The men waited to hear no more. They rushed forward in a body to help him—there were a dozen of them in all—and while one took his gun, to which he had held fast in spite of his hurried descent of the hill, and another put a canteen of water to his lips, Bob looked around and saw that he was among friends. He had stumbled upon a party of Mr. Evans’ teamsters, and he knew every one of them.
“My king!” exclaimed the grizzly old mule-driver, pulling off his hat, and drawing his shirt sleeve across his forehead. “This beats my time all holler! It is Bob Howard, ain’t it? An’ he ain’t all smashed to pieces, nuther, like we thought he was. I say, Bob,” he added, nodding his head toward one of the wagons, “is that crazy feller we lassoed just now the boy who went into the canyon with you?”
“Don’t make him talk,” said the wagon-master. “Hold him up, some of you, while I fix a place for him.”
The wagon-master worked with a will, and in a few minutes strong hands raised the exhausted boy tenderly from the ground and placed him upon a comfortable bed.
When this happened it was broad daylight, but when Bob came to himself again it was pitch dark. He had slept all day. At first he did not know where he was, but after he had gotten his wits together he became aware that the light of a camp-fire was shining through the canvas cover of the wagon, and that the odor of boiling coffee filled the air.
After a few attempts to get upon his hands and knees, he managed to crawl to the forward end of the wagon and look out. The teamsters were seated around a cheerful blaze, eating supper.
“Any of that coffee for me?” asked Bob.
The men made no reply in words. Two of them arose to their feet, helped Bob out of the wagon, and to a seat by the fire, and a quart cup, filled to the brim with the refreshing beverage, was placed in his hands.
“That makes me feel better,” said Bob, after he had taken a long and hearty drink.
“Well, then, if you’re all right, mebbe you can tell us something about that canyon?” suggested the wagon-master.