Dopey reached around and took possession of one of John’s revolvers and aimed at Morris when John, feeling sure of their superiority over the lonely man, said:
“Don’t shoot, Dopey! Don’t kill him! If he hasn’t the deed on him, we’ll make him tell where it is. We must take him alive. Come on!”
Both of the scoundrels sprang at Morris, whose mind was bewildered by the simultaneous attack, and he wavered, so that Dopey managed to strike him over the head with a slung-shot, which caused the unfortunate man to fall, groaning and helpless, to the ground!
“Ah, now we have him,” said John, “and we’ll take him to the hut and torture him to death by inches until he gives us the deed to this mine of gold!”
CHAPTER XIII.
Down the trail there was a small procession coming to the relief of the starved-out camp. Helen had seen an Indian, and as they all fairly worshipped her as a superior being there was not one of them who would not have coursed all over the State of Wyoming to do her a service. She sent to Shoshone for food, and they were now on the road. Even Snakes had come along, leaving his hotel to the care of his help. Dan and Mike were also of the relief-party. Mike had hurt his foot and found it a difficult matter to walk. They had ridden to the place, all but Mike, whose pony had somehow gone so lame that they were obliged to leave him. The others would have changed off with him and let him ride, but he took this as an insult to his manhood, that he should be treated like a baby, or, worse yet, a tenderfoot.
“Well, then, come on. You are worse than a pack of English tenderfoots. If we are going to find the Angel and her friends, we must get a move on. That’s what we must.”
“What do you think we are? A bunch of burros or mountain-goats? Do you think we can climb these rocks the same as if they was flat prairie?” said Dan, angry that Mike should be treated so badly, for they all knew that Mike never shirked in anything from work to a free fight.
“Don’t mind Shoshone, Mike; he is stabbed by the spurs of love, and he don’t know what he is saying half the time. He’s got cactus stickers in his topknot, and he’s as sassy as a loon. Let him rave. Let him rave.”
“Well, you all know that I busted my saddle-girth a while back and that dumped me out like a bag of flour, and kind ’er twisted my ankle.”