Vol. V.] [No. 59.
SEPTEMBER 30, 1876.

THE TEXAS HAWKS;
OR,
THE STRANGE DECOY.

BY JOS. E. BADGER, Jr.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

CONTENTS

[I The Strange Rider] 9 [II The Lottery of Death] 19 [III The Midnight Conflict] 31 [IV The Baranca Mystery] 40 [V The Maiden’s Peril] 50 [VI The Lost Trail] 60 [VII On Guard] 70 [VIII At Bay] 78 [IX A Strange Proposal] 85 [X The Clew] 93 [XI A Double Surprise] 96

THE TEXAS HAWKS;
OR,
THE STRANGE DECOY.

CHAPTER I.
THE STRANGE RIDER.

“Bah! for my part, I believe it sheer nonsense—nothing but a hoax.”

“So said I until lately; but now I know there is something in it.”

The sentences just noted were spoken in very dissimilar tones: the first one careless and slightly scoffing—the second low and earnest. Both speakers were young and of prepossessing appearance.

The scene was an attractive one, though somewhat similar ones have been described time and time again. In fact it was the bivouac of a hunting party.

One glance would decide this. The soiled and blood-stained garments of the half-score figures gathered around the cheerful, crackling fire, in attitudes of careless ease, for the most part with pipe in mouth, the half-picked bones and fragments of meat scattered profusely here and there, telling of a hearty meal just passed by. The horses, rudely hoppled, grazing eagerly hard-by, their sides still wet with sweat; the plentiful supply of rudely-butchered meat that hung suspended from the trees around, mostly of buffalo and deer, all told plainly that this was the bivouac of hunters, resting after a successful day’s chase.

In conscious security they had kindled their camp-fire, and now, without a thought of danger, were enjoying that indispensable luxury of a true plainsman—pipes and tobacco.

Though our hunters had not given the matter a thought, the camp had been pitched in a truly lovely and picturesque spot. At this point two goodly-sized timber-islands extended an arm toward each other, almost meeting. In fact, though the tree-trunks were separated by several yards, their long branches fairly touched, interweaved together, forming a gayly-tinted arch, the frost-touched leaves vying in brilliancy with the colors of the rainbow.

Through and beyond this natural bower, the prairie stretched far away in gently-undulating swells, studded at irregular intervals with timber mottes, something similar to those beside which we find our friends. Close to these twin mottes was a clear stream of water, a confluent of the Trinity River.

As already incidentally mentioned, the party consisted of half a score of hunters, all young—the eldest scarcely numbering thirty years, while one or two were a third less than that. They were such men as can only be found apart from the great cities, nurtured in the broad West, their limbs and lungs fully developed by the clear, pure atmosphere of the prairies. They would have been out of place in a ladies’ drawing-room, because they were at home here. Their hair was worn long; scarcely one of their faces had ever known the touch of a razor, giving their beards a glossy silkiness seldom seen, that even the scorching sun or crinkling winds of winter could not destroy.

“What do you mean by that, Fred?” quickly added the first speaker, Edward Campbell—a tall, stalwart youth, who, despite his few years, had already gained a widely-known reputation from more than one desperate combat with the savages and wild beasts.

“Just what I say, Ned,” and Fred Hawksley spoke in a serious tone. “I know there is such a being, because I have seen her—yes, and spoken to her, too.”

A general movement followed this announcement, and it was plain that the subject under discussion possessed no little interest to the hunters. Still, despite Hawksley’s earnestness, they seemed to doubt.

“You have never mentioned this before, Fred. Are you sure there is no mistake?”

“Am I a fool, Ned Campbell?” retorted the young man, coolly. “I tell you that I saw her, only three days ago, not two miles from this very spot. And I spoke to her, too, as I told you before.”

“That’s why you were so urgent for us to encamp here, was it?” laughed Ned. “But never mind—tell us all about it now?”

“Yes—who is she? What did she look like? Did she answer you?” eagerly cried several of the little band.

“Well, I’ll tell you all I know about it, provided you promise not to make fun of me.”

“You’re not at another of your sells, are you, Fred? Honest Injun, now.”

“No, Ned, I mean just what I say.”

“That’s enough. Go on. When you talk like that, we know you’re not fooling.”

“Well, as I said, I saw her three days ago, out just beyond the big red rock; you know where that is. I didn’t mention it to any of you, because we had all been deriding Hark Bogan so unmercifully about her, that I was ashamed to tell what I had seen. You may remember that I was unusually quiet, that night, after getting back to camp. I told you I felt tired, but I was thinking.

“You know that the red rock is just on the top of a high swell—the highest ground for miles around. I was climbing this—as my nag was tired and heavily loaded with meat—on foot. Mott suddenly raised his head and whickered. Even had there not come a quick reply, that would have told me there was another horse near by, but a neigh did come from directly ahead of me.

“I was then almost on the top of the swell, and so could just see the top of the big rock. And there, beside it, she was. You know how high the rock is. Well, as she sat her horse, her head was on a level with the highest part of the rock, so you can judge she was no baby.

“I remembered Bogan’s description the moment I saw this, and knew that I must be looking upon his ‘wild woman.’ At first I could only see her head and shoulders. On her head she wore a small cap of some kind of fur, with two or three brightly dyed eagle-feathers, such as the Kiowas wear. Her dress—what I could see of it—seemed to be made of tanned fawn-skin, trimmed in Indian style.

“I took in this much at a glance, and as it was nearly dark, I naturally thought she was some Indian. I knew that only a woman could wear such hair as that which hung down her back. I even laughed as I thought how crestfallen old Hark would be, when I proved to him that his lovely white phantom was nothing more than some wandering Indian squaw.

“Thinking this I kept on until close to the rock, and not half a dozen lengths from the stranger. Then she lifted a hand and motioned for me to pause. That she meant this, I saw from her turning the muzzle of a light, handsome rifle toward my breast, it resting between the ears of her horse. She seemed like one who had smelled powder before, and I obeyed her.

“Now I could see that she was white—though her complexion was that of a rich brunette. A more beautiful face I never saw. I can’t describe it—only that her great big eyes were black and shining as those of a deer; that her figure was the most superbly developed, the most symmetrical that I ever beheld in my life. Boys, that face and figure has haunted me ever since. If that woman is as good and pure as she is beautiful, she would be well worth dying for!” suddenly added Hawksley, puffing vigorously at his extinguished pipe.

