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."




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