“What does thet mean?” panted Nomad, pausing a second to peer at his pard.
“Hickok!” shouted the scout, likewise pausing.
No answer came back.
“It means,” went on Buffalo Bill, “that we’ve got to work faster than ever. Wild Bill has succumbed to the foul air, and he’ll die if we don’t get him out before many minutes.”
They jumped at the barrier like madmen, and to such good purpose did they ply pick and shovel, that, a few moments after Wild Bill had ceased to call to them, the scout’s pick went through the wall, and a mass of broken stones tumbled outward, leaving a good-sized opening.
Without waiting an instant, Buffalo Bill seized a candle and forced himself through the breach.
When he let himself down on the other side, he found that he was in a chamber, about as wide as the main level and twice as deep. On the floor Wild Bill lay sprawled, a heap of knotted rope beside him.
“Is he thar, Buffler?” called Nomad from the level.
“Yes.”
“Alive?”