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Parrish, Randall, 1858-1923

"Bob Hampton of Placer"

"The hell!--and--did--she--call you--Brant?"
The young officer's face exhibited his disgust. Beyond doubt that
sequestered nook was a favorite lounging spot for the girl, and this
disreputable creature had been watching her for some sinister purpose.
"So you have been eavesdropping, have you?" said Brant, gravely. "And
now you want to try a turn at defaming a woman? Well, you have come to
a poor market for the sale of such goods. I am half inclined to throw
you bodily into the creek. I believe you are nothing but a common
liar, but I 'll give you one chance--you say you know her real name.
What is it?"
The eyes of the mummy had become spiteful.
"It's--none of--your damn--business. I'm--not under--your orders."
"Under my orders! Of course not; but what do you mean by that? Who
and what are you?"
The fellow stood up, slightly hump-backed but broad of shoulder, his
arms long, his legs short and somewhat bowed, his chin protruding
impudently, and Brant noticed an oddly shaped black scar, as if burned
there by powder, on the back of his right hand.
"Who--am I?" he said, angrily. "I'm--Silent--Murphy.


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