With this, the scout placed the weapons on the ground, wheeled the prisoners face to face, and bound them thus with his own lariat.
“Now, Black Bill,” and he began to examine the wound.
It was in the center of the forehead; but, having been fired upward, the bullet had glanced on the frontal bone, cut along under the scalp for several inches, and then made its way out, leaving a long gash, not serious, though the shock of the blow had felled the black and rendered him unconscious for some minutes.
Bathing the wound with water from his canteen, and binding it up with a bandage moistened with arnica, the scout said:
“You are all right now, and the dizzy feeling will soon wear off.”
“It don’ hurt, sah; but it do feel like a mule hed kicked me.”
“Rest is what you want, and we’ll go to the camp of these two men, for it cannot be far away.”
The men had stood watching the every movement of the scout, and talking in whispers to each other.
“We ain’t got no camp,” said one.