Part 3 On The Little Big Horn Chapter 2 The Trail of Silent Murphy

"How far will he have to ride?"

"Oh, 'bout three hundred miles as the crow flies, a little west of
north, and the better part of the distance, they tell me, it's almighty
rough country for night work. But then Murphy, he knows the way all
right."

Hampton turned toward the door, feeling fairly sick from
disappointment. The operator stood regarding him curiously, a question
on his lips.

"Sorry you didn't come along a little earlier," he said, genially. "Do
you know Murphy?"

"I 'm not quite certain. Did you happen to notice a peculiar black
scar on the back of his right hand?"

"Sure; looks like the half of a pear. He said it was powder under the
skin."

A new look of reviving determination swept into Hampton's gloomy
eyes--beyond doubt this must be his man.

"How many horses did he have?"

"Two."

"Did you overhear him say anything definite about his plans for the
trip?"

"What, him? He never talks, that fellow. He can't do nothing but
sputter if he tries. But I wrote out his orders, and they give him to
the twenty-fifth to make the Big Horn. That's maybe something like
fifty miles a day, and he's most likely to keep his horses fresh just
as long as possible, so as to be good for the last spurt through the
hostile country. That's how I figure it, and I know something about
scouting. You was n't planning to strike out after him, was you?"