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."