a better view.
"They are Indians, right enough," he said, at last. "Here, take a
look, Murphy. I could count about twenty in that bunch, and they are
travelling north."
The older man adjusted the tubes to his eyes, and looked long and
steadily at the party. Then he slowly swung the glasses toward the
northwest, apparently studying the country inch by inch, his jaws
working spasmodically, his unoccupied hand clutching nervously at the
grass.
"They seem--to be a-closin' in," he declared, finally, staring around
into the other's face, all bravado gone. "There's anuther lot--bucks,
all o' 'em--out west yonder--an' over east a smudge is--just startin'.
Looks like--we wus in a pocket--an' thar' might be some--har-raisin'
fore long."
"Well, Murphy, you are the older hand at this business. What do you
advise doing?"
"Me? Why, push right 'long--while we kin keep under cover.
Then--after dark--trust ter bull luck an' make--'nuther dash. It's
mostly luck, anyhow. Thet canyon just ahead--looks like it leads a
long way--toward the Powder. Its middling deep down, an' if there
ain't Injuns in it--them fellers out yonder--never cud git no sight at
us. Thet's my notion--thet ivery mile helps in this--business."
"You mean we should start now?"
"Better--let the cattle rest--first. An'--if ye ever feed prisoners--I
'd like ter eat a bite--mesilf."
They rested there for over two hours, the tired horses contentedly
munching the succulent grass of the _coulée_, their two masters
scarcely exchanging a word. Murphy, after satisfying his appetite,
rested flat upon his back, one arm flung over his eyes to protect them
from the sun. For a considerable time Hampton supposed him asleep,
until he accidentally caught the stealthy glance which followed his
slightest movement, and instantly realized that the old weasel was
alert. Murphy had been beaten, yet evidently remained unconquered,
biding his chance with savage stoicism, and the other watched him
warily even while seeming to occupy himself with the field-glass.
At last they saddled up, and, at first leading their horses, passed
down the _coulée_ into the more precipitous depths of the narrow
canyon. This proved hardly more than a gash cut through the rolling
prairie, rock strewn, holding an insignificant stream of brackish
water, yet was an ideal hiding-place, having ample room for easy
passage between the rock walls. The men mounted, and Hampton, with a
wave of his hand, bade the old scout assume the lead.
Their early advance was slow and cautious, as they never felt certain
what hidden enemies might lurk behind the sharp corners of the winding
defile, and they kept vigilant eyes upon the serrated sky-line. The
savages were moving north, and so were they. It would be remarkably
good fortune if they escaped running into some wandering band, or if
some stray scout did not stumble upon their trail. So they continued
to plod on.
It was fully three o'clock when they attained to the bank of the
Powder, and crouched among the rocks to wait for the shades of night to
shroud their further advance. Murphy climbed the bluff for a wider
view, bearing Hampton's field-glasses slung across his shoulder, for
the latter would not leave him alone with the horses. He returned
finally to grunt out that there was nothing special in sight, except a
shifting of those smoke signals to points farther north. Then they lay
down again, Hampton smoking, Murphy either sleeping or pretending to
sleep. And slowly the shadows of another black night swept down and
shut them in.
It must have been two hours later when they ventured forth. Silence
and loneliness brooded everywhere, not so much as a breath of air
stirring the leaves. The unspeakable, unsolvable mystery of it all
rested like a weight on the spirits of both men. It, was a disquieting
thought that bands of savages, eager to discover and slay, were
stealing among the shadows of those trackless plains, and that they
must literally feel their uncertain way through the cordon, every sound
an alarm, every advancing step a fresh peril. They crossed the swift,
deep stream, and emerged dripping, chilled to the marrow by the icy
water. Then they swung stiffly into the wet saddles, and plunged, with
almost reckless abandon, through the darkness. Murphy continued to
lead, the light tread of his horse barely audible, Hampton pressing
closely behind, revolver in hand, the two pack-horses trailing in the
rear. Hampton had no confidence in his sullen, treacherous companion;
he looked for early trouble, yet he had little fear regarding any
attempt at escape now. Murphy was a plainsman, and would realize the
horror of being alone, unarmed, and without food on those demon-haunted
prairies. Besides, the silent man behind was astride the better animal.
