"EDWARD HARVEY."

The major dropped the paper, fairly stunned with dismay. Feeny sprang
forward, picked it up, and eagerly scrutinized the page. Mullan,
standing unsteadily at the head of his wearied and dejected horse, was
looking on with glassy eyes, his lips vainly striving to frame further
particulars. Leaving their supper unfinished, the other men of the
little squad had come tumbling out into the summer night. No one paid
other heed to the trooper sprawling in the sand. Already in deep,
drunken slumber, he was breathing stertorously. Feeny's eyes seemed
fastened to the letter. Line by line, word by word, again and again he
spelled it through. Suddenly he leaped forward and clutched Mullan at
the throat, shaking him violently.

"Answer now. Hware'd you get your liquor? Didn't this fellow give it
to you?"

"On my honor--no, sarsh'nt, 'pon my 'on--"

"Oh, to hell with your honor and you with it! Hware'd you get it if it
wasn't from him? Shure you've not been near Ceralvo's?"

"No, sarsh'nt, no Ceralvo's. We met couple gen'l'men--perfec'
gen'l'men, ranchers; they were going after the Indians. They gave us
jus' o-one drink--'piece. Jus' five minutes--go."

"How far away was this? Hware were they? Answer or, damn you, I'll
shake the truth out of you!" shouted Feeny, suiting action to word.
"Spake before you, too, are lying like that other hog. Did you ever
see the camp? Did you ever get to the crossing at all? Douse a dipper