“It’s true, Henry. Give me shelter for one night, or until my hurts can be looked to. You will?”
“Of course—you are my brother still, though you had acted twice as bad as you have done. Come—let me help you.”
The settler, unsuspecting treachery, stepped out upon the porch, his countenance expressing his anxiety. Then Thompson nudged Jack Colton with his elbow, as he loosened his hold.
What followed was quick as thought. A bright flash—a sharp report—a death-cry of intense agony—a heavy fall upon the broad stone steps.
Then Colton, still clutching the smoking pistol, sprung forward and seizing his brother pushed him forcibly back into the building, in a moment closing the heavy oaken door and dropping the stout bars into place.
Inside the brothers—outside, what? A writhing, bleeding body from which the life was rapidly ebbing. Thompson the outlaw had been outwitted, and paid the penalty with his life!
As he gave Colton the signal that the time had come for his bloody deed, the young man turned his pistol against his breast and fired. With bullet-pierced breast, the outlaw fell, dying.
Henry Colton was thunderstruck. At first he believed that the assault was upon him, but when his brother closed and barred the door, with that horrible groaning outside, an inkling of the truth flashed upon his mind.
“What is this—what do you mean, Jack?” he gasped, bewildered.
“It means that I have saved your life, Henry, for the present. But come—is the house well secured? We’ll have a desperate fight on our hands before many minutes.”
“Yes—all is secure. But explain—I don’t understand. You are not hurt—that man lied?”
“No, I am well. That was part of a plot. But first—out with the light, then go and tell your wife that you are safe. Tell her that there is no real danger, for we can easily beat them off until day, and they’ll not dare stay longer, for fear of the neighbors. Go now—then hasten back here.”
Henry Colton followed his brother’s advice, for he heard his affrighted wife calling his name in anxious tones from the upper half-story, that answered for sleeping apartments. A true woman of the border, she felt safe on seeing him unhurt, and stilling the child, she hastily dressed and followed her husband to the lower floor.
“Mary, this is no place for you,” murmured Henry as she glided to his side. “Go and stay with Tommy. There may be danger here.”
“No more to me than to you, Henry. I can load your weapons for you, if you have not time. No—I will not go. Tommy is safe up stairs, and my place is here beside you.”
“Let her stay, Henry. It will show me what I have to make amends for. Mary,” added Jack, his voice sounding husky, “while I have time, let me pray your forgiveness. I was drunk and half crazy, or I would have known better than to have insulted you. You will try and forget my words?”
“Yes—and we will be true brother and sister after this. You can not guess how deeply it hurt me, knowing that I had caused hard feelings between you and Henry.”
“He was right—it was my fault. But I’ll make amends, if my life is spared.”
His brother understood this last remark though Mary did not, for Jack had, in a few hasty words, told him all. How, when driven from his home by his only brother, he had fallen into the tempter’s snare, and become one of Jasper Morton’s “Night Hawks.” He told him too of the death-doom sworn by the outlaws, and that while one of the Night Hawks lived, neither would be safe from danger. It was this thought that clouded both their brows.
Henry Colton marveled greatly that no attack had been made, though full quarter of an hour had elapsed since the fall of Thompson, but a word from Jack explained this. The Night Hawks, busy plundering the stables and corral, no doubt fancied that the death-cry proceeded from the settler, and that the chosen executioner had done his work well. But they would soon discover the truth, and then—
“Ha! it’s coming now!” muttered Jack Colton, in a low, strained tone, as a peculiar whistle came faintly to their ears. “That’s Morton’s signal to Thompson.”
“Stand in this corner, Mary, out of range. We must show the devils no mercy now, and remember that the more we lay out to-night, the less we will have to fight in the future,” sternly added the settler.
“If the moon only shone brighter!” muttered Jack, his eyes gleaming viciously. “I’d give my left hand for a fair shot at that devil, Morton!”
“I know him now. If he’s wise, he’ll keep out of range. Look! yonder they come!”
The rifles of the brothers clicked ominously, and then two dark muzzles protruded slightly from the small loop holes. The house had been built with an eye to defense against the Indians though until now the settler had been unmolested. The outlaw whom he had shot, he detected riding off on a valuable stallion, the day before, and at his rifle’s crack, Israel Hackett fell dead. Horse-stealing was regarded as an even more heinous crime than murder, in those days.
Jasper Morton had chuckled fiendishly, as he heard the shot and death-cry. He believed that his plans had been successfully carried out. But he became uneasy at the long delay of his acolyte, and gave the signal as stated. No answer coming, he began to suspect the truth, and mustering his men, was now approaching the dark and silent building.
“When you are sure of your aim, Jack,” muttered Colton, “tell me.”
“I’m ready now.”
“Then—fire!”
