“That is not my pistol. We don’t need pistols. We are simply honest prospectors, trying to locate a mine somewhere.”
“Well, I’m not armed, either,” said Shoshone. “I fell into a hole coming here, and dropped mine; so, if you are honest men, I don’t need them, and you will help me to help my friend.”
“Certainly we will, and be glad to do so,” said John.
Shoshone would have known John, had he not taken off the very perfect false beard he had worn, although he had not seen very much of him during their short stay at the hotel.
“I have a friend coming along behind, and she is a famous nurse. Our poor friend here will need good care if he is to live.”
Saying this, Shoshone went to the door, as if going out, while the wounded man, by a supreme effort, reached his hand out to the table, and then, thinking that unsafe, began to tap the Morse telegraphic call on a board of the bed:
(. : . : .)
“What’s that?” asked John, startled, in spite of himself, and not understanding the tapping. Shoshone returned from the door, saying to himself, “The telegraphic call.” Then the wounded man again tapped, and this time it came
—. : . .. .... ..
“Why, what does this mean?”