"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 shirt 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.