“Under my orders!  Of course not; but what do you mean by that?  Who and what are you?”

The fellow stood up, slightly hump-backed but broad of shoulder, his arms long, his legs short and somewhat bowed, his chin protruding impudently, and Brant noticed an oddly shaped black scar, as if burned there by powder, on the back of his right hand.

“Who—­am I?” he said, angrily.  “I’m—­Silent—­Murphy.”

An expression of bewilderment swept across the lieutenant’s face.  “Silent Murphy!  Do you claim to be Custer’s scout?”

The fellow nodded.  “Heard—­of me—­maybe?”

Brant stood staring at him, his mind occupied with vague garrison rumors connected with this odd personality.  The name had long been a familiar one, and he had often had the man pictured out before him, just such a wizened face and hunched-up figure, half crazed, at times malicious, yet keen and absolutely devoid of fear; acknowledged as the best scout in all the Indian country, a daring rider, an incomparable trailer, tireless, patient, and as tricky and treacherous as the wily savages he was employed to spy upon.  There could remain no reasonable doubt of his identity, but what was he doing there?  What purpose underlay his insinuations against that young girl?  If this was indeed Silent Murphy, he assuredly had some object in being there, and however hastily he may have spoken, it was not altogether probable that he deliberately lied.  All this flashed across his mind in that single instant of hesitation.

“Yes, I’ve heard of you,”—­and his crisp tone instinctively became that of terse military command,—­“although we have never met, for I have been upon detached service ever since my assignment to the regiment.  I have a troop in camp below,” he pointed down the stream, “and am in command here.”

The scout nodded carelessly.

“Why did you not come down there, and report your presence in this neighborhood to me?”

Murphy grinned unpleasantly.  “Rather be—­alone—­no report—­been over—­Black Range—­telegraphed—­wait orders.”

“Do you mean you are in direct communication with headquarters, with Custer?”

The man answered, with a wide sweep of his long arm toward the northwest.  “Goin’ to—­be hell—­out there—­damn soon.”

“How?  Are things developing into a truly serious affair—­a real campaign?”

“Every buck—­in the—­Sioux nation—­is makin’—­fer the—­bad lands,” and he laughed noiselessly, his nervous fingers gesticulating.  “I—­guess that—­means—­business.”

Brant hesitated.  Should he attempt to learn more about the young girl?  Instinctively he appreciated the futility of endeavoring to extract information from Murphy, and he experienced a degree of shame at thus seeking to penetrate her secret.  Besides, it was none of his affair, and if ever it should chance to become so, surely there were more respectable means by which he could obtain information.  He glanced about, seeking some way of recrossing the stream.