The scout nodded carelessly.
"Why did you not come down there, and report your presence in this
neighborhood to me?"
Murphy grinned unpleasantly. "Rather be--alone--no report--been
over--Black Range--telegraphed--wait orders."
"Do you mean you are in direct communication with headquarters, with
Custer?"
The man answered, with a wide sweep of his long arm toward the
northwest. "Goin' to--be hell--out there--damn soon."
"How? Are things developing into a truly serious affair--a real
campaign?"
"Every buck--in the--Sioux nation--is makin'--fer the--bad lands," and
he laughed noiselessly, his nervous fingers gesticulating. "I--guess
that--means--business."
Brant hesitated. Should he attempt to learn more about the young girl?
Instinctively he appreciated the futility of endeavoring to extract
information from Murphy, and he experienced a degree of shame at thus
seeking to penetrate her secret. Besides, it was none of his affair,
and if ever it should chance to become so, surely there were more
respectable means by which he could obtain information. He glanced
about, seeking some way of recrossing the stream.
"If you require any new equipment," he said tersely, "we can probably
supply you at the camp. How do you manage to get across here?"
Murphy, walking stiffly, led the way down the steep slope, and silently
pointed out a log bridging the narrow stream. He stood watching while
the officer picked his steps across, but made no responsive motion when
the other waved his hand from the opposite shore, his sallow face
looking grim and unpleasant.
"Damn--the luck!" he grumbled, shambling back up the bank. "It
don't--look--right. Three of 'em--all here--at once--in this--cussed
hole. Seems if--this yere world--ought ter be--big 'nough--ter keep
'em apart;--but hell--it ain't. Might make--some trouble--if
them--people--ever git--their heads--tergether talkin'. Hell of a
note--if the boy--falls in love with--her. Likely to do it--too.
Curse such--fool luck. Maybe I--better talk--it over again--with
Red--he's in it--damn near--as deep as--I am." And he sank down again
in his old position before the tent, continuing to mutter, his chin
sunk into his chest, his whole appearance that of deep dejection,
perhaps of dread.
The young officer marched down the road, his heedless feet kicking up
the red dust in clouds, his mind busied with the peculiar happenings of
the morning, and that prospect for early active service hinted at in
the brief utterances of the old scout. Brant was a thorough soldier,
born into the service and deeply enamored of its dangers; yet beyond
this he remained a man, a young man, swayed by those emotions which
when at full tide sweep aside all else appertaining to life.