“Keep going, boys,” the Marshal’s voice rang out sharply. “Rush this passage; Pete Carlo, the halfbreed, is hiding just ahead of us and he’s got somebody with him.”
“Watch out for their guns and fire at the first flash. I think they got Scotty, the poor fellow, but if not he knows we are here now and he won’t shoot in our direction.”
All this was said as they almost ran through the secret passage, their lights searching every nook and corner.
They were braving the chance of drawing a shower of bullets from the hidden foe, but the Marshal was determined to clean out the secret passage at any cost.
Rounding a sharp turn in the passage they came upon Scotty huddled in a niche against the wall. He was clutching his revolver tightly between his knees while his head was sunk forward on his chest. A tiny stream of blood was trickling down his cheek, showing where he had been hit. Mason dropped quickly down beside him and felt over his heart.
To his great relief there was a little heart action.
“Quick! the brandy!” he cried in an overjoyed voice. “He’s alive, I think the bullet only stunned him.”
The Marshal, producing his flask, bent over and forced a small portion of the liquor down Scotty’s throat. They had the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes and stare about in a dazed way. His gaze finally rested on Mason and he rose to his feet with alacrity.
“I’m all right,” he said almost savagely, shaking off the Marshal’s detaining hand. “The bullet only creased my head and knocked me senseless. It takes more than a dirty greaser to kill this canny Scotchman. Have you looked for the half breed? I think I got him in that last exchange of shots, then a third gun cut in from a different direction, and I went to sleep.”
They were startled at this point by a cry from one of the cowboys who had pressed on through the secret passage.