Two whiplike reports rung out upon the clear night air, sounding almost like one. Two of the Night Hawks fell to the ground, writhing in their death-agonies. Wild cries broke from the survivors, and with one accord they broke and fled, seeking the nearest cover, for the moment completely demoralized.
The brothers laughed, and quickly reloaded their weapons. But Mary seemed greatly agitated. As Henry noted her pale and frightened face, she murmured
“What if they fire the house!”
“My God! I did not think of that!” gasped Colton.
A strange fear filled the breast of the young hunter, Ned Campbell, as he dashed away over the prairie, his eyes riveted upon the point where he had last seen his friend in hot pursuit of the weird rider. And yet, had he attempted, he could not have given expression to this dread, in words.
Something seemed to tell him that Fred Hawksley was running blindfold into a deadly peril—the more to be dreaded because unknown. That this strange woman was acting the part of a decoy.
All the rumors that he had ever heard of her, now flashed across his mind. Until this night he had treated them with contempt, believing them mere fabrications, or else finding birth in a superstitious imagination.
For six months past, that portion of Texas in and around the “Corners,” had been filled with wild rumors and stories in which a strange woman rider played a prominent part. In one thing all coincided, that the woman was young and bewilderingly lovely. In all else, the accounts differed.
One day she was seen here—the next there, miles and miles away. Now she rode a spotted mustang of great beauty and fleetness; again a black—then a bright bay. Full twenty men, both young and old, solemnly affirmed that they had chased her, some upon horses famed for speed and endurance, but all declared that she had distanced them with seeming ease. None had ever gotten within speaking distance of her, until now Fred Hawksley declared that he had heard her voice.
Where she lived, no one could tell. Certainly not in any house in the county, for close search had been made by more than one border youth whose impressible heart had been fired by the strange beauty. When seen, she was ever alone. All in all she was an enigma—and until now, Campbell had believed her a myth.
Aside from his personal friendship for Fred, another inducement spurred Ned on. Rumor had it that the handsome hunter had surrendered his heart to fair Fannie Hawksley, Fred’s sister, and for once the owner was correct.
When they set forth upon their hunt, Fannie laughingly bade him take good care of Fred, though there was an undercurrent of seriousness in her tones that Ned understood. He knew that Hawksley was rash and adventurous, even to foolhardiness when his blood was fairly aroused, and he had promised her to take care that he returned all right.
He remembered his promise now, and it spurred him on, that and his faintly-defined presentiment of evil. Should any thing serious happen to Fred, how could he face Fannie?
“Around that point I must catch sight of him,” he muttered, as he urged on his good horse. “Unless I mistake, I can see the prairie for ten miles from there, and surely I was not insensible long enough for them to cross that stretch? And once in sight, I can guard him against danger.”
The big bay horse covered the ground, with long, deer-like bounds that swiftly lessened the distance. Though laboring heavily—for full fifteen miles had been traversed since leaving the bivouac, in addition to a long day’s travel—the noble brute did not falter. He would continue his stride until his great heart burst, as Ned well knew. But this was no time to consider the welfare of a horse, when the safety, perhaps the life of a dear friend hung in the balance.
With eagerly straining gaze, the young hunter gained and rounded the point of timber. A cry of wonder broke from his dry lips, and he abruptly drew rein. Not a living soul was to be seen, though the prairie stretched out before him, smooth and level almost as a ballroom floor.
Where could his friend have gone? Surely not straight on, across that tract? Impossible—it was fully ten miles, if an inch. Around the motte? No—for the trail led straight forward, as a glance showed him.
Then a sudden cry broke from Campbell’s lips, and he cast a rapid glance around. He saw that the moonlight had deceived him—that he was at least a mile further west than he had believed. All was plain to him now—the mystery was a mystery no longer.
“The baranca—they are there—it must be so! But how—my God! can that woman have been a spirit?”
The ranger reeled in his saddle. The strange events of that night had unmanned him, and wild fancies took possession of his brain. He half believed that this strange rider was nothing but a delusion—a phantom who had lured his young friend on to his death, by a fall down the baranca that, though still invisible, he well knew lay before him at only a few yards’ distance.
His mind a strange medley, Campbell urged his horse forward, and in half a dozen more bounds, stood upon the verge of the baranca; a deep, narrow ravine, with almost perpendicular sides, the bottom thickly strewn with jagged bowlders of different sizes. Though this ravine began less than a mile to the south, Ned knew that it ran north for ten times that distance, preserving the same general direction, though winding and tortuous.
Still sitting his horse he peered eagerly down into the baranca. The full moon behind him only lighted up a portion of the further side. The bottom was wrapped in darkness so deep that from where he stood, the eye could not penetrate it.
A strange awe was upon the young ranger. All that was superstitious in his nature was now fully awakened. It seemed more than an adventure with common flesh and blood.
