Even
Indian-scouting degenerates into a commonplace at last. So Murphy
puffed contentedly at his old pipe. Whatever may have been his
thoughts, they did not burst through his taciturnity, and he reclined
there motionless, no sound breaking the silence, save the rippling
waters of the Fourche, and the occasional stamping of his horses as
they cropped the succulent valley grass.
But suddenly there was the faint crackle of a branch to his left, and
one hand instantly closed over his pipe bowl, the other grasping the
heavy revolver at his hip. Crouching like a startled tiger, with not a
muscle moving, he peered anxiously into the darkness, his arm half
extended, scarcely venturing to breathe. There came a plain,
undisguised rustling in the grass,--some prowling coyote, probably;
then his tense muscles immediately relaxed, and he cursed himself for
being so startled, yet he continued to grasp the "45" in his right
hand, his eyes alert.
"Murphy!"
That single word, hurled thus unexpectedly out of the black night,
startled him more than would a volley of rifles. He sprang half erect,
then as swiftly crouched behind a willow, utterly unable to articulate.
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