“And still better living for—eh, Fred?” and Ned Campbell laughed. “But go on—you spoke to her—this marvelous beauty?”

“Yes—but not until she spoke first to me. I was still staring at her, amazed, for I knew that she did not live anywhere around here—at least with any one I know, and there’s few families in the State that I do not know. She said:

“‘What is your name?’

“Just that and nothing more. Of course I told her. But that voice! It corresponded perfectly with her face and figure, rich, mellow, voluptuous—just such a voice as I believe Homer endowed the goddess Calypso with, when she was seeking to captivate Ulysses.”

“Ha! ha! the invincible conquered—Fred Hawksley in love with the fair unknown!”

“Laugh if you will, Ned Campbell,” was the sober reply. “I half-believe it myself. But as I said, I answered her. She did not speak again, but gave me a look—a glance that set my brain afire—my heart to throbbing like a trip-hammer. Then she touched the rein and shot off to the right, swift as an arrow. At a little distance she paused and raised one hand toward me. I was dumbfounded then, but since I believe that she meant it as a challenge to me. I did mount Mott, but jaded as he was, I knew that he stood no chance in a race with that mustang.

“Ned, as I rode slowly toward camp, the strange woman—whoever she may be—fairly rode round me, then with a clear, taunting laugh, gave loose rein and dashed away over the prairie like a bird. In five minutes, she was out of sight. Now you know all that I know about the matter.”

“And you chose this camp in hopes of seeing her again?”

“Well, no, not that exactly; and yet I did think of her. If we do meet again, I’ll find out who she is, if it lies in old Mott’s limbs to carry me up to her. There’s some mystery ’bout the woman, that I’ve determined to unravel.”

“Give old ‘buck-skin’ a fair show, with plenty of ground before him, and he’ll ride over the best mustang that ever scored turf in Texas.”

“I believe he can,” and Hawksley glanced proudly toward the large, but nobly-shaped yellow horse that munched the grass at the timber’s edge.

“Hark!”

There was little need of the exclamation, for all, both human and quadruped, heard the sound that called it forth; the quick, rapid thud of a horse’s hoofs upon the solid prairie. All eyes were instantly turned toward the arch before alluded to. The rider—and a trained ear has but little difficulty in deciding whether a galloping horse is riderless—whoever it might be, was beyond the neck of timber, yet evidently approaching the bivouac.

The hunters felt only curiosity, for they knew that only one horseman approached. Then a simultaneous cry broke from their lips. For a moment they appeared awe-stricken.

Sitting a noble looking mustang beneath the leafy canopy, with form perfectly outlined against the still glowing sky in the west, was none other than the strange being who had formed the subject of conversation for the past half-hour. Her features were indistinctly visible, but there could be no mistake.

She sat her horse in true savage style: astride, and, with a dress fashioned for that purpose, as was hers, the effect was far from displeasing. Her dress flashed back the firelight in a thousand scintillations, from the beads and silver ornaments that thickly studded its folds. The long black hair, slightly curling at the extremities, floated in wild profusion around her form. A light rifle was carelessly balanced across the deep-seated Mexican saddle. Other weapons gleamed from the belt that encircled her round, compact waist.

“Who and what are you, anyhow?” cried Campbell, breaking the spell with an effort.

The only reply was a low, clear laugh, melodious as the notes of a silver bell. Hawksley had not exaggerated in the least. The most skeptical now acknowledged this, mentally, if not aloud.

“Keep her in sight, Ned,” muttered Fred, as he arose. “If Mott can do it, I’ll answer that question before I’m an hour older!”

At his movement, the strange rider wheeled her mustang and seemed ready for flight, her face turned, glancing back over her shoulder.

“I can drop the piebald without hurting her,” muttered Campbell, half inquiringly.

“No—that would never do. We have no right. Keep her in sight—I think I can overhaul her,” and Hawksley uttered a low whistle, at the same time gliding toward where his saddle and bridle hung.

With another clear laugh, the strange rider turned and, bending low along the spotted mustang’s neck, dashed around the timber. Campbell rushed to the arch, then paused, muttering eagerly:

“Quick, Fred—she’s waiting for you!”

Such indeed seemed the case. The woman had only retreated a few hundred yards from the bivouac, and then, as if feeling implicit confidence in the powers of the animal she bestrode, had halted, once more glancing back toward the camp-fire. Her actions were strange as her appearance. She seemed inviting—challenging pursuit.

In less than a minute from her first appearance, Fred Hawksley sprung upon his noble beast, and dashed through the arch out upon the prairie. The strange rider uttered another laugh, clear and silvery, yet with a taunting cadence that caused the young hunter’s blood to tingle and his lips to compress firmly. He resolved to overtake the woman, even if it cost him the noble steed he bestrode.

“We’ll follow on after you, Fred,” cried Campbell as his friend dashed past him. “Don’t be rash—there may be some deviltry in this!”

The strange rider tossed back her floating hair with one hand, as the young borderer sprung into view, then with a peculiar cry, gave her mustang free rein, and sped away over the undulating prairie with the speed of a swallow. And after her thundered the big yellow horse, with the long, swinging stride that Fred knew few mustangs could successfully cope with in any thing over a mile dash.

“Quick, boys—saddle up!” cried Campbell, excitedly. “Never mind the meat. I’m afraid that Fred is running into some real trouble—that creature has bewitched him. See! he forgot his rifle—but he has his pistols. Make haste! we mustn’t lose sight of them if we can help it, though the moon is full and will soon be up. We can follow their trail, if needs be.”

There was little hesitation. Though the day’s work had been hard, both men and beasts were ready for a race, and this was no common one. Already the young hunters possessed a burning curiosity to know who and what this strange woman rider really was, and what was the motive of her strange actions.

Hopples were slipped, saddles and bridles quickly adjusted, and then, weapons in hand, the little party dashed swiftly beneath the natural rock, out upon the broad prairie. But where were the two riders—their friend and the strange woman?

For a moment a superstitious thrill agitated the young hunters, but then Campbell laughed. He saw their foolishness.

“They’re beyond the swell—we’ll see them in a moment. Come on—keep up with me if you can!”