Twice his lips parted to utter his friend’s name, and as often he refrained, why, he could not himself tell. He peered down into the darkness, his horse slowly trotting along the escarpment, toward the north.
Suddenly Campbell gave vent to a cry. Close before him seemed a narrow pathway leading down into the ravine.
He urged his horse forward, and descended below the level of the prairie. But a very few moments convinced him that even if he could descend to the bottom, he could do little good without lights, and turning he scrambled once more to the level ground.
He saw that his comrades had come up, and were now standing as if amazed. His was the figure that drew the cry of astonishment from Craig Fenton.
“Quick, boys,” cried Campbell, riding toward them, “dismount and get something for torches. They must be down there—but whether dead or alive, God only knows!”
“You think that she—” began Fenton, in a low, hushed voice.
“I don’t know—I’m afraid to think. But don’t talk—make haste. We must search the ravine.”
The woods were near, and the young hunters well knew what to select for torches. In a very few minutes they were back to the edge of the baranca, where Ned Campbell had already kindled a light with his flint and steel.
Bearing the feebly-flickering torches, the party descended into the baranca by the path that, though rough, was amply wide. They slowly advanced along the rough, rock-strewn bottom, holding aloft their torches, expecting with each movement to come upon the dead and mangled form of their young friend.
The flaring lights caused the shadows to dance and move weirdly, and a dozen times in as many minutes, their hearts were set in a wild, sickening shudder as one of their number believed he beheld the object of their quest. But as often the mistake was proved.
The search was continued in silence. None cared to speak. The same superstitious feeling was upon all. All in all, the night was one not soon to be forgotten.
They had carefully searched the baranca upon both sides of the spot for which the trail had pointed, and yet nothing was discovered. They interchanged glances. Could it be that the chase had turned and skirted the ravine? Campbell answered the thought, positively.
“Not unless they entered the timber. It runs for nearly three miles, and this gully for a good ten. I should have seen them. No, you may laugh, but I believe they are somewhere in this ravine. We know now that he did not ride into it, here. But you know Fred. He don’t know what fear is. If that woman rode into this—and further up there are a dozen places where it could be done, if one was only acquainted with the ground—he followed her. He could never quit the chase until he caught her or—she turned into air!”
“Well, what shall we do? Fire a volley to let him know we’re looking for him?” asked Fenton.
“No—not yet. I can’t tell you why, but somehow it strikes me that there is mischief in this. Why did she wait there until he was ready to chase her? She must have seen what we were by the fire-light. Then, if friendly, why run at all? I believe it’s a decoy of the Kiowas—you know they are getting saucy again. If so, they are still in here, or else we would have seen them as they rode away. Put out the lights and we will explore the place. They can’t be far away.”
After some objections this plan was adopted, and the party, with ready weapons, explored the ravine for full half a mile. Then their progress was stopped by a barrier of huge bowlders, over which a footman could scarcely clamber in noonday, much less a horse and rider.
“It’s no use,” muttered Fenton, disgustedly. “We can do nothing here in the dark. Besides, I believe that they must have turned round the timber, instead of coming into this hole. In my opinion we’ve all been acting like a pack of natural born fools!”
“The fust sensible words I’ve heerd sence leavin’ camp,” uttered another.
“You may be right. I hope so, anyhow. We can go up and see if the trail comes out again into soft ground, as it must if they went into the wood.”
“First, give him a salute. He may be in here, hunting for the girl, if she hid from him. It can do no harm, and may do good. If alive and within hearing, Fred’ll answer.”
The rifles were discharged, one quickly succeeding the other, and then all listened breathlessly. Minute after minute passed by, without any reply. Campbell drew a long breath.
“Well, let’s go. If he is in here, he will not mind a little delay—for he must be dead!”
Slowly the little party retraced their steps and emerged from the baranca. Mounting their horses they rode slowly off along the edge of the flinty ground, scattered at regular intervals from that to the trees, in order that, should one overlook the trail, another might find it.
The hopes that had been roused by Fenton’s suggestion grew fainter with each rod passed over. And when the end of the timber island was reached, full three miles from where the trail was lost, the hunters reined in their horses, their heads drooping in despair. That hope—seemingly the last—was banished.
“What shall we do now?”
“What can we do?” and Campbell’s voice sounded strained and husky.
“I hev it!” cried Ruel. “The dorgs—we kin trail him ’th them!”
“That’s so—why didn’t we think of it before?”
“We can try—but I haven’t much hope,” gloomily added Campbell. “You know how we rode around—we must have covered the trail.”
“But we can try—don’t be so craven, Ned. It’s not like you to gi’ up so easy.”
“I know it—but something tells me that Fred is lost—if not dead, that we will never see him again. Why, I don’t know. I never felt so before to-night. Boys,” and his voice sunk to a whisper, “I believe that was a—a spirit that poor Fred chased!”
