“Toma—— When they grappled with him, he fired from his hip and got Lamont.”
Dr. Brady, who had come panting up in time to hear Sandy’s story, now turned toward the prostrate body of the guide, and with the help of Dick and Toma, carried him over and placed him on one of the sledges.
“He’ll never make the trip,” presently announced the doctor. “He’s hit in the shoulder—a dangerous wound—and will never be able to stand the jarring and jolting of one of the sledges. We’ll have to leave him here.”
“How can we do that?” asked Sandy. “He’d freeze. He’d—he’d——”
“There’s the Indian encampment,” suggested the physician. “They can look after him.”
“Good riddance,” declared Dick. “I, for one, won’t be sorry.”
There followed an awkward silence.
“The Indian encampment,” said Dick at length, “will be forced not only to look after Lamont but to supply us with several drivers. Perhaps one of them will know the way to Keechewan.”
He paused, gesturing hopelessly.
“In any event, we’ll have to push on. We can’t stop.”