That he spoke the truth, the next moment confirmed. Gliding like shadowy phantoms, rapidly yet noiselessly, two riders appeared near the crest of the second swell, already a mile away. Only that the moon was just rising the eastern swells, the chase would have been invisible to the hunters.

But few more words were spoken on the part of the little band. One and all, they saw that a long and severe race was before them, and that all their attention must be given to their horses, already jaded by their hard day’s hunt, if they hoped to keep within view of the young ranger. Up hill and down, over gullies and through the patches of tall grass and weeds, sped the hunters, now no longer in a compact clump, but strung out with intervals of a yard, a horse’s length, maybe, between each other. A dozen lengths in front thundered Ned Campbell on his big bay horse.

“Do the best ye can, boys,” he shouted back, with beard on shoulder. “If you can’t keep up, follow the trail.”

Each of his friends felt the same vague fear that agitated Campbell’s heart. They believed that Hawksley was being led into some great peril by this strange rider—that she was acting the part of a decoy.

But why? That was beyond them. They did not pause to reason—they jumped at once to the conclusion, preposterous as it seemed.

The moon shone clear and full upon the prairie, lighting up this unique, double chase. First—far ahead, almost invisible in the dim, deceitful light, sped the strange woman rider, the spotted mustang running freely and seemingly at ease. Close behind—in fact not more than a hundred yards, thundered the dark figure of the young ranger, urging on his noble “buck-skin” with both voice and spur. A mile further to the rear was Ned Campbell, his big bay holding its own, if not slowly gaining upon the two foremost racers. Gradually losing ground, on struggled the others, bringing up the rear.

Bitterly Hawksley regretted having so severely taxed his animal during the day. Were he fresh now, there was little doubt as to how the chase would terminate. The spotted mustang would speedily be forced to acknowledge its master. But now? With varying hope and fear, Fred urged his horse on. He scarcely knew what to think. At times the spotted creature seemed laboring heavily, at others to be running well within himself. Could it be that this strange woman was playing with him? Fred bit his lip and pressed his spurs home. With an angry snort, the big horse plunged forward with lightning speed.

Ned Campbell was urging his horse to the utmost, and in his anxiety concerning his friend, he neglected his usual caution, unfortunately for all concerned. Fearing to lose sight of the chase, his gaze was bent ahead, as he gained the crest of a swell.

A loud cheer burst from his lips as he caught sight of his friend, seemingly riding close beside the strange woman. As he turned his head to cheer on his friends, Ned felt his horse suddenly stumble, and then came insensibility.

The big bay horse had stepped into the burrow of a gopher, and stumbling, fell with violence, casting its rider far over its head. Campbell lay like one dead, and forgetting all else in their anxiety regarding his welfare, the young hunters dismounted and crowded round him.

Thus a full half-hour was lost; momentous minutes to their friend Fred Hawksley. Only for that unfortunate stumble, how much that followed might have been spared!

Though considerably bruised, when he returned to consciousness, Campbell found that no bones were broken. Almost his first thought was for his horse. It stood near by, leisurely cropping the grass, in nowise injured by the contretemps.

Ned uttered a little exclamation, as he glanced around him. He counted eight forms besides his own. Then he glanced over the prairie in which direction he had last noted his young friend. It was clear and unobstructed. Hawksley and the strange rider had disappeared.

“You ought to have followed on, boys. I fear that Fred is running into some snare. Do you take the trail now. I remember the point where I last saw them. I’ll ride on ahead. Don’t lose any time, but keep the right track. Fred’s life may depend upon it.”

Before the last words were spoken, he was in the saddle and away. One quick glance around settled his course, and then fixing his eyes steadily upon a point of timber a mile or more ahead, he dashed on like an arrow fresh from the bow.

His companions followed more deliberately, though at a steady gallop. The moonlight was sufficiently strong to enable them to follow the plainly imprinted trail with little difficulty. In a few minutes they lost sight of Ned Campbell, behind a timber island.

Round a point of this the trail led, and dashing along, the eyes of the pursuers widely dilated as they abruptly drew rein. The prairie here stretched out free of timber, almost level for several miles in either direction. And yet not a living object was to be seen upon its surface!

Was this magic? More than one of the hunters felt a thrill of superstitious awe, as they glanced at each other. Where were Hawksley and the strange woman? Where was Ned Campbell?

“Look!” muttered a tall, lank youth, Zebedee Ruel by name, “hyar’s thar trail—three critters goin’ at full split. They’ve passed this a-way. Reckon we’d best follow on—what say?”

The trail was faint and indistinct at this point, for the ground was harder, ringing sharply beneath the iron-shod hoofs. It was the edge of a tract of prairie sometimes found in Texas—more frequently in Kansas and Nebraska; composed of sand, gravel and flinty pebbles, over which a horse may pass without leaving a trail.

Such was soon found to be the case here. Though all dismounted, even searching the ground upon hands and knees, the trail was soon lost.

“Ha! boys, we’re fools!” muttered Craig Fenton, in a tone of disquiet. “Don’t you know this place? Why we’re not five miles from Colton’s Ranche!”

“By thunder! you’re right, Craig,” muttered Ruel. “Then they must be in the—”

“Look yonder!”

Following the direction indicated by the outstretched finger, the hunters beheld the tall figure of a horseman, standing motionless upon the prairie, not two hundred yards from their position. And yet, only a moment before, the prairie had been closely scanned, without a living object being seen.

CHAPTER II.
THE LOTTERY OF DEATH.

Other events were occurring upon that same night, that now claim our attention.

A small timber island that stood close beside the stream before spoken of as running near the hunters’ bivouac, was the scene of a strange and peculiar trial; one that might with propriety be termed a lottery of death.

Shortly after dark a band of horsemen began congregating here, riding silently into the road, dismounting and tethering their animals in a small glade that occupied the center of the motte. That they were white men, was plain from the few words spoken, though the overhanging trees concealed their features.

One man who was among the first to arrive, appeared high in authority, judging from the deference with which he was regarded by the others. He seemed ill at ease, or very impatient, moving restlessly to and fro, muttering more than one curse beneath his breath, stamping his foot fiercely or nervously fingering the weapons at his belt.

“How many are there here, Thompson?” he uttered, abruptly pausing beside a tall, muscular frame.

“Seventeen, by my count, Cap’n Jap,” replied the man, with the stumpy pipe still clenched betwixt his teeth. “Thar’s two more yit—Colton an’ Marcks.”