Midnight, and they pulled up amid the deeper gloom of a great,
overhanging bluff, having numerous trees near its summit. There was
the glow of a distant fire upon their left, which reddened the sky, and
reflected oddly on the edges of a vast cloud-mass rolling up
threateningly from the west. Neither knew definitely where they were,
although Murphy guessed the narrow stream they had just forded might be
the upper waters of the Tongue. Their horses stood with heads hanging
wearily down, their sides rising and falling; and Hampton, rolling
stiffly from the saddle, hastily loosened his girth.
"They 'll drop under us if we don't give them an hour or two," he said,
quietly. "They 're both dead beat."
Murphy muttered something, incoherent and garnished with oaths, and the
moment he succeeded in releasing the buckle, sank down limp at the very
feet of his horse, rolling up into a queer ball. The other stared, and
took a step nearer.
"What's the matter? Are you sick, Murphy?"
"No--tired--don't want ter see--thet thing agin."
"What thing?"
"Thet green, devilish,--crawlin' face--if ye must know!" And he
twisted his long, ape-like arms across his eyes, lying curled up as a
dog might.
For a moment Hampton stood gazing down upon him, listening to his
incoherent mutterings, his own face grave and sympathetic. Then he
moved back and sat down. Suddenly the full conception of what this
meant came to his mind--_the man had gone mad_. The strained cords of
that diseased brain had snapped in the presence of imagined terrors,
and now all was chaos. The horror of it overwhelmed Hampton; not only
did this unexpected denouement leave him utterly hopeless, but what was
he to do with the fellow? How could he bring him forth from there
alive? If this stream was indeed the Tongue, then many a mile of rough
country, ragged with low mountains and criss-crossed by deep ravines,
yet stretched between where they now were and the Little Big Horn,
where they expected to find Custer's men. They were in the very heart
of the Indian country,--the country of the savage Sioux. He stared at
the curled-up man, now silent and breathing heavily as if asleep. The
silence was profound, the night so black and lonely that Hampton
involuntarily closed his heavy eyes to shut it out. If he only might
light a pipe, or boil himself a cup of black coffee! Murphy never
stirred; the horses were seemingly too weary to browse. Then Hampton
nodded, and sank into an uneasy doze.
CHAPTER V
ALONE WITH THE INSANE
Beneath the shade of uplifted arms Murphy's eyes remained unclosed.
Whatever terrors may have dominated that diseased brain, the one
purpose of revenge and escape never deserted it. With patient cunning
he could plan and wait, scheme and execute. He was all animal now,
dreaming only of how to tear and kill.
And he waited long in order to be perfectly sure, unrolling inch by
inch, and like a venomous snake, never venturing to withdraw his
baleful eyes from his unconscious victim. He was many minutes
thoroughly satisfying himself that Hampton actually slept. His every
movement was slow, crafty, cowardly, the savage in his perverted nature
becoming more and more manifest. It was more beast than man that
finally crept forward on all-fours, the eyes gleaming cruel as a cat's
in the night. It was not far he was compelled to go, his movements
squirming and noiseless. Within a yard of the peacefully slumbering
man he rose up, crouching on his toes and bending stealthily forward to
gloat over his victim. Hampton stirred uneasily, possibly feeling the
close proximity of that horrible presence. Then the maniac took one
more stealthy, slouching step nearer, and flung himself at the exposed
throat, uttering a fierce snarl as his fingers clutched the soft flesh.
Hampton awoke, gasping and choking, to find those mad eyes glaring into
his own, those murderous hands throttling him with the strength of
madness.
