Foy did not revive.
Pringle stuck his hat on the rifle muzzle and waved it over the parapet of rock.
"Hello!" he shouted.

"Bring on your reward! I've got Foy! It's me--Pringle! Come get him; and be quick--he's bleeding mighty bad." "Come out, you! Hands up and no monkey business!" answered a startled voice not fifty yards away.
"Who's that?
That you, Nueces?
Give me your word and I'll lug him out.
No time to lose--he's hurt, and hurt bad." "You play fair and we will.

I give my word!" shouted Nueces.
"Here goes!" Pringle pitched the rifle over.

A moment later he staggered out between the rocks, bearing Foy's heavy weight in his arms.

The head hung helpless, blood-spattered; the body was limp and slack; the legs dragged sprawling; the dreaded hands were bound.
Pringle laid his burden on the grass.
"Here he is, you hyenas! His hands are tied--are you still afraid of him?
Damn you! The man's bleeding to death!".