He had, by persistent questioning, acquired considerable information, during that busy hour spent in Cheyenne, regarding the untracked regions lying before him, as well as the character and disposition of the man he pursued.  Both by instinct and training he was able to comprehend those brief hints that must prove of vast benefit in the pathless wilderness.  But the time had not yet arrived for him to dwell on such matters.  His thoughts were concentrated on Murphy.  He knew that the fellow was a stubborn, silent, sullen savage, devoid of physical fear, yet cunning, wary, malignant, and treacherous.  That was what they said of him back in Cheyenne.  What, then, would ever induce such a man to open his mouth in confession of a long-hidden crime?  To be sure, he might easily kill the fellow, but he would probably die, like a wild beast, without uttering a word.

There was one chance, a faint hope, that behind his gruff, uncouth exterior this Murphy possessed a conscience not altogether dead.  Over some natures, and not infrequently to those which seem outwardly the coarsest, superstition wields a power the normal mind can scarcely comprehend.  Murphy might be spiritually as cringing a coward as he was physically a fearless desperado.  Hampton had known such cases before; he had seen men laugh scornfully before the muzzle of a levelled gun, and yet tremble when pointed at by the finger of accusation.  He had lived sufficiently long on the frontier to know that men may become inured to that special form of danger to which they have grown accustomed through repetition, and yet fail to front the unknown and mysterious.  Perhaps here might be discovered Murphy’s weak point.  Without doubt the man was guilty of crime; that its memory continued to haunt him was rendered evident by his hiding in Glencaid, and by his desperate attempt to kill Hampton.  That knife-thrust must have been given with the hope of thus stopping further investigation; it alone was sufficient proof that Murphy’s soul was haunted by fear.

“Conscience doth make cowards of us all.”  These familiar words floated in Hampton’s memory, seeming to attune themselves to the steady gallop of his horse.  They appealed to him as a direct message of guidance.  The night was already dark, but stars were gleaming brilliantly overhead, and the trail remained easily traceable.  It became terribly lonely on that wilderness stretching away for unknown leagues in every direction, yet Hampton scarcely noted this, so watchful was he lest he miss the trail.  To his judgment, Murphy would not be likely to ride during the night until after he had crossed the Fourche.  There was no reason to suspect that there were any hostile Indians south of that stream, and probably therefore the old scout would endeavor to conserve his own strength and that of his horses, for the more perilous travel beyond.  Hampton hastened on, his eyes peering anxiously ahead into the steadily increasing gloom.