With her gun firmly pressed against the body, she raised her other arm to ward off any blow that might be directed against her. As she did so, it became evident that the body still had not moved, that the breath was coming regularly and faintly, but there was no stir of limbs, no shift of muscle or of weight.
Such mysterious behavior filled Dorothy with terror. She bit her lips and dug the mouth of her Colt forward into the body.
“Stick ’em up—do you hear? Over your head!” she said viciously between her teeth.
The figure remained motionless and as silent as before. Dorothy felt her heart beats mount to a violent thunder. She felt she could stand the strain no longer.
Still holding her pistol against the flesh of this mysterious being, she lowered her arm from her forehead and reached slowly forward. She touched something. Her whole body was convulsed with horror, anguish and surprise.
Her trembling fingers had descended upon the smooth, cool softness of a leather helmet. They slipped, cold and damp, from the helmet to the face and over the warm cheek.
In that moment everything was changed. Now Dorothy understood why the figure was motionless and quiet. She touched a fold of cloth that bound the mouth and slipping her hand to the shoulder, she felt a twist of thin rope.
She slipped the pistol into her belt without hesitation. Bill always carried several packets of matches in his pockets. She found one and struck a light.
When the little puff of smoke and the obscuring haze of the first flash settled down to a fitful flame, Dorothy got a glimpse of her friend. He was gagged and bound to one of the upright supports. His eyes were closed and his head drooped to one side.
In less than a second Dorothy had flung away the match and was cutting the young fellow’s bonds with her knife, groping for them in the dark and supporting his released body against her own as she worked. At last she was able to lift him out of the loosened loop that had held his feet and stepping back, laid him on the earthen floor.