"How do you know?"

There was no reply, although the thick lips appeared to move.

"Answer me, you red sneak! Do you think I am here to be played with?
Answer!"

Slavin gulped down something which seemed threatening to choke him, but
he durst not lift a hand to wipe the sweat from his face. "If--if I
didn't have this beard on you might guess. I thought you knew me all
the time."

Hampton stared at him, still puzzled. "I have certainly seen you
somewhere. I thought that from the first. Where was it?"

"I was in D Troop, Seventh Cavalry."

"D Troop? Brant's troop?"

The big gambler nodded. "That's how I knew you, Captain," he said,
speaking with greater ease, "but I never had no reason to say anything
about it round here. You was allers decent 'nough ter me."

"Possibly,"--and it was plainly evident from his quiet tone Hampton had
steadied from his first surprise,--"the boot was on the other leg, and
you had some good reason not to say anything."

Slavin did not answer, but he wet his lips with his tongue, his eyes on
the window.

"Who is this fellow Murphy?"

"He was corporal in that same troop, sir." The ex-cavalryman dropped
insensibly into his old form of speech. "He knew you too, and we
talked it over, and decided to keep still, because it was none of our
affair anyhow."

"Where is he now?"

"He left last night with army despatches for Cheyenne."

Hampton's eyes hardened perceptibly, and his fingers closed more
tightly about the butt of his revolver. "You lie, Slavin! The last
message did not reach here until this morning. That fellow is hiding
somewhere in this camp, and the two of you have been trying to get at
the girl. Now, damn you, what is your little game?"

The big gambler was thinking harder then, perhaps, than he had ever
thought in his life before. He was no coward, although there was a
yellow, wolfish streak of treachery in him, and he read clearly enough
in the watchful eyes glowing behind that blue steel barrel a merciless
determination which left him nerveless. He knew Hampton would kill him
if he needed to do so, but he likewise realized that he was not likely
to fire until he had gained the information he was seeking. Cunning
pointed the only safe way out from this difficulty. Lies had served
his turn well before, and he hoped much from them now. If he only knew
how much information the other possessed, it would be easy enough. As
he did not, he must wield