“Can it be that he suspects the purpose of our meeting to-night? The soft-headed fool may have seen his brother since then, and as he knows the laws of our band, that would put him on his guard. Let him beware! He’d better cut his own throat than to prove false to us now.”

“True es preachin’, Cap’n Jap,” quoth Thompson. “We’d sarve him wuss’n we did Hans Koch. But he’ll be here, I reckon. He’s most al’ays behindhan’.”

“Start the fire, Jim. We must have light for the drawing. Ha! there comes some one now!”

“Yas—an’ it’s him, too. He rides the only racker in the band.”

“Good!” then adding in a low, rapid tone. “You must watch him close, Thompson. When he learns what is on the boards, he may cut up nasty. Keep close enough to him to grab him if I give the word. You understand?”

“Bet ye—I’ll do it, never fear,” muttered the man, as he gathered a handful of dried leaves and grass.

“Well, Colton,” sternly uttered the man addressed as Captain Jap—his name being Jasper Morton—turning to the last comer, “you are late, as usual.”

“I could not help it, Captain Morton. I was kept—”

“No excuses. But if you ever hope to rise higher in the band, you must break yourself of this habit. Only for one thing, you would have been discharged from the league, long ago.”

“And that is—”

“We know you would betray us before the week was out. There—you need not deny it. I know you too well. I merely mentioned this now because I believe you need a hint of the kind. You are watched—I tell you that much. You remember Hans Koch? It has not been so long since that you should forget his fate. Take care that we do not have to deal with you in that manner.”

“What have I done that you should threaten me in this manner, Captain Morton? Have I ever proved false—haven’t I always obeyed orders?”

“There—don’t get your back up, Jack Colton. What I say is for your own good. If I am not mistaken you will be tested to-night, more severely than you think. See to it that you do not fail. If you do—you die!”

“I don’t understand you.”

“You will, before long. That will do, Thompson. We only require a little light, and some prying eye might catch the glimmer. Now, men,” he added, after a brief pause, “gather round and listen well to what I say. We have work to do this night—some of you may know what I mean, but most of you do not. Listen well, but keep silence.

“First, a word as to the objects of our league, then as to our laws. It will do no harm to freshen your memory on these points. We all know our calling—our name, for it is confiscation—others call it stealing; but that don’t matter. Among ourselves we are “Night Hawks.” To others we are simple cattle-drovers, mustangers, or quiet settlers.

“We have been organized some six months. In that time our profits have been nearly two thousand dollars per man: a little better than simple farming. But it will be better still, now that our markets are fairly opened, and a chain established along which we can ship our plunder without chance of being detected. All this, however, you know.

“Now about our laws. The first is—death to all traitors. The next—death to those who stubbornly refuse to perform the duty assigned to them. Our motto is, blood for blood. If a member of our league is taken prisoner, we swear to free him, though it cost the lives of half our number. If one is killed, we swear to avenge him.

“You all remember Hans Koch. He warned a friend that we intended cleaning out his corral on a certain night. A trap was set for us, but we escaped it, because a trusted spy discovered Koch’s treachery. You know that Koch met his reward. I killed him, because the lot fell to me. Had I refused, your laws would have condemned me, even though I was twice your leader. You wonder why I say all this? I will tell you now.

“You know that Koch’s death reduced the number of our league to twenty. There are only eighteen here now. One—Tony Marcks—is absent on duty assigned him by me. The other—Israel Hackett—is dead.”

A low murmur of surprise followed this announcement, and it was evident that few, if any of the band had known of their comrade’s fate. Jasper Morton waved his hand for silence, then resumed:

“Yes, Israel Hackett is dead—he was killed last night, while performing his duty. He was one of our best men, and now duty becomes a pleasure—we must avenge him as our laws demand.”

“He shall be avenged—the name? who killed him?” came the fierce cry from more than one pair of lips.

“Keep cool—all in good time, men. We will proceed by rule. It is only one man, and upon one of us the duty falls. We will decide by the lottery. It is the fairest way. Thompson—the pouch!”

A small, narrow buck-skin bag was handed the leader, who knelt beside the small fire that flickered faintly and feebly. At a gesture from him the outlaws—for such they undoubtedly were—gathered more closely around, bending forward and watching his every motion.

“You know the rules of this—that a bullet shall be placed in the bag for each and every person present, all but one of them being old and stained by rubbing together—the other one bright and new. Then we draw, one by one, until the bright bullet is chosen. The man who draws that is the one chosen executioner. There can be no refusal—no retreating. It is a sacred command, and the one who refuses to obey proclaims himself a traitor. Do you all understand me?”

“Yes—we are ready!”

“And you?” turning abruptly toward the man he had called Jack Colton.

“I vow with the rest—I am ready,” came the quiet reply.

“Good! I confess that I had some doubts, for you have acted rather queerly since Koch’s death,” sneered Morton.

“He was my friend—you can not blame me for feeling touched at his horrible death.”

“There is nothing wrong in that—only beware that you do not let your friendship carry you in his footsteps. His wretched fate would be happiness compared with yours, in that case.”

Morton seemed to have some secret spite against this member of his band, but Colton commanded himself by an effort of will, and with a scowl the outlaw leader turned once more to the subject in hand.

“Thompson, mold a bullet, your molds run the truest. Make haste.”

Five minutes later, all was ready. Jasper Morton took the bullets—one bright as silver, the others all dingy and dark—and slowly dropped them one by one into the buck-skin pouch, so that all could see. Then he shook them up thoroughly.

“Now, as I call, let each man step forward and draw. You are standing in a circle. I will begin here at my right hand, and go to the left. When you draw, open your hand and hold the bullet in the firelight so that all may see. You first, Wilkins.”

The man advanced, plunged his hand into the pouch, withdrew it, holding the pellet of lead where the firelight shone full upon it. It was dark and dingy.

So were the next half-dozen drawn. Some seemed pleased at the result, others indifferent, but one uttered a low curse, as though he had been deprived of a prized boon in not drawing the bright bullet.

Jack Colton came next, and the features of the outlaw chief lighted up with a gleam of malignant joy, as the young man held up the fatal pellet. It was just what he had been longing for. Had he known the meaning of the word, it is probable that he would have prayed for this result.

