“I can do it,” declared Rand simply.
And not long afterward they were on the trail, the policeman walking with a pronounced limp, yet keeping abreast of his more agile companion. Mosquitos drove around them in clouds. The hot breath of the sun-steeped earth rose up about them. It was tedious work, a gruelling, unpleasant experience.
Yet the corporal did not complain. When he spoke at all, it was to joke or jest, to comment lightly upon some phase of their journey. And with each passing minute, his limp grew more pronounced. He was hobbling now upon swollen, blistered feet.
“We better stop rest,” Toma advised him.
“No,” said Rand, clenching his teeth, “we’ll go on. It can’t be much farther now. Just a few miles more.”
So they went on again, a weary, perspiring pair. Though Toma suffered no particular physical discomfort, he endured mental torture as he watched the policeman keep pace with him. He could have cried out with thankfulness, when at last, through an opening in the trees, he discerned the low, rambling structure, which served the double purpose of store and road-house.
A short time later they entered the building itself and were greeted by the kindly free trader.
“Glad to see you, corporal. The boys were expecting you.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’ve gone on.”