"The flour and beans'll be gone in another week, and we're a long way from civilization. Can we live on meat alone, Mac?"
"Pretty sure to come down with dysentery if we do—for any length of time," admitted the medical student reluctantly.
There was silence round the fire.
"We didn't start this expedition right," said Horace, at last. "I should have planned it better. We ought to have come with two or three canoes and with twice as much grub, and we should have brought several pairs of boots apiece."
He thrust out his foot; his bare skin showed through the ripped leather.
"Make moccasins," Mac suggested.
"They wouldn't stand the rough traveling for any time."
"What do you think we ought to do, Horace?" asked Fred.
"Well, I hate to retreat as much as any one," said Horace, after a pause. "But I know—better than either of you—the risk of losing our lives if we try to run it too fine on provisions. At the same time I do think that we oughtn't to give up till we've reached the head of this river. It's probably not more than ten or fifteen miles up."
After some discussion they decided that Macgregor and Fred should make the journey to the head of the river, carrying provisions for three days; that would give them one day in which to prospect at the source. Meanwhile, Horace was to strike across country to the northwest, to the headwaters of the Whitefish River, about fifteen miles away.