Murphy’s eyes were cunning, treacherously shifting under the thatch of his heavy brows; he was like an old rat seeking for any hole of refuge.  “Well—­maybe I might.  Anyhow, I’ll go on—­with ye.  Kin I sit up?  I ‘m dog tired—­lyin’ yere.”

“Unbuckle your belt, and throw that over first.”

“I’m damned—­if I will.  Not—­in no Injun—­country.”

“I know it’s tough,” retorted Hampton, with exasperating coolness, his revolver’s muzzle held steady; “but, just the same, it’s got to be done.  I know you far too well to take chances on your gun.  So unlimber.”

“Oh, I—­guess not,” and Murphy spat contemptuously.  “Do ye think—­I ’m afeard o’ yer—­shootin’?  Ye don’t dare—­fer I ’m no good ter ye—­dead.”

“You are perfectly right.  You are quite a philosopher in your way.  You would be no good to me dead, Murphy, but you might prove fully as valuable maimed.  Now I ’m playing this game to the limit, and that limit is just about reached.  You unlimber before I count ten, you murderer, or I ’ll spoil both your hands!”

The mocking, sardonic grin deserted Murphy’s features.  It was sullen obstinacy, not doubt of the other’s purpose, that paralyzed him.

“Unlimber!  It’s the last call.”

With a snarl the scout unclasped his army belt, dropped it to the ground, and sullenly kicked it over toward Hampton.  “Now—­now—­you, you gray-eyed—­devil, kin I—­sit up?”

The other nodded.  He had drawn the fangs of the wolf, and now that he no longer feared, a sudden, unexplainable feeling of sympathy took possession of him.  Yet he drew farther away before slipping his own gun into its sheath.  For a time neither spoke, their eyes peering across the ridge.  Murphy sputtered and swore, but his victorious companion neither spoke nor moved.  There were several distant smokes out to the northward now, evidently the answering signals of different bands of savages, while far away, beneath the shadow of the low bluffs bordering the stream, numerous black, moving dots began to show against the light brown background.  Hampton, noticing that Murphy had stopped swearing to gaze, swung forward his field-glasses for a better view.

“They are Indians, right enough,” he said, at last.  “Here, take a look, Murphy.  I could count about twenty in that bunch, and they are travelling north.”

The older man adjusted the tubes to his eyes, and looked long and steadily at the party.  Then he slowly swung the glasses toward the northwest, apparently studying the country inch by inch, his jaws working spasmodically, his unoccupied hand clutching nervously at the grass.

“They seem—­to be a-closin’ in,” he declared, finally, staring around into the other’s face, all bravado gone.  “There’s anuther lot—­bucks, all o’ ’em—­out west yonder—­an’ over east a smudge is—­just startin’.  Looks like—­we wus in a pocket—­an’ thar’ might be some—­har-raisin’ fore long.”