Wyckoff's desperate aim had been true. The knife had sped straight to
its mark and buried its point in Lopez's brain. He was beyond all help.
But Wyckoff still struggled frantically.
Tom had been busy meanwhile with the length of line brought from the
boat. It had not been intended for such a purpose, but now the boys were
glad they had brought it with them.
All with one consent dashed from their position and ran toward the
unfortunate outlaw, now nearly frantic. As they approached he looked up
at them. Seized with a fit of coughing, he fell partly forward. Then the
boys knew from the blood that gushed from his mouth that Lopez's last
bullet had found its mark.
Tom, undaunted, prepared to throw his lasso. As he did so Wyckoff again
straightened in a mad effort to tear himself from the terrible sands.
Then the boys witnessed a curious sight.
It seemed that the depression into which they looked formed a sort of
bowl partly full, like a bowl of porridge, with Wyckoff struggling in it
at the side nearest their position. As they looked, the contents of the
bowl seemed to heave and boil, then turn over and over. Wyckoff started
down more rapidly while the boiling sands at the other side seemed to
rise.
Tom quickly flung his noose. His aim was distracted, no doubt, by the
excitement through which he had just passed. Instead of encircling the
unfortunate wretch below, he threw the noose beyond. It fell spread
widely on the boiling sands.
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