He had, by persistent questioning, acquired considerable information,
during that busy hour spent in Cheyenne, regarding the untracked
regions lying before him, as well as the character and disposition of
the man he pursued. Both by instinct and training he was able to
comprehend those brief hints that must prove of vast benefit in the
pathless wilderness. But the time had not yet arrived for him to dwell
on such matters. His thoughts were concentrated on Murphy. He knew
that the fellow was a stubborn, silent, sullen savage, devoid of
physical fear, yet cunning, wary, malignant, and treacherous. That was
what they said of him back in Cheyenne. What, then, would ever induce
such a man to open his mouth in confession of a long-hidden crime? To
be sure, he might easily kill the fellow, but he would probably die,
like a wild beast, without uttering a word.
There was one chance, a faint hope, that behind his gruff, uncouth
exterior this Murphy possessed a conscience not altogether dead. Over
some natures, and not infrequently to those which seem outwardly the
coarsest, superstition wields a power the normal mind can scarcely
comprehend. Murphy might be spiritually as cringing a coward as he was
physically a fearless desperado. Hampton had known such cases before;
he had seen men laugh scornfully before the muzzle of a levelled gun,
and yet tremble when pointed at by the finger of accusation. He had
lived sufficiently long on the frontier to know that men may become
inured to that special form of danger to which they have grown
accustomed through repetition, and yet fail to front the unknown and
mysterious. Perhaps here might be discovered Murphy's weak point.
Without doubt the man was guilty of crime; that its memory continued to
haunt him was rendered evident by his hiding in Glencaid, and by his
desperate attempt to kill Hampton. That knife-thrust must have been
given with the hope of thus stopping further investigation; it alone
was sufficient proof that Murphy's soul was haunted by fear.
"Conscience doth make cowards of us all." These familiar words floated
in Hampton's memory, seeming to attune themselves to the steady gallop
of his horse. They appealed to him as a direct message of guidance.
The night was already dark, but stars were gleaming brilliantly
overhead, and the trail remained easily traceable. It became terribly
lonely on that wilderness stretching away for unknown leagues in every
direction, yet Hampton scarcely noted this, so watchful was he lest he
miss the trail. To his judgment, Murphy would not be likely to ride
during the night until after he had crossed the Fourche. There was no
reason to suspect that there were any hostile Indians south of that
stream, and probably therefore the old scout would endeavor to conserve
his own strength and that of his horses, for the more perilous travel
beyond. Hampton hastened on, his eyes peering anxiously ahead into the
steadily increasing gloom.