No one answered, and they rode on in silence. The true born and raised Westerner, is naturally superstitious. It seems inherent with them. Though some may deny this, I know it to be truth.
“Wal, I don’t know as Colton’s dogs kin trail a sperit, but I know that truer varmints don’t live. Ef they cain’t find Fred, then he is gone—shore!”
“Ha! listen—you hear that?”
Campbell’s voice trembled with excitement.
Two muffled reports came roaring over the prairie, unmistakably that of firearms. All heard them, and for a moment, believed that it was Hawksley signaling to them. But then Ruel—the keenest ear, by far, among them—cried:
“Ef it’s Fred, he’s at Colton’s. Them shots kem from thar.”
“He’d hardly have gone there—and if he did, why would he fire?”
“He wouldn’t—’tain’t him. Boys—you hear me; thar’s trouble thar!” muttered Ruel, as several more reports—sounding confused as though fired in an irregular volley—came faintly to their ears.
“That’s so—ride now, boys; never mind the horses. There’s more at stake than their lives!” gritted Campbell, for the moment forgetting the strange disappearance of his friend, in the knowledge that others were threatened.
But there is a limit to animal endurance, and though better horses were never bestrode than those of the young hunters, they galloped heavily and laboriously. That day and night had been too much for them.
Though loving their noble beasts, the young rangers now plied their spurs mercilessly. As Ruel had said, there was trouble ahead. With voice and rowel they urged the failing animals on, their hearts beating rapidly with the fear of being too late. And the horses, true to the core, plunged on, less and less rapidly.
“Ha—look!”
Campbell it was that spoke, but the gesture of his outstretched hand was unheeded. All eyes beheld the same object, and easily interpreted its meaning.
Sweeping round a timber island, a thrilling sight burst upon their gaze. A bright glare was rapidly ascending to the heavens, spreading and growing more and more vivid with each moment. One glance told them the meaning of this. A house was burning—the house of their friend and neighbor, Henry Colton!
That this was result of no accident, was equally plain, for again there broke forth the significant crash of firearms. It meant murder and rapine.
“We must make it, boys, whether it kills the horses or not!” gritted Campbell. “One more dash, and we’ll do—now!”
With the words, spurs were plunged rowel deep into the already deeply scored sides of the tortured beasts, and with wild snorts of pain and terror, they dashed madly toward the brilliant light. Holding their breaths, the young hunters handled their weapons and prepared for the result. The half-mile was lessened to one-half that—a third, and still the animals thunder on.
A stumble—an almost human groan of agony, and one horse is down, the hot life-blood spurting from his mouth and nostrils. It is that of Ruel. The tall hunter was prepared for this. He felt the noble brute’s sides collapse, and with a nimble spring, alighted softly upon his feet.
“Good—hurry up, Ruel,” cried Campbell, who had witnessed the act.
“Bet ye—I’ll be thar!” and the hunter bounded forward like a deer.
It may seem strange that the Night Hawks take no alarm at this approach, but they did not. The prairie-grass was thick, the turf moist and springy; the burning building roared and crackled loudly, and they were all intent upon watching the doors, knowing that the inmates must soon emerge or else die a horrible death in the flames.
They had not long to wait. Those within were not men to die tamely, while a chance remained to deal a blow at their enemy. To stay within was certain death. To come out seemed equally hopeless, yet they chose this alternative.
The front door was flung wide and two forms sprung out into the open air, with cocked and leveled rifles. A rattling volley was fired at them, but their movements were so quick, their change of position so abrupt, that most of the missiles went wide of the mark.
One fell to his knees—it was Henry Colton. A wild shriek was added to the tumult, and Mary, his wife, who had been forced to remain behind while the men drew the fire of the Night Hawks, sprung out, her little boy clasped to her breast, and flung herself beside the wounded settler.
Colton seemed invigorated by her presence and once more sprung erect, his rifle echoing the death-knell of an outlaw. Then a wild cry broke from his lips as he sunk back. He caught sight of the rescuers.
A hoarse cheer—a deadly volley—then the young hunters sprung from their trembling animals, and with drawn pistols, rushed to close quarters. But the Night Hawks did not tarry to test their metal.
As a band they were annihilated. Two-thirds of their number had fallen, what with the fire of the besieged and this withering volley, discharged as they all rushed forward to complete their murderous work. With cries of terror the survivors turned and fled for their horses, followed by a rapid discharge of pistol-bullets.
Jack Colton had escaped the storm of bullets that saluted their bold dash from the blazing building, and recognizing his now deadly enemy, Jasper Morton, the Night-Hawk chief, had fired at him. The outlaw staggered, but did not fall, and he was one of the few that gained their horses.
