"Come up, Jack, come up!" cried the boy wildly.
"No use, Jim," growled the cowpuncher. "You can't ride him—no, not with buckin' straps an' a Spanish bit."
No responding cry was heard this time.
"My God, where is he?" exclaimed Jim with alarm. "He'll suffocate and lose his senses if he stays down there any longer."
"I guess I'll just scout 'round an 'see how he's playin' the game. Mebbe them flames makes a winnin' against him," said Broncho leisurely, in his most indifferent tones—the very carelessness a sure sign that he was deeply anxious.
"Lemme go, lemme go!" urged Jim, his voice strained and overwrought.
"No, son, it's my bet," said the cowpuncher, as he slipped a rope's-end over his shoulders. "Now, you-alls cinch on to the end o' this, an' if I don't show up on the scenery in five minutes, just yank me out, an' don't use no mildness neither"; and down went Broncho.
A minute later he reappeared, followed by an object whom they had some difficulty in recognising as Jack Derringer.
He was black as a sweep. His clothes were in tatters and smouldering in places; most of the hair on one side of his head was singed off, and he was evidently very exhausted.