"Give me your flask; mine's empty," as he turned to Crees, who silently handed it to him, while his eyes were fixed intently upon the wretch's face.
A few swallows were poured down Sprowl's throat, and thus bathing his face and neck with the pungent liquor, Poynter soon uttered a glad cry. In truth, the patient appeared to be recovering, and in a few minutes the light of reason once more shone in his eyes.
"I know that man," slowly ejaculated Crees, not once removing his gaze, that appeared to attract the other's attention much the same as the fascination exercised by the rattlesnake.
"My God! who are you?" almost yelled the wretch, as he suddenly sat up, staring at Crees, wildly.
"Who should know better than you, Wesley Sprowl?" sternly said the outlaw.
"I know you now. You are—"
"Hold!" commanded Crees, "that name is dead now. If you as much as whisper it before I tell you, by all that's holy I'll treat you as I would a snake! Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," faltered Sprowl, once more sinking back.
"Here," interrupted Poynter, checking this by-play, that not a little excited his curiosity. "Here, Sprowl, take another sup of brandy. I want you to answer me some questions, and you'll need your strength before we're through."
"Yes—yes—the brandy!" eagerly muttered the prisoner, clutching at the bottle, and not drawing breath until it was emptied. "There! now I can talk; only I am hungry," he added, wistfully.