He had passed through two
eventful weeks of unremitting service, being on duty both night and
day, and now, the final despatches forwarded, he felt entitled to enjoy
a period of well-earned repose.
"Could you inform me where I might find Silent Murphy, a government
scout?"
The voice had the unmistakable ring of military authority, and the
soldier operator instinctively dropped his feet to the floor.
"Well, my lad, you are not dumb, are you?"
The telegrapher's momentary hesitation vanished; his ambition to become
a martyr to the strict laws of service secrecy was not sufficiently
strong to cause him to take the doubtful chances of a lie. "He was
here, but has gone."
"Where?"
"The devil knows. He rode north, carrying despatches for Custer."
"When?"
"Oh, three or four hours ago."
Hampton swore softly but fervently, behind his clinched teeth.
"Where is Custer?"
"Don't know exactly. Supposed to be with Terry and Gibbons, somewhere
near the mouth of the Powder, although he may have left there by this
time, moving down the Yellowstone. That was the plan mapped out.
Murphy's orders were to intercept his column somewhere between the
Rosebud and the Big Horn, and I figure there is about one chance out of
a hundred that the Indians let him get that far alive.
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