With a curse of rage Colton dashed aside his useless rifle and sprung after Morton. There was reason in his action, for he knew that his life would be in peril as long as the outlaw lived.
Twice he fired, but without apparent effect. The Night-Hawk leader sprung into a saddle, then urged his horse to rapid flight. Colton promptly imitated this action, and the two, pursued and pursuer, soon disappeared without the line of light shed by the blazing dwelling.
“Look to these devils, Ruel,” hurriedly uttered Campbell, as he looked around upon the scene. “If any are living bind them. We’ll have a hanging bee here to-morrow!”
“Oh, Ned!” sobbed Mrs. Colton, “come to Henry—quick! He’s dying!”
“No—he’s only hurt a little, not much. He’ll be all right in a minute or two,” soothingly uttered Campbell, though far from being so confident in his heart. “How is it, Colton, old fellow?”
The settler smiled faintly, then murmured his wife’s name. She was beside him in a moment, and then, with her hand clasped in his, he swooned.
“Now, Mary,” uttered Ned, as firmly as he could, “be strong—nerve yourself, for on you may depend Henry’s life. If you take on this way it’ll kill him, sure.”
“I will—I’ll be calm. But is there hope—he is not dead?”
“Pooh! far from it. You’ll not be a widow for many a long year yet, my dear sister. It’s only loss of blood, with the excitement, you see.”
While he spoke, Campbell was carefully examining Colton’s wound, and to his great joy, found that he had told the truth, unknowingly. Only one bullet had struck him, severing a minor artery in the left thigh, causing a profuse flow of blood, but nothing that rest and quiet would not cure.
“What d’ y’ think, Ned?” muttered Ruel, his face black with suppressed anger, “What d’ y’ think them imps hev done?”
“What?” demanded Campbell, alarmed.
“Shot them dorgs—every one, dead es a nit!”
“Is that all? You startled me half to death!”
“All—all? Them dorgs—the best in Texas—truer’n death—oh thunder!” spluttered Ruel.
“Never mind ’em—are there any horses around besides ours?”
“Yes—them what was rid by those car’on.”
“The boys must ride further, then. We must rouse the neighbors. Colton and his wife need care, and then we must hunt down the villains that escaped. Besides, there’s Fred—he must be found.”
With a grieved look at the carcasses of his favorite “dorgs,” Ruel strode off to set the hunters at work. An hour later the wounded man and his wife were on the way to shelter, and Ruel was leading the hunt after those who had killed his dogs.
It was a bitter blow to the Night-Hawk leader, Jasper Morton, to see his long-worked-for revenge thus snatched from his very grasp, just as the game seemed entirely in his own hands. Long-worked-for, we say, for the reader must have seen that his was no common enmity toward the two brothers; why, may be explained hereafter.
Morton recognized the rescuing party, and knew that all was lost. Few among that picked band but would have been a good match for him single-handed, even before he received the wound that well-nigh disabled his left shoulder.
With a bitter curse at his ill luck, the outlaw sprung upon his horse, and plunging spurs viciously into its ribs, dashed off in rapid flight. Three others imitated his example; either from chance or a hope that the young hunters would not separate, each outlaw chose a separate course, riding for dear life.
As we have seen, Jack Colton marked his enemy, and followed in hot pursuit upon one of the horses that the Night Hawks had left fastened to the rail fence in the rear of the stables. Then began another mad, headlong race, the third one that had crossed the prairie that night.
The moon still shone brightly, and Colton could plainly distinguish his quarry, save when a ridge intervened for a moment. The distance separating them was not more than two hundred yards, at the most, and to his fierce joy, Colton saw that this was gradually being lessened, and while urging on his excited horse, he assured himself that his pistols were in readiness for use.
“Stop! Jasper Morton—coward!” he cried, in a voice that trembled with rage and hatred. “Stop and prove your manhood—it is only one man that chases you.”
The Night Hawk turned and glanced over his shoulder, but instead of checking his madly racing steed, he bent lower in the saddle and urged him to a greater speed. Colton fairly howled aloud in his rage as he saw the outlaw slowly but surely creeping away from him, and drawing a knife, he thrust its keen point several times into the hips of his horse.
Snorting wildly, the tortured brute sprung forward with a speed that seemed to rival that of the lightning’s bolt, and Colton laughed aloud as he raised his revolver. Another score moments and he felt that he would be within range.
Then his pistol cracked, deliberately, at regular intervals. His nerves were like iron now, and he felt that revenge was his, at last.
But the moonlight was deceitful, the motion of his horse unsteady, and the bullets hissed harmlessly by the fugitive. A bitter curse broke from his lips as he emptied the first revolver.
Thrusting it into his belt, he again made use of the cruel spur. With wild, killing bounds, the tortured animal brought his merciless rider nearer his foe.
