The two Apaches wabbled and snapped and snarled until they had vanished around a turn in the road; then, all at once, Buffalo Bill became aware of a form kneeling beside him and bending down far over the brink.
“Dell!”
This word, in Nick Nomad’s voice, beat stridently in the scout’s ears.
“Here,” came Dell’s answer. “What is it, Nomad?”
“Reach up with yer right arm an’ see ef ye kin grab holt er my hand. Easy, now. No quick moves, mind, er we’ll hev Buffler rocketin’ out inter space, and ther two o’ ye drappin’ er mile er two straight down on ther rocks. Kin ye reach?”
“Yes—just a second.”
There was a breathless pause.
“Bully fer you, Dell!” said Nomad, and took a grip on the scout’s tree. “Now throw all yer heft in yer right an’ leave ther rest ter me.”
Buffalo Bill felt the weight leave his right arm, and his body buckled under the release like an overstrained girder that has suddenly snapped.
His left arm dropped from the tree, and his right still hung at the brink. Panting like a spent dog, he continued to lie with his face to the rocks.