One of them went down the ladder. A moment later a match sputtered and lit up the inky blackness of the hole.
“Kipp’s knocked out and the hoss is good as ever,” he called in guarded tones. “Better shove down the gangplank so we kin lead the critter up.”
A cleated plank runway was lowered and after some minutes of work the frightened horse was led to solid ground. Kipp, still unconscious and bleeding from a nasty scalp wound, was carried out.
“You lead his hoss. I’ll pack him across my saddle.”
Thus Joe Kipp was carried to the lighted cabin where Black Jack sat on the edge of a bunk smoking cigarets and taunting the two prisoners who were on the dirt floor, bound hand and foot, their backs against a log wall.
“Where’d yuh git him?” asked Black Jack.
“He rode into the pit.”
Black Jack picked up a water bucket and threw the contents roughly into Kipp’s face. The sheriff groaned and opened his eyes. The breed stooped and plucked the .45 from Kipp’s scabbard, then resumed his seat on the bunk. Behind his half-closed eyes lay some nervous tension and his brows knitted in a scowl as he watched Kipp sputter and struggle to a sitting posture on the floor.