Again Colton leveled a pistol—his second revolver. At its sharp report, the horse bestrode by the Night-Hawk leader gave a sudden bound, that told the bullet had found its mark.
The pursuer laughed aloud, and leveled his weapon once more. The pursued uttered a fierce despairing curse and turning in his saddle, fired three shots in quick succession at his relentless pursuer.
Fortune favored him in the result, for though scarcely pausing for aim, one missile foiled Colton’s hopes. With a shrill scream of pain, the noble brute stumbled and fell, casting the settler headlong to the ground. A bullet had struck its foreleg, that already overtasked, gave way, causing the heavy fall.
Morton heard the fall, and glancing back, uttered an exultant laugh. For a moment he pressed hard upon the bit, as though he would return to contemplate his triumph, but then, altering his mind, he spurred on.
He was well-nigh disabled, and did not know how many or close were his pursuers. He was in no condition for a fight, just then. His wound, freely bleeding, already caused him to feel faint, his head beginning to swim dizzily.
Added to this he felt his horse weaken and act as though failing. For a moment he wondered at this, for it was his own animal, a proved good one, but then he divined the cause. One or more of the settler’s bullets had found their mark.
With hard-drawn breath and gritting teeth the outlaw glanced over his shoulder. To his joy the prairie was clear of pursuers. Then Colton had been alone!
The horse twitched his tail, and his ears drooped. Morton knew what these symptoms meant, and he prepared for the result. Drawing hard upon the reins, he slackened his speed. It was time. The poor brute was trembling convulsively, the blood oozing from its nostrils and hanging lip.
Morton sprung to the ground, with a fierce curse. The horse staggered when relieved from his weight, and gave a faint whicker as it turned its head toward its master. But that was all. With an almost human groan it fell forward, dead.
“Curse the luck!” snarled Morton, wincing with pain as he moved his left arm. “Just now when I most need him—wounded, too! Them devils will be upon my track by daylight—and where can I go? In the motte? They’d unearth me there. Ha! I have it—I can hide in the baranca—at least until I can pick up strength to go further. There’s a thousand holes among the rocks that I can hide in; unless they try hounds,” and he started at the thought, for he knew that in such a case, he was indeed lost.
Still Morton knew that the baranca afforded him the best chance of eluding the search that he knew would be made for him, if only by Jack Colton, as the rocks would leave no sign for human eyes to trace him out by. His horse had carried him to within half a mile of the ravine, and though feeling weak and faint, he set out at his best pace for the refuge, not daring to stop even long enough to dress his wound.
He little dreamed of the adventure that was to befall him there, else he might have hesitated before choosing the baranca in preference to the woods.
A few minutes carried the Night-Hawk chief to the edge of the baranca, and then he hastened along the verge, seeking for a spot down which he might clamber without too severely exerting his wounded arm. A mutter of satisfaction greeted his success, and Morton cautiously groped his way along a winding trail that evidently led down to the bottom.
He, even then, noticed that this trail had been used, but that gave him no uneasiness. So too had a score of paths at as many different points, by both human and beast.
The trail led him toward the southern extremity of the baranca, and on reaching the bottom, he naturally continued on in that direction. For some time he sought among the huge, thick-lying bowlders for a snug covert, without finding any that satisfied him.
Before him loomed up the rocky barricade that had checked the progress of the young hunters while engaged in their search for Fred Hawksley, earlier on that same night. Morton, however, had reached the opposite side, facing the north, instead of south.
Among this pile of bowlders Morton hoped to find a secure refuge, and had almost gained its foot when a low cry broke from his lips, and he abruptly paused, crouching down to the ground, one hand clutching a revolver-butt. A strange object had caught his gaze—doubly strange in that place.
“Was it only fancy?” he muttered, peering curiously forward. “I don’t see it now—it’s gone! And yet I don’t think it was a fire-fly. Ha!”
While muttering these words the outlaw slowly rose erect until he assumed his former position. The exclamation told that he had again caught sight of the object.
This was a small point of light, clear and brilliant, glowing steadily and unchangeably. As he slowly raised his head, Morton saw that this only shone from a small aperture, for beyond a certain point, in either direction, it was invisible.
For a time the Night-Hawk chief forgot his bodily pain and exhaustion in wonder. There was something strange in this light, shining from that lone and wild spot, that he resolved to investigate.
Keeping his eye riveted upon the star-like point, he slowly and cautiously advanced, with almost every step losing sight of the light, but then recovering it again. In this manner he gained the lower bowlders, and it seemed now that he could reach the light by simply outstretching his hand. Instinctively he raised an arm, then laughed faintly at his own credulity.
Cautiously Morton climbed further among the rocks, his eyes still fixed upon the light. A fragment crumbled beneath his hand, and he fell forward, striking his head with violence upon the rock.
