“No, siree! Nobody’s going to stay with me. I’m all right. I’ll get along nicely by myself. Every man-jack of you is needed for the job. Go on! Beat it! Don’t worry about me.”
“We’re not worrying about you, Graham,” retorted Jim, not sufficiently suggestive to set the Mayor at discomfort. “But you know the rule of the trail, same as we do. When a man gets hurt on a hunting trip, another of the bunch stays with him. Joe Blair is willing to stay behind.”
“He won’t stay with me, I tell you;––this thing isn’t going to be held up or spoiled for me,” exclaimed the Mayor. “I’ll crawl with you on my fours, first.”
He started to carry out his threat.
Three times he fell and groaned in pain, until Jim became convinced that Brenchfield’s foot was really badly sprained.
“Won’t you leave me here? I’ll be all right in a while,” cried out Brenchfield, “then I can make my own place in my own time.”
“Oh, let’s leave him, Jim. We may need every man we’ve got,” said Morrison, “and if any of us take him to his place, it might arouse suspicion.”
“Yes!––what’s the good of losing two men when one is all we need let go?” added McLean.
“All right, all right!” said Jim. “Here’s the flask, Mayor. Come on, boys! Time’s passing and we’ve a goodish bit to go yet.”