In an instant he had snatched the bag from his head. The old man’s eyes were closed and his head drooped low on his chest. Anxiously Bob placed his ear over his heart. To his joy he could hear the heart beats steady and fairly strong.
“He must have fainted,” he told Rex. “Here, you hold him, while I cut the ropes.”
In another moment the old Indian was lying on the ground, while Bob and Rex chafed his wrists. Presently his eyes opened.
“Don’t talk,” Bob cautioned. “Just lie still and rest. You’ll be all right in a minute.”
“Back heap sore,” he groaned.
They carefully turned him over onto his side and pulled up his shirt.
“Well-what-do-you-know-about-that?” Rex gasped.
“I know that whoever did it is going to settle accounts with me if I ever find him out,” Bob said and a look into his eyes told Rex that he was uttering no idle threat.
Criscrossed on the old man’s back were many broad whelts, evidently made by a heavy piece of rope.
“Oh, the brutes,” Bob groaned, as he carefully turned the Indian back. “Who did it, Kernertok?”