Now, Tom had opportunity to wonder what had happened to Harry Hazelton, who should have been back in camp the preceding evening. “He must have had to go farther for ice than we imagined,” was the only conclusion Reade could form. “At any rate, Harry won’t come back until he has it. He won’t bring back merely an excuse when his commission was for a ton of ice.”
Tom wandered into the new headquarters’ tent, heaved a big sigh as the weight of his new responsibilities struck him with full force, and began a systematic examination of all the piles of papers and maps now under his charge.
By nine o’clock Harry Hazelton and his guide returned, followed by a four-mule transport wagon.
Tom, hearing the approach, came out and beckoned. Harry rode up, dismounting.
“Well, I got the ice, you see,” announced Hazelton.
“Did you have to go very far for it?”
“No; but you and I forgot to allow for the time that mules would need for rest on such a steep, uphill climb. Where is the ice to go?”
“Send the man over to Jake Wren. Jake knows more about such things than you or I will know within the next ten years.”
Harry carried the order to the driver, then hurried back.
“How are our sick men?” he asked.