At first the stupefied, half-awakened man struggled as if in delirium,
scarcely realizing the danger. He was aware of suffering, of horror,
of suffocation. Then the brain flashed into life, and he grappled
fiercely with his dread antagonist. Murphy snapped like a mad dog, his
lips snarling curses; but Hampton fought silently, desperately, his
brain clearing as he succeeded in wrenching those claws from his
lacerated throat, and forced his way up on to one knee. He felt no
hatred toward this crazed man striving to kill him; he understood what
had loosed such a raging devil. But this was no time to exhibit mercy;
Murphy bit and clawed, and Hampton could only dash in upon him in the
effort to force him back. He worked his way, inch by inch, to his
feet, his slender figure rigid as steel, and closed in upon the other;
but Murphy writhed out of his grasp, as a snake might. The younger man
realized now to the full his peril, and his hand slipped down to the
gun upon his hip. There was a sudden glint in the faint starlight as
he struck, and the stunned maniac went down quivering, and lay
motionless on the hard ground. For a moment the other remained
standing over him, the heavy revolver poised, but the prostrate figure
lay still, and the conqueror slipped his weapon back into its leather
sheath with a sigh of relief.
The noise of their struggle must have carried far through that solemn
stillness, and no one could guess how near at hand might be bands of
prowling savages. Yet no sound came to his strained ears except the
soft soughing of the night wind through the trees, and the rustling of
grass beneath the tread of the horses. With the quick decision of one
long accustomed to meet emergencies, Hampton unbuckled the lariat from
one of the led animals, and bound Murphy's hands and limbs securely.
As he worked he thought rapidly. He comprehended the extreme
desperation of their present situation. While the revolver blow might
possibly restore Murphy to a degree of sanity, it was far more probable
that he would awaken violent. Yet he could not deliberately leave this
man to meet a fate of horror in the wilderness. Which way should they
turn? Enough food, if used sparingly, might remain to permit of a
hasty retreat to Cheyenne, and there would be comparatively little
danger in that direction. All visible signs indicated that the
scattered Indian bands were rapidly consolidating to the northward,
closing in on those troops scouting the Yellowstone, with determination
to give early battle. Granting that the stream they were now on should
prove to be the Tongue, then the direct route toward where Custer was
supposed to be would be northwest, leading ever deeper into the lonely
wilderness, and toward more imminent peril. Then, at the end of that
uncertain journey, they might easily miss Custer's column. That which
would have been quickly decided had he been alone became a most serious
problem when considered in connection with the insane, helpless scout.
But then, there were the despatches! They must be of vital importance
to have required the sending of Murphy forth on so dangerous a ride;
other lives, ay, the result of the entire campaign, might depend upon
their early delivery. Hampton had been a soldier, the spirit of the
service was still with him, and that thought brought him to final
decision. Unless they were halted by Sioux bullets, they would push on
toward the Big Horn, and Custer should have the papers.
He knelt down beside Murphy, unbuckled the leather despatch-bag, and
rebuckled it across his own shoulder. Then he set to work to revive
the prostrate man. The eyes, when opened, stared up at him, wild and
glaring; the ugly face bore the expression of abject fear. The man was
no longer violent; he had become a child, frightened at the dark. His
ceaseless babbling, his incessant cries of terror, only rendered more
precarious any attempt at pressing forward through a region overrun
with hostiles. But Hampton had resolved.
Securely strapping Murphy to his saddle, and packing all their
remaining store of provisions upon one horse, leaving the other to
follow or remain behind as it pleased, he advanced directly into the
hills, steering by aid of the stars, his left hand ever on Murphy's
bridle rein, his low voice of expostulation seeking to calm the other's
wild fancies and to curb his violent speech. It was a weird, wild ride
through the black night, unknown ground under foot, unseen dangers upon
every hand. Murphy's aberrations changed from shrieking terror to a
wild, uncontrollable hilarity, with occasional outbursts of violent
anger, when it required all Hampton's iron will and muscle to conquer
him.
At dawn they were in a narrow gorge among the hills, a dark and gloomy
hole, yet a peculiarly safe spot in which to hide, having steep, rocky
ledges on either side, with sufficient grass for the horses. Leaving
Murphy bound, Hampton clambered up the front of the rock to where he
was able to look out. All was silent, and his heart sank as he
surveyed the brown sterile hills stretching to the horizon, having
merely narrow gulches of rock and sand between, the sheer nakedness of
the picture unrelieved by green shrub or any living thing. Then,
almost despairing, he slid back, stretched himself out amid the soft
grass, and sank into the slumber of exhaustion, his last conscious
memory the incoherent babbling of his insane companion.