The shock and pain wrung a slight cry from his lips, and the pistol slipped from his grasp, clattering sharply upon the stones, fortunately not exploding. Quickly recovering himself, Morton glanced forward; but the light was gone!
The blow upon the head confused him, or he might easily have avoided what followed. Instead of retreating or concealing himself, as prudence would have dictated, he remained perched upon the bowlders, endeavoring to discover the light.
A faint metallic clink caught his ear, and quickly following the sound, his eyes seemed to outline, though dimly and indistinct, the figure of a human being among the rocks. Only the one brief glimpse was afforded him, for a blinding flash filled his eyes—a stinging pain shot through his brain, and with a wild cry, he flung aloft his arms, falling backward to the ground.
When he recovered consciousness, the outlaw captain found himself lying upon a soft couch, evidently formed of skins, for his hand clutched some hairy substance. A heavy throbbing pain filled his brain, and his wounded shoulder ached horribly.
With a half-conscious groan he raised a hand to his head. It touched a sticky substance that he knew was clotted gore. Then it was not all fancy—there had been a human form standing before him, and the blinding blaze came from a pistol or rifle that had wounded him.
“So you have come to,” uttered a deep voice, coming from above or behind Morton’s head.
He started to a sitting posture and uttered a cry of terror as his hand sought his belt, only to find it weaponless. A low, taunting laugh followed this movement, then the voice added, as footsteps moved toward the outlaw:
“You need have no fear, my dear sir; you are safe here, for the present, at least.”
Morton turned his head, and by the dim light saw a tall figure standing beside him—the figure of an old man with close-cropped hair and smooth-shaven face. As he gazed, he knew that this was the man who had fired the shot that wounded him, while searching for the mystic light.
“Who are you—where am I?” he faltered, shrinking back from the stranger.
“You are here—I am myself. That is all you need know for a while. If you prove the man I fancy, I may tell you more. But, in the mean time, lie still. Your wounds need dressing, and I now have time to attend to them. Since you came I’ve been busy watching the movements of some of your friends—a very particular one, I judge, from a few words I heard him mutter,” and the tall man gazed keenly at the wounded outlaw.
“Who do you mean? I don’t understand you,” he muttered, tremblingly.
“It was Jack Colton, I think,” slowly added the man.
Morton shrunk back in terror. He was totally unmanned now, and heard the name with a shudder.
“He—you won’t let him—”
“No. He is gone; but he must have followed you close. I thought you were good friends.”
“How—you know me?” gasped Morton.
The strange man laughed.
“There are few persons in this region that I do not know. You go by the name of Jasper Morton. But I don’t think that is your real name. If it is, so much the worse for you. You will never leave this place alive.”
“Mercy—what harm have I ever done you? Why should you threaten me this way?”
“No particular harm, but you have my secret. That is reason enough. You may judge whether I am a man to baulk at trifles, by my having shot you as you were spying into my affairs. I have a secret and an end. That secret must be kept from all until my purpose is attained. If you come between, so much the worse for you; you must be disposed of—or, in plainer terms, I shall kill you.”
“But if I am not really Jasper Morton?” added the outlaw, anxiously.
“That matters little, unless you be one of two persons. Prove to me that you are either of those two, and you are safe.”
“And who are they?” quickly asked Morton.
“That you must tell me—not I you. But never mind now. I must—”
The strange man abruptly paused in his speech, and the wounded outlaw uttered a gasp of terror. A wild, shrill cry—almost a yell, rung clearly upon their ears. It scarcely seemed like the voice of a human being, unless of one hopelessly insane.
The stranger frowned angrily, and a curse broke from his lips. Then he uttered a low, peculiar whistle, twice repeated.
Morton had turned half round, forgetting his pain in wonder and terror. As the whistle sounded the second time, he saw a dim, shadowy figure glide out from the darkness and stand before the old man.
Though he could not distinguish the features of this newcomer, Morton knew that she—for it was unmistakably the form of a woman—was young, from the lithe, rounded figure and agile, graceful movements.
The old man spoke a few quick words that the outlaw could not catch, then added aloud as he strode away:
“If he attempts to arise, Lola, shoot him. He must not escape yet.”
“I do not fear him. If he is wise, he will lie still.”
Morton could scarce believe his ears. The words and voice were in such direct contrast. The one soft and musical as the notes of a bird, the other stern and determined.
Strange events were crowding fast upon him that night, but this was the strangest of them all. Speechless and half-stupefied, he gazed upon the woman before him. Never before had he beheld such marvelous beauty—loveliness of a fiery, yet voluptuous, oriental type.
