“No particular harm, but you have _my secret_. That is reason enough. You may judge whether I am a man to baulk at trifles, by my having shot you as you were spying into my affairs. I have a secret and an end. That secret must be kept from _all_ until my purpose is attained. If you come between, so much the worse for you; you must be disposed of—or, in plainer terms, I shall kill you.” “But if I am not really Jasper Morton?” added the outlaw, anxiously. “That matters little, unless you be one of two persons. Prove to me that you are either of those two, and you are safe.” “And who are they?” quickly asked Morton. “That _you_ must tell me—not I you. But never mind now. I must—” The strange man abruptly paused in his speech, and the wounded outlaw uttered a gasp of terror. A wild, shrill cry—almost a yell, rung clearly upon their ears. It scarcely seemed like the voice of a human being, unless of one hopelessly insane. The stranger frowned angrily, and a curse broke from his lips. Then he uttered a low, peculiar whistle, twice repeated. Morton had turned half round, forgetting his pain in wonder and terror. As the whistle sounded the second time, he saw a dim, shadowy figure glide out from the darkness and stand before the old man. Though he could not distinguish the features of this newcomer, Morton knew that she—for it was unmistakably the form of a woman—was young, from the lithe, rounded figure and agile, graceful movements. The old man spoke a few quick words that the outlaw could not catch, then added aloud as he strode away: “If he attempts to arise, Lola, shoot him. He must not escape yet.” “I do not fear him. If he is wise, he will lie still.” Morton could scarce believe his ears. The words and voice were in such direct contrast. The one soft and musical as the notes of a bird, the other stern and determined. Strange events were crowding fast upon him that night, but this was the strangest of them all. Speechless and half-stupefied, he gazed upon the woman before him. Never before had he beheld such marvelous beauty—loveliness of a fiery, yet voluptuous, oriental type. She was tall for a woman, several inches above the medium hight, in fact, but all was the most perfect symmetry. Her hair, black, glossy and luxuriant, hung in heavy masses below her waist, unconfined save by a simple band of beaded doe-skin that crossed above her forehead. Of a dark, Spanish-like complexion, with large, lustrous eyes, cheeks tinged with the red blush of perfect health; with full, slightly-pouting lips of scarlet, rich, juicy and tempting; rounded chin, and graceful neck sloping down to a swelling bust that Venus herself might have envied; a round, compact waist incased in a neatly-fitting dress of whitely-tanned doe-skin. Leggings of the same material fitted the round, swelling limbs, ending in dainty, beaded moccasins.