Again Hawkins bent over Wild Bill. The prisoner felt the cowboy’s groping hands at his wrists, and then cold, sharp steel bit at the hempen strands.
Wild Bill, his wonder growing, pulled his arms in front of him. While he was rubbing his hands to restore circulation, Hawkins was using the knife at his ankles.
“Now,” whispered Hawkins, “ye’re free. Does that prove anythin’? Am I straight goods, er ain’t I?”
“You seem to be all right,” returned Wild Bill, sitting up on the edge of the bed, “but this may all be a play to help Red Steve get the best of me.”
“Hyer!”
Hawkins pressed something into Wild Bill’s hands. They were a couple of six-shooters.
“Them’s yourn,” went on Hawkins. “Red Steve give ’em ter me ter take keer of, when ye was landed on at the foot o’ the hill. Yer hoss is in the grove whar he was left that other time. I’ve got the saddle an’ bridle on him. All ye got ter do, Wild Bill, is ter crawl up the chimbly, git ter the ground same as I come up, go down the hill an’ git inter the saddle. I’ll go with ye, an’ we’ll talk further. Yore move is ter git back ter the Star-A an’ tell Buffler Bill what ye know. Ye ort ter hev made that move afore, but thar wasn’t no way I could help pull it off till now.”
Wild Bill had been pleasantly disappointed. He had thought Hawkins was a foe, and here he was turning out to be a friend. The Laramie man reached out gropingly in the dark.
“Where’s your fist, Hawkins?” he murmured.
“Hyer.”