Whatever may have been his thoughts, they did not burst through his taciturnity, and he reclined there motionless, no sound breaking the silence, save the rippling waters of the Fourche, and the occasional stamping of his horses as they cropped the succulent valley grass.
But suddenly there was the faint crackle of a branch to his left, and one hand instantly closed over his pipe bowl, the other grasping the heavy revolver at his hip.

Crouching like a startled tiger, with not a muscle moving, he peered anxiously into the darkness, his arm half extended, scarcely venturing to breathe.

There came a plain, undisguised rustling in the grass,--some prowling coyote, probably; then his tense muscles immediately relaxed, and he cursed himself for being so startled, yet he continued to grasp the "45" in his right hand, his eyes alert.
"Murphy!" That single word, hurled thus unexpectedly out of the black night, startled him more than would a volley of rifles.

He sprang half erect, then as swiftly crouched behind a willow, utterly unable to articulate.
In God's name, what human could be out there to call?
He would have sworn that there was not another white man within a radius of a hundred miles.

For the instant his very blood ran cold; he appeared to shrivel up.
"Oh, come, Murphy; speak up, man; I know you're in here." That terror of the unknown instantly vanished.