His common sense advised that Mr. Livingston and Pedro could never endure the rigors of the trail in their present conditions. He had only a vague idea as to their whereabouts, and no compass. A lack of supplies made the situation even more hopeless.
“Maybe our hut door was left unguarded because the natives know we can’t run away,” he speculated. “That must be it.”
Turning over various plans in his mind, Jack went quickly back to rejoin his friends. He revealed the situation, and then made his proposal.
“I’ll hit for Cuya alone. If I can make it, I’ll send help. If I fail, you’ll be no worse off than you are now.”
“No Jack.” The voice was Mr. Livingston’s. Unobserved by the Scouts, he had arisen from his pallet of straw.
“You’re feeling better!” Jack cried.
“My fever has mostly gone,” the Scout leader answered. “I’m weak in my legs, but otherwise quite strong. I can make it, if the decision is to pull out of here. But we must all stick together.”
Jack’s gaze fell upon Pedro and he remained silent. He knew that Mr. Livingston, although remarkably better was not as strong as he believed. And it would be utterly impossible to take the guide with them.
Pedro himself solved the latter problem, by declaring that under no circumstance would he risk trying to leave the hut.
“We may be able to forage a little food in the huts,” Jack said dubiously. “And if we’re real lucky, we may come upon an Indian canoe.”