"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. 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?"