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.”