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Parrish, Randall, 1858-1923

"Bob Hampton of Placer"

No other scout
along this border would take such a detail. I know, for there were two
here who failed to make good when the job was thrown at them--just
naturally faded away," and the soldier's eyes sparkled. "But that old
devil of a Murphy just enjoys such a trip. He started off as happy as
ever I see him."
"How far will he have to ride?"
"Oh, 'bout three hundred miles as the crow flies, a little west of
north, and the better part of the distance, they tell me, it's almighty
rough country for night work. But then Murphy, he knows the way all
right."
Hampton turned toward the door, feeling fairly sick from
disappointment. The operator stood regarding him curiously, a question
on his lips.
"Sorry you didn't come along a little earlier," he said, genially. "Do
you know Murphy?"
"I 'm not quite certain. Did you happen to notice a peculiar black
scar on the back of his right hand?"
"Sure; looks like the half of a pear. He said it was powder under the
skin."
A new look of reviving determination swept into Hampton's gloomy
eyes--beyond doubt this must be his man.
"How many horses did he have?"
"Two.


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