John Sparks and Tom Dougherty were to be left behind. That was the word.
“What?”
“Yes. The doctor says not a step shall they march, if they would save their feet; an’ poor Tom, he’s like to lose his, anyhow. An’ since they can’t march, no more can we carry ’em across the mountains without hosses. So here they stay till we can send an’ get ’em.”
All the buffalo meat had been brought in. The lieutenant was preparing to march on, for the Red River. From the camp he had explored farther westward, to the very foot of the mountains, seeking a trail over; but the snow was four and five feet deep even there, the whole country above was white, and he gave the trail up.
“We’ll have to march on south along this side, until we find a better place.”
Now they made ready. John Sparks and Tom were fixed as comfortably as possible, with guns and ammunition, a lean-to for shelter, and the best buffalo-robes, and wood and meat. Their packs, and the packs of Hugh Menaugh and Jake Carter (who barely could hobble, using their muskets as crutches) were hidden under trees.
Sturdy red-haired John and young Tom felt badly. So did everybody. The lieutenant’s voice broke, as he said:
“We aren’t deserting you, my lads. Never think of that. As surely as we live we will send for you, the very first thing, as soon as we locate a desirable camping spot, to which to bring down the horses. That will not be long; we have only to cross these mountains. Rather than desert you, if I should be the last man alive in the party I would return, myself, and die with you. Whatever happens, meet it like soldiers, bearing in mind that you are suffering for your Country. It is far preferable to perish thus, in the wilderness, in discharge of duty, rather than to forfeit honor by evading hardships and toil like the disloyal Kennerman.”
“Oh, sir! We’ll act the man, sir,” they replied. “We’ll keep a stiff upper lip, an’ be waitin’ for the hosses to come get us.”
The lieutenant shook hands with them; the doctor shook hands with them.