CHAPTER IV.

THE BARANCA MYSTERY.

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—”

“Never mind. Don’t exult too soon. You had a brother?”

“Yes—Thomas. He died—was killed in California.”

“What was your father’s and your mother’s names?”

“James and Lucinda.”

“You had an uncle who married a sister to your mother?”

“Yes—father’s brother Albert. And you—you are the man!” eagerly cried the outlaw.

“Yes, I am Albert Mestayer, your father’s brother. In your face I saw what James was when young. That was what stayed my hand. I believed that you was my nephew, either James or Thomas, though I had not seen either for near twenty years. Then you can guess—but no, you were too young then, and I made James promise never to tell you the black story,” muttered the old man, half to himself.

The outlaw, Mestayer, as we must now call him—gazed keenly and curiously at this strangely found relation. He scarce knew what to think. Until now, he believed him dead, for that was what they—himself and brother—had been taught to think.

“Never mind. We will talk matters over after awhile, when you are stronger. If what I have heard of you is correct, you may be of service to me. But now, let me look to your hurts, and you can tell me how you received the first.”

As the old man’s nimble fingers bound up the wounds, Mestayer told the events of that night, so far as he knew them, concealing nothing. He did not fear his uncle would shrink from the crime.