CHAPTER III.

THE MIDNIGHT CONFLICT.

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.