“So he keeps his pony in here, too,” mused the scout.
But just then he was startled by a human groan near at hand and promptly forgot the pony.
Striking a match, the scout eagerly scanned the place, and beheld a sight that sent thrills half joy and half uncertainty to his brain, while a feeling of rage swept over him.
It was the form of Wild Bill lying on a pile of mouldy hay, bound hand and foot and a rude gag in his mouth. The Laramie man’s bruised face and head made him an object of pity. His face, hands, and clothing were soaked in blood and eyes closed in semi-conscious condition.
The scout’s ready knife slashed the cords which bound his pard, and then he looked around. Near the cot was a pail filled with water, probably for the pony. Cody quickly brought it to the side of his wounded friend, and, kneeling, slopped the water freely in Hickok’s face and laved his brow and head, washing away the blood and gravel.
He was rewarded in a few moments by seeing the Laramie man open his eyes and by hearing him faintly ask: “Where am I?”
“With friends, old man; lie still.”
The scout chafed the hands and wrists of his pard and laid a wet handkerchief on the fevered brow. He poured a little of the water down the parching throat, and was gently fanning the injured man with his hat when he heard a slight scuff of a shoe, and, glancing up, beheld Bloody Ike just entering the shaft.
The man’s eyes had not become accustomed to the darkness, and he groped his way toward his cot, swearing to himself.
“Don’t know whether I got the ombray or not. Landslide was bigger’n I expected,” he growled.