“You are the elected, Colton,” he cried, in a voice that rung with triumph. “Your hand must deal the avenging blow! But first—to show that all was conducted fair. See—here are the other bullets. All are dark—you drew the only bright one. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, I am satisfied. I will avenge Hackett, since fate selects me. Tell me the name, and what I must do,” quietly replied the young man.

“You must kill him, and before morning. Such are the rules. No unnecessary delay.”

“I know—his name?” impatiently.

“Listen. Of course I am very sorry that it has happened as it has. It would have been better had the choice fallen on some other man; but since you are elected, you must forget all save that you belong to this league,” and as he spoke Morton’s eyes gleamed with diabolical joy.

“What do you mean by this?” faltered Colton, his bronzed cheek paling.

“Only to prepare you. Israel Hackett was killed by your brother, Henry Colton!”

“My God!” gasped Colton, the terrible truth bursting upon his heart. “My brother—and I—but no, no! You can not mean that!”

“Thompson, remember what I told you,” cried Morton, sharply, shrinking back from before the agitated outlaw, one hand seeking his belt. “Yes, I do mean it. Your brother killed Hackett, and he is doomed. You took your chance with the rest of us—you must fulfill your oath.”

“I will not—I’ll kill you first!” screamed the unfortunate young man, and in his frenzy, his revolver was jerked from the sheath at his side.

Now Morton’s precautions stood him in good stead. Thompson sprung forward and clutched the half-crazed outlaw, pinning his arms closely to his sides, holding him powerless as a child.

Thus assisted, Morton quickly disarmed Colton, then motioned Thompson to release him. With a hot, angry glance around him, the young man stood still, quelling his emotion by a powerful exertion of will.

“Now let me know just what you mean by this action, Jack Colton. Have you forgotten your oath this soon? Do you intend to defy the league?”

“Yes—when you try to make me soil my hands with the blood of a brother,” was the firm reply.

“Ah, you remember the tie now, do you?” sneered Morton. “And yet, only a few weeks since, you swore that you’d have his heart’s blood. Have you forgotten that he cursed you, and drove you from his door like a dog, because, as he said, you insulted his wife?”

“He only served me right. I did insult her, but it was when I was drunk. Never mind that now. I tell you that I will not murder him.”

“Take care—you are sealing your own doom by these words. You have been told your duty—obey, or take the consequence.”

“Let it come. I am ready.”

“Durn the fool—what’s the use o’ palaverin’?” growled Thompson. “Here’s the bullets; shake ’em up, an’ give him a turn.”

“For the last time—will you obey?”

“No.”

Again the drawing of the death-lottery was gone through, this time even more deliberately than before. Evidently Morton was anxious to put Colton to death, from some reason of his own. During its progress, the attitude of the prisoner—for such he now was—did not change, but his features altered greatly. His resolution seemed dying out as he noted the cool nonchalance with which the lots were drawn. Life appeared more and more dear to him.

“It’s me,” uttered Thompson, with a coarse laugh. “Well, Colton, my boy, since it’s so, reckon I must. How’ll you hev it—lead or steel?”

“Neither. Spare me—do not murder me!” gasped the young man, pale and trembling.

“You know the alternative,” coldly replied Morton. “Do your duty and you are safe.”

“You are not jesting—you mean this?”

“Yes. Strike the blow that avenges Israel Hackett, and we will forget that you refused to do your duty.”

“I will do it. I did not think it was so hard to die; and he did treat me mean—like a dog—he even kicked me!” muttered Colton, tremblingly.

Morton’s eye gleamed. This sudden change seemed to please him greatly. Thompson looked on in disgust. He felt only contempt for this pitiful craven.

“Come, we have lost time enough. Mount and let’s be going. We’ll make a clean sweep of the corrals, too, while about it. Thompson, you and I will keep our friend, here, company,” and Morton glanced significantly at his acolyte.

The little band filed forth from the woods, and then set out over the prairie at a rapid gallop—the one gait of Morton’s horsemen. They had only a few miles to travel, and of that they made short work.

Jack Colton rode between Thompson and Morton, his head bowed as though strongly agitated. The outlaw chief was in high spirits. Whatever may have been his object, he was greatly pleased with the course affairs had that night taken.

“Yonder’s the ranche,” muttered Thompson, slackening his pace. “Now, what’s the programme, old man?”

“Well, our first care is to see that Colton, here, does his duty. Either you or I can go with him to the door, just to keep his courage up, you know; the other can take charge of the men and go through the stables and corral.”

“Jest as you say, Cap’n Jap. But how’d we best work it—bu’st in an’ take the critter by s’prise, or knock ’im up?”

“Best rap at the door. He’ll think it’s all right when he hears Jack’s voice. And as for you, my man,” addressing Colton, “remember that your life depends upon how you act this night. Thompson, you will keep him covered with your pistol, and at the first sign of treachery, drop him. You hear me?”

“Yas—I’ll do it, too, so mind yer eye, ole boy,” and the tall ruffian uttered an oath to bind his threat.

“You waste a great many words. I have to do this deed, and I will do it. Why do you threaten so much?” quietly added Colton.

“Because I don’t half-trust you. I believe you are a traitor at heart, and I am half-sorry that I gave you another chance at the grove. But take care! You’d better have been born dead than to attempt any treachery toward us now. While one of the band lives, your life will be in peril.”

“His will may be good a-plenty, but he hain’t got the sand in his craw to act the traitor. But never fret, Cap’n Jap. I’ll see that he puts Hen Colton out o’ the way, or down he goes hisself. Come, we’d better git down here. The houn’s begin to smell us a’ready.”

The entire party now dismounted, securing their animals to the rude rail fence, at this point being hidden from the house by the long hay-topped stables. After a few whispered instructions from Jasper Morton, Thompson linked his arm in that of Colton, and glided silently toward the house.

As they crossed the stile-blocks, a furious barking broke the air, and half a dozen large hounds came rushing toward them. Thompson cocked his pistol, as he muttered in Colton’s ear:

“Quiet ’em, Jack—still the brutes, or you’ll never live to make love to Hen’s widow!”

“Should you harm me, those brutes would tear you to pieces before you could fire twice,” coolly replied Colton. “See—they know me.”

The huge hounds had recognized the hand that had so often fed them in days gone by, and their angry greeting turned to one of joy. With difficulty Colton kept them from leaping upon his body in a swarm, licking his hands and face.

