“Are you hurt any?”
“Not to speak of. Limp as a rag, that’s all. The air wasn’t any too good, and, of course, it kept getting worse and worse.”
Just then Nomad came back from the shaft. He had a piece of jerked beef and a square cloth, soaked in water.
Wild Bill took the cloth and wrung it out against his lips, then ate a little of the jerked beef.
“I’m not as hungry or thirsty as I thought I was,” said he. “I’m used to going without water or food for days at a stretch.”
“Who holed you up in that way?” asked the scout.
“A man in a linen duster. He blew into Sun Dance Tuesday afternoon, on the Montegordo stage, and said his name was J. Algernon Smith, of Chicago. That tinhorn, pards, is sure the original two-tongue man. His right name is Lawless, and he’s a thirty-second degree confidence man and desperado.”
“We have already had dealings with J. Algernon,” said the scout grimly. “We walked into his trap, I reckon, about as easily as you did. But go on, Hickok. If you feel able, give us the whole of it.”
“I’m able, all right—getting stronger every minute. Pure air was the main thing, and I’m making the most of it.”
Then, at considerable length, Wild Bill set forth his experiences, beginning with his ride to Sun Dance with Crawling Bear, and his investigation of the shooting in the mine.