"If--if I
didn't have this beard on you might guess. I thought you knew me all
the time."
Hampton stared at him, still puzzled. "I have certainly seen you
somewhere. I thought that from the first. Where was it?"
"I was in D Troop, Seventh Cavalry."
"D Troop? Brant's troop?"
The big gambler nodded. "That's how I knew you, Captain," he said,
speaking with greater ease, "but I never had no reason to say anything
about it round here. You was allers decent 'nough ter me."
"Possibly,"--and it was plainly evident from his quiet tone Hampton had
steadied from his first surprise,--"the boot was on the other leg, and
you had some good reason not to say anything."
Slavin did not answer, but he wet his lips with his tongue, his eyes on
the window.
"Who is this fellow Murphy?"
"He was corporal in that same troop, sir." The ex-cavalryman dropped
insensibly into his old form of speech. "He knew you too, and we
talked it over, and decided to keep still, because it was none of our
affair anyhow."
"Where is he now?"
"He left last night with army despatches for Cheyenne."
Hampton's eyes hardened perceptibly, and his fingers closed more
tightly about the butt of his revolver.
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