For a while the tortured man could not speak. But while his rescuer slashed loose the rawhide ropes that bound him, he began to stammer a few words:
"Heaven bless yuh! I thought I was dead, or mad! Oh, how I wanted water! Give me more—more!"
"In a little while," said the other gently.
In spite of the fact that he was now free, the sufferer could not move his limbs. Groans came from his lips.
"Shoot me!" he cried. "Put a bullet through me! End this, if yuh've got any pity for me! I'm blind—dying. I can't stand the pain. Yuh must have a gun. Why don't yuh kill me and finish me?"
It was the living dead! The buckskin-clad youth gave him more water, his face drawn with compassion.
"Yo'll feel bettah afta while," he murmured. "Just sit steady."
"Too late!" the tortured man almost screamed, "I'm dyin', I tell yuh!"
"How long have yo' been like this?"
"Three-four days. Maybe five. I lost count."