She was tall for a woman, several inches above the medium hight, in fact, but all was the most perfect symmetry. Her hair, black, glossy and luxuriant, hung in heavy masses below her waist, unconfined save by a simple band of beaded doe-skin that crossed above her forehead. Of a dark, Spanish-like complexion, with large, lustrous eyes, cheeks tinged with the red blush of perfect health; with full, slightly-pouting lips of scarlet, rich, juicy and tempting; rounded chin, and graceful neck sloping down to a swelling bust that Venus herself might have envied; a round, compact waist incased in a neatly-fitting dress of whitely-tanned doe-skin. Leggings of the same material fitted the round, swelling limbs, ending in dainty, beaded moccasins.
Standing in an attitude of careless ease, the strange beauty was gazing half-mockingly upon the wounded outlaw, one hand clasping the butt of a small, silver-mounted revolver with an ease that bespoke long use and perfect familiarity with the weapon.
“Who are you?” muttered Morton, staring at her as though at a phantom. “I’ve seen you before—where?”
“I am my father’s daughter,” and the strange girl laughed, clear and musically. “Do you think to gain from my lips knowledge that he refused you? Wait—in good time you shall know all or—nothing.”
“You threaten, too? What sort of a hornets’ nest is this I’ve got into, I wonder?”
The strange girl laughed, her eyes and white teeth gleaming from out the dim light. But there was a peculiar expression to her face that sent a thrill through the outlaw’s frame. He had seen its counterpart once, as he faced a wounded panther. In this woman’s eyes there was the same cruel, deadly glitter that he had noted then.
Morton cast a quick glance around him. The dim light had imperfectly revealed his surroundings; still, he could tell that he was under ground.
The chamber he was in was low and irregular, of no great dimensions, the walls and roof of intermingled earth and rock. Around him hung various weapons, rifles, pistols, bows and arrows, Indian tomahawks and knives. Robes and furs were scattered around, or hanging from the walls.
The truth flashed upon him. The light he had discovered, came from this chamber, the entrance to which was in some manner concealed beneath or in the rocky barricade that intersected the baranca. In falling he had alarmed the inmates. Then the old man must have shot at him, in the treacherous light aiming too high to produce death, though a fraction lower would have ended the outlaw’s career forever.
Morton shuddered again, and the girl turned her head quickly, the fire deepening in her eyes, as another cry came from beyond the point where the old man had disappeared. Then a low, gasping, gurgling sound and all was still.
“My God! there’s murder going on in there!” cried the outlaw, half-arising, horror expressed in every feature.
“Lie still—move another inch and there’ll be murder here, as well!” sharply uttered the girl, as the pistol rose to a level with Morton’s head. “Down with you, or I fire!”
Morton sunk back, bathed in cold sweat. In a few moments the old man reappeared, wiping his hands upon his dress. The outlaw shuddered convulsively as he noted the dark, red stains that discolored the skin. What deed of horror had been enacted in that further chamber?
“You can go back to your station, now, Lola,” he uttered, in a calm, even tone. “If I wish your presence, I will signal you. Now, sir,” he added, as the woman disappeared from view, “I can attend to you. But first, let’s see if there be any need of dressing your wounds. A man at my time of life dislikes unnecessary trouble. As I told you, if you are Jasper Morton, or indeed, any other than one of two persons, there will be no need of dressing your hurts, because, in that case, you must be disposed of, before you have a chance to make known what you have discovered concerning this place and its inmates.”
“You mean to—to murder me?”
“Exactly—that is the vulgar expression of what I mean.”
“Why did you take me in here then?”
“Because—first, you seemed very curious to learn what was going on inside; entirely too curious to suit my ideas of propriety. So I shot you, and I meant to end your pryings forever, too. But when I bent over you, to see if you were really dead, something in your face struck me, and I fetched you here to see what truth there was in the surmise. Now tell me—are you Jasper Morton; is that your real name?”
“No.”
“Good! then what is? Remember, that the truth alone can avail you, if any thing. Of course you can not guess the names that run in my mind. Speak out—what is your real name?”
Morton’s lips parted and his throat twitched, but he could not speak. The knowledge that his own lips might condemn him, was horrible. The resemblance that the old man had been struck with, might after all be mere fancy.
“Spare me—I will take any oath—will be your slave, your dog, if you spare my life,” he muttered, great drops of cold perspiration starting out over his forehead.
“I take no man’s oath,” was the cold reply. “Speak out—or I will believe you lie in saying your true name is not Jasper Morton and reward you with this,” and as he spoke, the cold muzzle of a revolver at full cock touched the outlaw’s temple.
“Take it away—I will speak, if you only lower that!” gasped the wounded man, shrinking back.
“Very well. Be quick.”
“My name is James—James Mestayer,” falteringly.
“You are speaking the truth?” coldly demanded the old man, keenly eying the trembling wretch.
“Yes—the truth, so help me—”