“We thought we could see ’em away out,” replied Corporal Jerry.
“I don’t wish ’em frozen feet. We’ve got enough of such in camp.”
“Yes, and one pair too many, speaking for myself,” groaned Jake Carter.
This was the fourth day since leaving the stockade, and a bitter cold day, albeit warmer, according to the lieutenant’s instrument, than yesterday. The thermometer stood at only three degrees below freezing; yesterday it had been at seventeen below.
The lieutenant had marched them out of the stockade, in a heavy snowstorm, on the morning after the return from the climb. The route was westward, again, up the south side of the Arkansaw. Just why he was so impatient to go on, snow or no snow, none of the men knew. Maybe he was in hopes of finding the Ietans or Comanches, yet; but Stub himself was quite certain that the Ietans wintered farther south. Or if he wished to discover the head of the Arkansaw and of the Red River, then the men wondered why he didn’t build warm quarters, and lay in meat, and make fur clothing, so as to explore safely.
“Sure, sometimes I think that what he’s aimin’ at is to foller this here Spanish trail cl’ar into New Mexico, an’ fetch up, with all of us, at Santy Fe, even as prisoners to them Spanish,” John Sparks hazarded. “We can swear we made a mistake, not knowin’ the country; an’ when we get back home again we’ll have a nice lot o’ news about them people an’ the trail in, for the Government.”
“That’ll do,” Sergeant Meek rebuked. “’Tis for him to lead and for us to follow; and he’ll do the thinking.”
They had marched fifteen miles, the first day, through the storm, with all on foot because the horses were getting unable to carry anything but the packs. In fact, for some days past it had been more comfortable to walk than to ride.
All that night it had snowed, and was still snowing in the morning. The men had slept under one blanket or robe apiece, in the snow. The little tent for the lieutenant and the doctor and Stub sagged with the weight.