Thompson uttered an oath. The baying of the hounds had aroused the inmates of the building, for a faint light shone through the heavily shuttered windows.

“Wal, it don’t matter much, a’ter all. We won’t hev to knock so long. But now mind how ye act, Jack Colton. You see—I hev my shooter cocked an’ ready. The fust crooked step you make—down goes your apple-cart! Onderstand?”

“Yes. But suppose he refuses to open the door?”

“He won’t if you play it fine. You tell him to open; thet you’re hard hit—bin in a muss at the Corners. I’ll sw’ar to it. Thet’ll fetch him, sure. So—kinder lean on me. It’ll look better an’ ’ll hide your barker from him ontil he comes out. Keep cool now, and mind your eye, for your life depends on your doing this job slick an’ without any bunglin’.”

“All right. You hail him. I’m hurt too bad to call so loud,” added Colton, with a sickly laugh.

“Hellow—the house! You Hen Colton—I say—durn it all, man be ye deef?” roared Thompson, supporting the young man upon one strong arm.

“What’s wanting out there?” demanded a clear, strong voice from the interior.

“You’re wanted—got a sick man here thet needs a little doctorin’. Some kin o’ your’n, I reckon. Says he’s your brother.”

“What’s that?” and the heavy door was cautiously swung ajar a few inches.

“It’s me, Henry,” and the young man’s voice trembled.

“What’s the matter with you?” the settler demanded, a trace of suspicion in his tones.

“Nothin’ much—only cut up a little. Monte Pete an’ One-eyed Johnny doubled teams on him, down to the Corners. They’re subjects for a fust-class wake, an’ the lad here is hurt consid’able. He would hev me fetch him here—said he wanted to make it up ’th you, or somethin’ like that. But I reckon he’s wuth two dead critters yit,” hastily explained the tall outlaw.

“It’s true, Henry. Give me shelter for one night, or until my hurts can be looked to. You will?”

“Of course—you are my brother still, though you had acted twice as bad as you have done. Come—let me help you.”

The settler, unsuspecting treachery, stepped out upon the porch, his countenance expressing his anxiety. Then Thompson nudged Jack Colton with his elbow, as he loosened his hold.

What followed was quick as thought. A bright flash—a sharp report—a death-cry of intense agony—a heavy fall upon the broad stone steps.

Then Colton, still clutching the smoking pistol, sprung forward and seizing his brother pushed him forcibly back into the building, in a moment closing the heavy oaken door and dropping the stout bars into place.

Inside the brothers—outside, what? A writhing, bleeding body from which the life was rapidly ebbing. Thompson the outlaw had been outwitted, and paid the penalty with his life!

As he gave Colton the signal that the time had come for his bloody deed, the young man turned his pistol against his breast and fired. With bullet-pierced breast, the outlaw fell, dying.

Henry Colton was thunderstruck. At first he believed that the assault was upon him, but when his brother closed and barred the door, with that horrible groaning outside, an inkling of the truth flashed upon his mind.

“What is this—what do you mean, Jack?” he gasped, bewildered.

“It means that I have saved your life, Henry, for the present. But come—is the house well secured? We’ll have a desperate fight on our hands before many minutes.”

“Yes—all is secure. But explain—I don’t understand. You are not hurt—that man lied?”

“No, I am well. That was part of a plot. But first—out with the light, then go and tell your wife that you are safe. Tell her that there is no real danger, for we can easily beat them off until day, and they’ll not dare stay longer, for fear of the neighbors. Go now—then hasten back here.”

Henry Colton followed his brother’s advice, for he heard his affrighted wife calling his name in anxious tones from the upper half-story, that answered for sleeping apartments. A true woman of the border, she felt safe on seeing him unhurt, and stilling the child, she hastily dressed and followed her husband to the lower floor.

“Mary, this is no place for you,” murmured Henry as she glided to his side. “Go and stay with Tommy. There may be danger here.”

“No more to me than to you, Henry. I can load your weapons for you, if you have not time. No—I will not go. Tommy is safe up stairs, and my place is here beside you.”

“Let her stay, Henry. It will show me what I have to make amends for. Mary,” added Jack, his voice sounding husky, “while I have time, let me pray your forgiveness. I was drunk and half crazy, or I would have known better than to have insulted you. You will try and forget my words?”

“Yes—and we will be true brother and sister after this. You can not guess how deeply it hurt me, knowing that I had caused hard feelings between you and Henry.”

“He was right—it was my fault. But I’ll make amends, if my life is spared.”

His brother understood this last remark though Mary did not, for Jack had, in a few hasty words, told him all. How, when driven from his home by his only brother, he had fallen into the tempter’s snare, and become one of Jasper Morton’s “Night Hawks.” He told him too of the death-doom sworn by the outlaws, and that while one of the Night Hawks lived, neither would be safe from danger. It was this thought that clouded both their brows.

Henry Colton marveled greatly that no attack had been made, though full quarter of an hour had elapsed since the fall of Thompson, but a word from Jack explained this. The Night Hawks, busy plundering the stables and corral, no doubt fancied that the death-cry proceeded from the settler, and that the chosen executioner had done his work well. But they would soon discover the truth, and then—

“Ha! it’s coming now!” muttered Jack Colton, in a low, strained tone, as a peculiar whistle came faintly to their ears. “That’s Morton’s signal to Thompson.”

“Stand in this corner, Mary, out of range. We must show the devils no mercy now, and remember that the more we lay out to-night, the less we will have to fight in the future,” sternly added the settler.

“If the moon only shone brighter!” muttered Jack, his eyes gleaming viciously. “I’d give my left hand for a fair shot at that devil, Morton!”

“I know him now. If he’s wise, he’ll keep out of range. Look! yonder they come!”

The rifles of the brothers clicked ominously, and then two dark muzzles protruded slightly from the small loop holes. The house had been built with an eye to defense against the Indians though until now the settler had been unmolested. The outlaw whom he had shot, he detected riding off on a valuable stallion, the day before, and at his rifle’s crack, Israel Hackett fell dead. Horse-stealing was regarded as an even more heinous crime than murder, in those days.

Jasper Morton had chuckled fiendishly, as he heard the shot and death-cry. He believed that his plans had been successfully carried out. But he became uneasy at the long delay of his acolyte, and gave the signal as stated. No answer coming, he began to suspect the truth, and mustering his men, was now approaching the dark and silent building.

