Hurrying along through the chill of early dawn, it occurred to him that there might still be some way out of the difficulty. Dr. Brady, who had not yet been informed of the guide’s departure, might be able to suggest something. He entered the physician’s tent and proceeded to wake its occupant. Brady sat up, for a moment stared dully about him.
“Well! Well! So it’s you, after all. When I first opened my eyes here in the darkness and felt you tugging at my arm, I was sure that my time had come. ‘Indians,’ I thought. ‘Brady, you’re about to be scalped.’ Then I remembered that I am bald-headed. They couldn’t scalp me but——”
“I’m in trouble, doctor,” said Dick, Brady’s jocularity failing to draw even a smile from him. “Lamont left us last night.”
The other whistled—a habit he had when surprised or excited.
“What! You don’t say!” the doctor brushed one hand hurriedly across his suddenly furrowed brow, staring straight at his informer. Then:
“So you had trouble with him after all? Was there a fight?”
“No; nothing like that. I hadn’t even talked to him except that once. He left just when we made camp last night. Sent me a sort of message on a piece of birch bark. I would have given you the news before you turned in last night if Toma and I hadn’t gone back on the trail to see if we couldn’t find the place where he’d struck off across country.”
“Strange, isn’t it?” as he spoke, Brady arose, pulling a blanket around him. “Too bad! Too bad! No wonder you’re worried, my boy. Did you sleep any last night?”
“Not much,” admitted Dick. “You can imagine how I feel. It’s all my fault. I really told him to go. It places us in a terrible position, doctor. I’m not sure whether we can find our way to Keechewan Mission or not.”
“We can try,” said Brady. “That, at least, is a comforting thought.”