“Will he get well again?” Dick asked.
“Yes; I think so. With proper care and attention, he’ll be around again in a few weeks, although I doubt very much whether he’ll be able to use his right arm for a long, long time.”
“I’d like to get my hands on the man who shot him,” Sandy stated belligerently.
Everybody laughed at this assertion except Toma, who had good cause to remember a certain experience only a few months before, when he had been somewhat roughly treated by the young Scotchman.
“Well, there’s no use of wasting any more time here,” said Factor MacClaren. “I suggest that we roll our friend, Dick, up in a nice little bundle and proceed on our way. Averse to a sleigh-ride, Dick?”
“Not at all.”
“You may change your mind before we reach the Run River trail,” the factor warned him. “It’s pretty rough in places.”
“My foot’s better, and I won’t mind it at all,” said Dick cheerfully.
The sun had just slipped up over the horizon when the small cavalcade, with Corporal Richardson in the lead, set out. In a short while, a brilliant flood of sunshine lay over the land. Out of the west came a warm chinook, stirring the spruce and pine branches over their heads.
“Spring is coming,” rejoiced Sandy, sniffing the air and prancing about Dick’s sleigh like a young colt. “Won’t it be glorious, Dick, when the grass and flowers start to grow?”