Standing in an attitude of careless ease, the strange beauty was gazing half-mockingly upon the wounded outlaw, one hand clasping the butt of a small, silver-mounted revolver with an ease that bespoke long use and perfect familiarity with the weapon. “Who are you?” muttered Morton, staring at her as though at a phantom. “I’ve seen you before—where?” “I am my father’s daughter,” and the strange girl laughed, clear and musically. “Do you think to gain from my lips knowledge that _he_ refused you? Wait—in good time you shall know all or—nothing.” “You threaten, too? What sort of a hornets’ nest is this I’ve got into, I wonder?” The strange girl laughed, her eyes and white teeth gleaming from out the dim light. But there was a peculiar expression to her face that sent a thrill through the outlaw’s frame. He had seen its counterpart once, as he faced a wounded panther. In this woman’s eyes there was the same cruel, deadly glitter that he had noted then. Morton cast a quick glance around him. The dim light had imperfectly revealed his surroundings; still, he could tell that he was under ground. The chamber he was in was low and irregular, of no great dimensions, the walls and roof of intermingled earth and rock. Around him hung various weapons, rifles, pistols, bows and arrows, Indian tomahawks and knives. Robes and furs were scattered around, or hanging from the walls. The truth flashed upon him. The light he had discovered, came from this chamber, the entrance to which was in some manner concealed beneath or in the rocky barricade that intersected the _baranca_. In falling he had alarmed the inmates. Then the old man must have shot at him, in the treacherous light aiming too high to produce death, though a fraction lower would have ended the outlaw’s career forever. Morton shuddered again, and the girl turned her head quickly, the fire deepening in her eyes, as another cry came from beyond the point where the old man had disappeared. Then a low, gasping, gurgling sound and all was still. “My God! there’s murder going on in there!” cried the outlaw, half-arising, horror expressed in every feature. “Lie still—move another inch and there’ll be murder here, as well!” sharply uttered the girl, as the pistol rose to a level with Morton’s head. “Down with you, or I fire!” Morton sunk back, bathed in cold sweat. In a few moments the old man reappeared, wiping his hands upon his dress. The outlaw shuddered convulsively as he noted the dark, red stains that discolored the skin. What deed of horror had been enacted in that further chamber?