Murphy uttered one sputtering cry of surprise, flinging his hand
instinctively to his hip, but attempted no more. Hampton's ready
weapon was thrusting its muzzle into the astounded face, and the gray
eyes gleaming along the polished barrel held the fellow motionless.
"Hands up! Not a move, Murphy! I have the drop!" The voice was low,
but stern, and the old frontiersman obeyed mechanically, although his
seamed face was fairly distorted with rage.
"You! Damn you!--I thought I knew--the voice."
"Yes, I am here all right. Rather odd place for us to meet, isn't it?
But, you see, you've had the advantage all these years; you knew whom
you were running away from, while I was compelled to plod along in the
dark. But I 've caught up just the same, if it has been a long race."
"What do ye--want me fer?" The look in the face was cunning.
"Hold your hands quiet--higher, you fool! That's it. Now, don't play
with me. I honestly didn 't know for certain I did want you, Murphy,
when I first started out on this trip. I merely suspected that I
might, from some things I had been told. When somebody took the
liberty of slashing at my back in a poker-room at Glencaid, and drove
the knife into Slavin by mistake, I chanced to catch a glimpse of the
hand on the hilt, and there was a scar on it. About fifteen years
before, I was acting as officer of the guard one night at Bethune. It
was a bright starlit night, you remember, and just as I turned the
corner of the old powder-house there came a sudden flash, a report, a
sharp cry. I sprang forward only to fall headlong over a dead body;
but in that flash I had seen the hand grasping the revolver, and there
was a scar on the back of it, a very peculiar scar. It chanced I had
the evening previous slightly quarrelled with the officer who was
killed; I was the only person known to be near at the time he was shot;
certain other circumstantial evidence was dug up, while Slavin and one
other--no, it was not you--gave some damaging, manufactured testimony
against me. As a result I was held guilty of murder in the second
degree, dismissed the army in disgrace, and sentenced to ten years'
imprisonment. So, you see, it was not exactly you I have been hunting,
Murphy,--it was a scar."
Murphy's face was distorted into a hideous grin. "I notice you bear
exactly that kind of a scar, my man, and you spoke last night as if you
had some recollection of the case."