“When you are sure of your aim, Jack,” muttered Colton, “tell me.”

“I’m ready now.”

“Then—fire!”

Two whiplike reports rung out upon the clear night air, sounding almost like one. Two of the Night Hawks fell to the ground, writhing in their death-agonies. Wild cries broke from the survivors, and with one accord they broke and fled, seeking the nearest cover, for the moment completely demoralized.

The brothers laughed, and quickly reloaded their weapons. But Mary seemed greatly agitated. As Henry noted her pale and frightened face, she murmured

“What if they fire the house!”

“My God! I did not think of that!” gasped Colton.

CHAPTER III.
THE MIDNIGHT CONFLICT.

A strange fear filled the breast of the young hunter, Ned Campbell, as he dashed away over the prairie, his eyes riveted upon the point where he had last seen his friend in hot pursuit of the weird rider. And yet, had he attempted, he could not have given expression to this dread, in words.

Something seemed to tell him that Fred Hawksley was running blindfold into a deadly peril—the more to be dreaded because unknown. That this strange woman was acting the part of a decoy.

All the rumors that he had ever heard of her, now flashed across his mind. Until this night he had treated them with contempt, believing them mere fabrications, or else finding birth in a superstitious imagination.

For six months past, that portion of Texas in and around the “Corners,” had been filled with wild rumors and stories in which a strange woman rider played a prominent part. In one thing all coincided, that the woman was young and bewilderingly lovely. In all else, the accounts differed.

One day she was seen here—the next there, miles and miles away. Now she rode a spotted mustang of great beauty and fleetness; again a black—then a bright bay. Full twenty men, both young and old, solemnly affirmed that they had chased her, some upon horses famed for speed and endurance, but all declared that she had distanced them with seeming ease. None had ever gotten within speaking distance of her, until now Fred Hawksley declared that he had heard her voice.

Where she lived, no one could tell. Certainly not in any house in the county, for close search had been made by more than one border youth whose impressible heart had been fired by the strange beauty. When seen, she was ever alone. All in all she was an enigma—and until now, Campbell had believed her a myth.

Aside from his personal friendship for Fred, another inducement spurred Ned on. Rumor had it that the handsome hunter had surrendered his heart to fair Fannie Hawksley, Fred’s sister, and for once the owner was correct.

When they set forth upon their hunt, Fannie laughingly bade him take good care of Fred, though there was an undercurrent of seriousness in her tones that Ned understood. He knew that Hawksley was rash and adventurous, even to foolhardiness when his blood was fairly aroused, and he had promised her to take care that he returned all right.

He remembered his promise now, and it spurred him on, that and his faintly-defined presentiment of evil. Should any thing serious happen to Fred, how could he face Fannie?

“Around that point I must catch sight of him,” he muttered, as he urged on his good horse. “Unless I mistake, I can see the prairie for ten miles from there, and surely I was not insensible long enough for them to cross that stretch? And once in sight, I can guard him against danger.”

The big bay horse covered the ground, with long, deer-like bounds that swiftly lessened the distance. Though laboring heavily—for full fifteen miles had been traversed since leaving the bivouac, in addition to a long day’s travel—the noble brute did not falter. He would continue his stride until his great heart burst, as Ned well knew. But this was no time to consider the welfare of a horse, when the safety, perhaps the life of a dear friend hung in the balance.

With eagerly straining gaze, the young hunter gained and rounded the point of timber. A cry of wonder broke from his dry lips, and he abruptly drew rein. Not a living soul was to be seen, though the prairie stretched out before him, smooth and level almost as a ballroom floor.

Where could his friend have gone? Surely not straight on, across that tract? Impossible—it was fully ten miles, if an inch. Around the motte? No—for the trail led straight forward, as a glance showed him.

Then a sudden cry broke from Campbell’s lips, and he cast a rapid glance around. He saw that the moonlight had deceived him—that he was at least a mile further west than he had believed. All was plain to him now—the mystery was a mystery no longer.

“The baranca—they are there—it must be so! But how—my God! can that woman have been a spirit?”

The ranger reeled in his saddle. The strange events of that night had unmanned him, and wild fancies took possession of his brain. He half believed that this strange rider was nothing but a delusion—a phantom who had lured his young friend on to his death, by a fall down the baranca that, though still invisible, he well knew lay before him at only a few yards’ distance.

His mind a strange medley, Campbell urged his horse forward, and in half a dozen more bounds, stood upon the verge of the baranca; a deep, narrow ravine, with almost perpendicular sides, the bottom thickly strewn with jagged bowlders of different sizes. Though this ravine began less than a mile to the south, Ned knew that it ran north for ten times that distance, preserving the same general direction, though winding and tortuous.

Still sitting his horse he peered eagerly down into the baranca. The full moon behind him only lighted up a portion of the further side. The bottom was wrapped in darkness so deep that from where he stood, the eye could not penetrate it.

A strange awe was upon the young ranger. All that was superstitious in his nature was now fully awakened. It seemed more than an adventure with common flesh and blood.

Twice his lips parted to utter his friend’s name, and as often he refrained, why, he could not himself tell. He peered down into the darkness, his horse slowly trotting along the escarpment, toward the north.

Suddenly Campbell gave vent to a cry. Close before him seemed a narrow pathway leading down into the ravine.

He urged his horse forward, and descended below the level of the prairie. But a very few moments convinced him that even if he could descend to the bottom, he could do little good without lights, and turning he scrambled once more to the level ground.

He saw that his comrades had come up, and were now standing as if amazed. His was the figure that drew the cry of astonishment from Craig Fenton.

“Quick, boys,” cried Campbell, riding toward them, “dismount and get something for torches. They must be down there—but whether dead or alive, God only knows!”

“You think that she—” began Fenton, in a low, hushed voice.

“I don’t know—I’m afraid to think. But don’t talk—make haste. We must search the ravine.”

The woods were near, and the young hunters well knew what to select for torches. In a very few minutes they were back to the edge of the baranca, where Ned Campbell had already kindled a light with his flint and steel.

Bearing the feebly-flickering torches, the party descended into the baranca by the path that, though rough, was amply wide. They slowly advanced along the rough, rock-strewn bottom, holding aloft their torches, expecting with each movement to come upon the dead and mangled form of their young friend.

