ould never let
go.

When the first signs of returning day appeared in the east, the two
left their horses in a narrow canyon, and crept to the summit of a
ridge. Below lay the broad valley of the Powder. Slowly the misty
light strengthened into gray, and became faintly tinged with crimson,
while the green and brown tints deepened beneath the advancing light,
which ever revealed new clefts in the distant hills. Amid those more
northern bluffs a thin spiral of blue smoke was ascending. Undoubtedly
it was some distant Indian signal, and the wary old plainsman watched
it as if fascinated. But the younger man lay quietly regarding him, a
drawn revolver in his hand. Then Murphy turned his head, and looked
back into the other's face.

CHAPTER IV

THE VERGE OF CONFESSION

Murphy uttered one sputtering cry of surprise, flinging his hand
instinctively to his hip, but attempted no more. Hampton's ready
weapon was thrusting its muzzle into the astounded face, and the gray
eyes gleaming along the polished barrel held the fellow motionless.

"Hands up! Not a move, Murphy! I have the drop!" The voice was low,
but stern, and the old frontiersman obeyed mechanically, although his
seamed face was fairly distorted with rage.

"You! Damn you!--I thought I knew--the voice."

"Yes, I am here all right. Rather odd place for us to meet, isn't it?
But, you see, you've had the advantage all these years; you knew whom
you were running away from, while I was compelled to plod along in the
dark. But I 've caught up just the same, if it has been a long race."

"What do ye--want me fer?" The look in the face was cunning.

"Hold your hands quiet--higher, you fool! That's it. Now, don't play
with me. I honestly didn 't know for certain I did want you, Murphy,
when I first started out on this trip. I merely suspected that I
might, from some things I had been told. When somebody took the
liberty of slashing at my back in a poker-room at Glencaid, and drove
the knife into Slavin by mistake, I chanced to catch a glimpse of the
hand on the hilt, and there was a scar on it. About fifteen years
before, I was acting as officer of the guard one night at Bethune. It
was a bright starlit night, you remember, and just as I turned the
corner of the old powder-house there came a sudden flash, a report, a
sharp cry. I sprang forward only to fall headlong over a dead body;
but in that flash I had seen the hand grasping the revolv