“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.