I had an
idea they could tell me. So, for a starter, I tackled Slavin,
supposing we were alone, and I was pumping the facts out of him
successfully by holding a gun under his nose, and occasionally jogging
his memory, when this fellow Murphy got excited, and _chasseed_ into
the game, but happened to nip his partner instead of me. In the course
of our little scuffle I chanced to catch a glimpse of the fellow's
right hand, and it had a scar on the back of it that looked mighty
familiar. I had seen it before, and I wanted to see it again. So,
when I got out of that scrape, and the doctor had dug a stray bullet
out of my anatomy, there did n't seem to be any one left for me to
chase excepting Murphy, for Slavin was dead. I was n't exactly sure he
was the owner of that scar, but I had my suspicions and wanted to
verify them. Having struck his trail, I reached Cheyenne just about
four hours after he left there with these despatches for the Big Horn.
I caught up with the fellow on the south bank of the Belle Fourche, and
being well aware that no threats or gun play would ever force him to
confess the truth, I undertook to frighten him by trickery.
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