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?”