The man moved his head the least bit from side to side.
“Your bones do not seem to be broken,” the boy went on; “but your condition indicates that you are seriously—probably fatally—injured. You may not live an hour; you may die within ten minutes. You had a hand in carrying off Zenas Gunn. It was Bunol’s plot, but it is likely you know that rascal’s plans. The least you can do now is to tell me where the professor has been taken. For the sake of your own conscience, at least, you should tell.”
The man was silent.
“You were deserted by your pals and left to die alone by the roadside. I have taken trouble to have you brought here, and I’ve sent for a doctor. In return for this will you not tell me the one thing I want to know? Where has Bunol taken Zenas Gunn?”
The injured man’s lips parted, an expression of great effort and distress came into his eyes, but the only sounds he uttered were a few painful gasps.
“Can’t you speak?” asked Dick.
Again that faint rocking motion of the head from side to side.
“I don’t opine he’ll ever speak again, pard,” whispered Buckhart, in Dick’s ear. “He’s done for, and we’re wasting time in trying to get anything out of him.”
“It’s folly to attempt to search the country blindly to-night,” said Dick. “Unless Durbin can give us a clue, we have nothing to work on.”
Brad looked desperate.