The flaring lights caused the shadows to dance and move weirdly, and a dozen times in as many minutes, their hearts were set in a wild, sickening shudder as one of their number believed he beheld the object of their quest. But as often the mistake was proved.

The search was continued in silence. None cared to speak. The same superstitious feeling was upon all. All in all, the night was one not soon to be forgotten.

They had carefully searched the baranca upon both sides of the spot for which the trail had pointed, and yet nothing was discovered. They interchanged glances. Could it be that the chase had turned and skirted the ravine? Campbell answered the thought, positively.

“Not unless they entered the timber. It runs for nearly three miles, and this gully for a good ten. I should have seen them. No, you may laugh, but I believe they are somewhere in this ravine. We know now that he did not ride into it, here. But you know Fred. He don’t know what fear is. If that woman rode into this—and further up there are a dozen places where it could be done, if one was only acquainted with the ground—he followed her. He could never quit the chase until he caught her or—she turned into air!”

“Well, what shall we do? Fire a volley to let him know we’re looking for him?” asked Fenton.

“No—not yet. I can’t tell you why, but somehow it strikes me that there is mischief in this. Why did she wait there until he was ready to chase her? She must have seen what we were by the fire-light. Then, if friendly, why run at all? I believe it’s a decoy of the Kiowas—you know they are getting saucy again. If so, they are still in here, or else we would have seen them as they rode away. Put out the lights and we will explore the place. They can’t be far away.”

After some objections this plan was adopted, and the party, with ready weapons, explored the ravine for full half a mile. Then their progress was stopped by a barrier of huge bowlders, over which a footman could scarcely clamber in noonday, much less a horse and rider.

“It’s no use,” muttered Fenton, disgustedly. “We can do nothing here in the dark. Besides, I believe that they must have turned round the timber, instead of coming into this hole. In my opinion we’ve all been acting like a pack of natural born fools!”

“The fust sensible words I’ve heerd sence leavin’ camp,” uttered another.

“You may be right. I hope so, anyhow. We can go up and see if the trail comes out again into soft ground, as it must if they went into the wood.”

“First, give him a salute. He may be in here, hunting for the girl, if she hid from him. It can do no harm, and may do good. If alive and within hearing, Fred’ll answer.”

The rifles were discharged, one quickly succeeding the other, and then all listened breathlessly. Minute after minute passed by, without any reply. Campbell drew a long breath.

“Well, let’s go. If he is in here, he will not mind a little delay—for he must be dead!”

Slowly the little party retraced their steps and emerged from the baranca. Mounting their horses they rode slowly off along the edge of the flinty ground, scattered at regular intervals from that to the trees, in order that, should one overlook the trail, another might find it.

The hopes that had been roused by Fenton’s suggestion grew fainter with each rod passed over. And when the end of the timber island was reached, full three miles from where the trail was lost, the hunters reined in their horses, their heads drooping in despair. That hope—seemingly the last—was banished.

“What shall we do now?”

“What can we do?” and Campbell’s voice sounded strained and husky.

“I hev it!” cried Ruel. “The dorgs—we kin trail him ’th them!”

“That’s so—why didn’t we think of it before?”

“We can try—but I haven’t much hope,” gloomily added Campbell. “You know how we rode around—we must have covered the trail.”

“But we can try—don’t be so craven, Ned. It’s not like you to gi’ up so easy.”

“I know it—but something tells me that Fred is lost—if not dead, that we will never see him again. Why, I don’t know. I never felt so before to-night. Boys,” and his voice sunk to a whisper, “I believe that was a—a spirit that poor Fred chased!”

No one answered, and they rode on in silence. The true born and raised Westerner, is naturally superstitious. It seems inherent with them. Though some may deny this, I know it to be truth.

“Wal, I don’t know as Colton’s dogs kin trail a sperit, but I know that truer varmints don’t live. Ef they cain’t find Fred, then he is gone—shore!”

“Ha! listen—you hear that?”

Campbell’s voice trembled with excitement.

Two muffled reports came roaring over the prairie, unmistakably that of firearms. All heard them, and for a moment, believed that it was Hawksley signaling to them. But then Ruel—the keenest ear, by far, among them—cried:

“Ef it’s Fred, he’s at Colton’s. Them shots kem from thar.”

“He’d hardly have gone there—and if he did, why would he fire?”

“He wouldn’t—’tain’t him. Boys—you hear me; thar’s trouble thar!” muttered Ruel, as several more reports—sounding confused as though fired in an irregular volley—came faintly to their ears.

“That’s so—ride now, boys; never mind the horses. There’s more at stake than their lives!” gritted Campbell, for the moment forgetting the strange disappearance of his friend, in the knowledge that others were threatened.

But there is a limit to animal endurance, and though better horses were never bestrode than those of the young hunters, they galloped heavily and laboriously. That day and night had been too much for them.

Though loving their noble beasts, the young rangers now plied their spurs mercilessly. As Ruel had said, there was trouble ahead. With voice and rowel they urged the failing animals on, their hearts beating rapidly with the fear of being too late. And the horses, true to the core, plunged on, less and less rapidly.

“Ha—look!”

Campbell it was that spoke, but the gesture of his outstretched hand was unheeded. All eyes beheld the same object, and easily interpreted its meaning.

Sweeping round a timber island, a thrilling sight burst upon their gaze. A bright glare was rapidly ascending to the heavens, spreading and growing more and more vivid with each moment. One glance told them the meaning of this. A house was burning—the house of their friend and neighbor, Henry Colton!

That this was result of no accident, was equally plain, for again there broke forth the significant crash of firearms. It meant murder and rapine.

“We must make it, boys, whether it kills the horses or not!” gritted Campbell. “One more dash, and we’ll do—now!”

With the words, spurs were plunged rowel deep into the already deeply scored sides of the tortured beasts, and with wild snorts of pain and terror, they dashed madly toward the brilliant light. Holding their breaths, the young hunters handled their weapons and prepared for the result. The half-mile was lessened to one-half that—a third, and still the animals thunder on.

A stumble—an almost human groan of agony, and one horse is down, the hot life-blood spurting from his mouth and nostrils. It is that of Ruel. The tall hunter was prepared for this. He felt the noble brute’s sides collapse, and with a nimble spring, alighted softly upon his feet.