Better for him had he followed this plan, but with the game so close at hand, he could not bring himself to wait. Perhaps, after all, she was alone.
Forcing himself to believe this, Campbell placed a hand upon the bowlder, and lightly vaulted into the crevice. All before him seemed dark and black, and he paused for a moment to accustom his eyes to the change.
At that juncture a slight rustling sound met his ear, and quick as thought, he threw forward his left arm, at the same time raising his pistol. The action was purely instinctive, for he could see nothing, but it probably saved his life.
A crushing blow from some unseen weapon fell upon his fore-arm, hurling it helpless to his side, then all was a blank. The same blow had fallen, though with broken force, full upon his forehead, felling him senseless to the rocks.
The sight of this strange woman had set Campbell’s brain on fire, and he acted without the slightest precaution or forethought. Had he but reflected for a moment, he must have known that she had noticed him, recognizing the presence of an enemy, even through the disguising grass and twigs. What else could have caused her sudden retreat? But Ned was too greatly excited to notice this, and he suffered the consequences.
How long he remained insensible he never knew, but it must have been for some time, for, when he awoke, a scene something similar to that which met the wounded outlaw’s astonished gaze greeted his vision. The experience of the two men had been almost exactly similar. Both had narrowly escaped death at the hands of the same being—the old man, Albert Mestayer.
But Ned was more fortunate, in that he found his hurts carefully dressed. This was the first point that he noticed on returning to consciousness. The next was, that a thong or cord of some kind held his feet firmly to the rude but comfortable pallet upon which he lay.
“Father, he has awakened,” uttered a low, soft voice from close to his head, and Campbell heard a faint rustle there.
The voice thrilled through his brain like liquid music. Never before had he heard tones so sweet or melodious. In wonder at it, he forgot his hurts, his perilous situation—every thing but the voice.
A light step echoed through the rock-bound chamber, and a tall form came and stood over him, with folded arms, gazing down upon his countenance with vividly-glowing eyes. It was the man who had called himself Albert Mestayer, but Ned could not remember having ever met him before.