Part 32 (1/2)

”Not much!” exclaimed both the Red Foxes, indignant. ”What kind of Scouts do you think we are? You'll need more than two men, if there's much carrying to be done. We stick.”

”So do we,” chimed in Fitz and I. ”We'll get the message through, and get you through, too.”

The major flushed and stood up.

”If that's the way you talk,” he snapped (he was the black-eyed, quick kind, you know), ”then I order that this march be resumed. Pack the burro. I order it.”

”You'd better ride.”

”I'll walk.”

Well, he was our leader. We should obey, as long as he seemed capable.

He was awfully stubborn, the major was, when he had his back up. But we exchanged glances, and we must all have thought the same: that if he was taken seriously again soon, and was laid out, we would try to persuade him to let us manage for him. Fitz only said quietly:

”But if you have to quit, you'll quit, won't you, Tom? You won't keep going, just to spite yourself. Real appendicitis can't be fooled with.”

”I'll quit,” he answered.

We packed Sally again, and started on. The major seemed to want to hike at the regulation fast Scouts' pace, but we held him in the best that we could. Anyway, after we had gone three or four miles, he was beginning to pant and double over; his pain had come back.

”I think I'll have to rest a minute,” he said; and he sat down. ”Go ahead. I'll catch up. You'd better take the message, Fitz. Here.”

”No, sir,” retorted Fitz. ”If you think that we're going on and leave you alone, sick, you're off your base. This is a serious matter, Tom. It wouldn't be decent, and it wouldn't be Scout-like. The Red Foxes ought to go--”

”But we won't,” they interrupted--

”--and we'll get you to some place where you can be attended to. Then we'll take the message, if you can't. There's plenty of time.”

The major flushed and fidgeted, and fingered the package.

”Maybe I can ride, then,” he offered. ”We can cache more stuff and I'll ride Sally.” He grunted and twisted as the pain cut him. He looked ghastly.

”He ought to lie quiet till we can take him some place and find a doctor,” said Red Fox Scout Van Sant, emphatically. ”There must be a ranch or a town around here.”

”We'll ask this man coming,” said Fitz.

The stream had met another, here, and so had the trail; and down the left-hand trail was riding at a little cow-pony trot a horseman. He was a cow-puncher. He wore leather chaps and spurs and calico s.h.i.+rt and flapping-brimmed drab slouch hat. When he reached us he reined in and halted. He was a middle-aged man, with freckles and sandy mustache.

”Howdy?” he said.

”Howdy?” we answered.

”Ain't seen any Big W cattle, back along the trail, have you?”

No, we hadn't--until suddenly I remembered.

”We saw some about ten days ago, on the other side of the Divide.”

”Whereabouts?”