“But, MacDonald, what would you do with them? We can’t turn aside from our own object long? We couldn’t help you guard them. And you couldn’t get twelve or thirteen men back to your Post single-handed, especially if any of them are wounded.”
MacDonald’s face fell.
“Guess you’re right,” he said. “But when I think o’ that skunk—murderin’ the best pal a man ever had—well, I see red, that’s all.” His head sank to his clenched hands and he sat on a fallen tree, staring moodily at the ground between his feet.
“Certainly is a problem, Mr. Hampton,” said Farnum, slowly. “If we don’t do something, Lupo will continue to hang to our trail as we proceed, a constant danger.”
“I know,” said Mr. Hampton. “Let me think.”
He, too, sat silent, staring meditatively at the ground.
The boys had been listening with interest. Now Frank nudged Jack, with whom he was standing by the fire, and whispered in his ear. Jack’s face brightened and he nodded.
“I’ll bet they have,” he whispered. “Ask MacDonald.”
Frank turned to the ranger.
“Mr. MacDonald, how far away is your Post?” he inquired.