The stranger was young—evidently well under thirty—and had every appearance of being a placer-miner. He wore a flannel shirt, blue overalls, and rubber boots, all earth and water-stained. His hat was gone, as might be expected, and there was no revolver-belt at his waist, and no sign of weapons elsewhere about him.
“Any of you boys ever seen the man before?” asked Gentleman Jim.
None of the men could remember the stranger’s face.
Gentleman Jim laid one hand on his breast.
“His ticker’s going,” said he. “Hand me a flask, one of you.”
Lonesome Pete dug into his hip pocket and brought up a pint-flask. Unscrewing the top, he handed the flask to the gambler. The latter lifted the stranger’s head and allowed some of the liquor to trickle into the throat of the unconscious man.
The effect was well-nigh magical. A minute afterward, and while Pete was in the act of transferring the flask to his pocket, the stranger’s eyes opened.
For a space, the eyes were blank and void of realization. The man’s glance passed vacantly about from one face to another; then, suddenly, he sat up and began rubbing his hands and arms where the rope had chafed them.
“How do you feel, pilgrim?” asked Gentleman Jim.
“Feel like I’d been tangled up with a cyclone,” answered the man. “Where am I?”