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.