Part 3 On The Little Big Horn Chapter 3 The Haunting of a Crime

"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."