“Lie still!” whispered the scout in Wild Bill’s ear. Then, with a groan, he cried huskily: “I’m hit! They’ve got us, Hickok.”
A fall of swift feet resounded in the passage, coming rapidly nearer the two pards; but all was dark, and the scout, scarcely breathing, lay silently where he was, and waited.
Wild Bill understood the ruse he was playing, and immediately assumed his own part.
The feet came close, and, from the sound of them, the scout tried to estimate the number of men in the party. Three, four, five—there were five, at least, and where had they come from? They were running from the direction of the breast of the level, so they must have entered the passage by the same way Nomad had been taken out of it.
“Now, Hickok!” the scout suddenly cried, when he thought the men had come close enough.
As one man the two pards leaped erect, and flung themselves through the pitchy darkness at their unseen foes.
The scout caught one burly form in his hands, felt the point of a knife dig into his sleeve, and struck out with his fist. The man went down. Another took his place, and, in the narrow confines of the level, a fierce hand-to-hand fight was soon in progress.
Not a word was spoken by the combatants. Only the sound of their labored breathing, the shuffling of their feet on the rocky floor, and the thump of fists, broke the tomblike stillness of the mine.
Neither the scout nor Wild Bill dared use a revolver. Unable, as they were, to see a hand before their eyes, they might have hurt each other by promiscuous shooting.
Both the pards were putting up a gallant fight against odds; and, just when it seemed as though they were to win out, Buffalo Bill was caught by a random blow, whirled half-around; and sent stumbling over a stone on the floor of the passage.