Bob Hampton of Placer

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.