The big gambler was thinking harder then, perhaps, than he had ever thought in his life before.  He was no coward, although there was a yellow, wolfish streak of treachery in him, and he read clearly enough in the watchful eyes glowing behind that blue steel barrel a merciless determination which left him nerveless.  He knew Hampton would kill him if he needed to do so, but he likewise realized that he was not likely to fire until he had gained the information he was seeking.  Cunning pointed the only safe way out from this difficulty.  Lies had served his turn well before, and he hoped much from them now.  If he only knew how much information the other possessed, it would be easy enough.  As he did not, he must wield his weapon blindly.

“You ‘re makin’ a devil of a fuss over little or nuthin’,” he growled, simulating a tone of disgust.  “I never ain’t hed no quarrel with ye, exceptin’ fer the way ye managed ter skin me at the table bout two years ago.  I don’t give two screeches in hell for who you are; an’ besides, I reckon you ain’t the only ex-convict a-ranging Dakota either fer the matter o’ that.  No more does Murphy.  We ain’t no bloomin’ detectives, an’ we ain’t buckin’ in on no business o’ yourn; ye kin just bet your sweet life on thet.”

“Where is Murphy, then?  I wish to see the fellow.”

“I told you he’d gone.  Maybe he didn’t git away till this mornin’, but he’s gone now all right.  What in thunder do ye want o’ him?  I reckon I kin tell ye all thet Murphy knows.”

For a breathless moment neither spoke, Hampton fingering his gun nervously, his eyes lingering on that brutal face.

“Slavin,” he said at last, his voice hard, metallic, “I ’ve figured it out, and I do know you now, you lying brute.  You are the fellow who swore you saw me throw away the gun that did the shooting, and that afterwards you picked it up.”

There was the spirit of murder in his eyes, and the gambler cowered back before them, trembling like a child.

“I—­I only swore to the last part, Captain,” he muttered, his voice scarcely audible.  “I—­I never said I saw you throw—–­”

“And I swore,” went on Hampton, “that I would kill you on sight.  You lying whelp, are you ready to die?”

Slavin’s face was drawn and gray, the perspiration standing in beads upon his forehead, but he could neither speak nor think, fascinated by those remorseless eyes, which seemed to burn their way down into his very soul.

“No?  Well, then, I will give you, to-day, just one chance to live—­one, you dog—­one.  Don’t move an eyelash!  Tell me honestly why you have been trying to get word with the girl, and you shall go out from here living.  Lie to me about it, and I am going to kill you where you sit, as I would a mad dog.  You know me, Slavin—­now speak!”

So intensely still was it, Hampton could distinguish the faint ticking of the watch in his pocket, the hiss of the breath between the giant’s clinched teeth.  Twice the fellow tried to utter something, his lips shaking as with the palsy, his ashen face the picture of terror.  No wretch dragged shrieking to the scaffold could have formed a more pitiful sight, but there was no mercy in the eyes of the man watching him.