The scout called again, and again; apparently, he was answered. Groping along, the wall, calling and trying to locate the place from which the answers came, he halted suddenly at what seemed to be a break in the side of the level.
The break was of broken rocks and not, like the rest of the walls, of a single mass of stone. Picking up a splintered fragment, the scout tapped with it on the débris. The tapping was returned, clearly from the opposite side.
Nomad’s fears had been giving way to curiosity, and he followed the scout’s movements with deep interest.
“Is that you, Wild Bill?” yelled the scout, his lips close to the break in the wall.
Something was returned—a single monosyllable, which sounded very much like “Yes.”
“Snarlin’ catermounts!” exclaimed old Nomad. “Ye don’t mean ter say, pard, thet Wild Bill has been makin’ them noises?”
“It seems likely,” replied the scout, starting for the shaft.
“Whar is he? An’ what’s he doin’ in er solid wall?”
“It isn’t a solid wall. He’s somewhere back of that broken stone, and it’s up to us to get him out as quick as possible.”
Reaching the shaft, Buffalo Bill lifted his face. “Wah-coo-tah!” he called.