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.




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