Cultus quickly cut the bonds, but Blaze seemed unable to manipulate his arms and legs.
“He’s been hurt,” said Bad News. “Don’t he look kinda funny to you?”
Cultus turned and stepped over to a box, over which was draped a soiled towel, and disclosed several small bottles and a hypodermic syringe. Quickly he turned and went back to the bed, where he stripped back the shirt from Blaze’s arms.
“Yuh can see what makes him funny, can’tcha?” he asked. “They’ve been shootin’ him full of dope.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Blaze weakly.
“Do yuh know us?” asked Cultus.
“Yeah, I know yuh, Collins. Where’s Marsh and his gang? I dreamed I heard somebody shootin’, but I’m so weak I can’t hardly move. What is the matter with me, anyway?”
“Do yuh feel sick?” asked Bad News.
“No—just funny.”
“How long have yuh been here, Blaze?”