Lon glanced at Groche. The light was strengthening, and the alarming appearance of the man’s face was undeniable. A very sick man was Peter Groche, at least to the eye of a layman.
“Jiminy, but something’s got to be tried!” Lon confessed. “And followin’ the South Fork would be different from stragglin’ aimless. I dunno, I dunno!”
Sam pressed his advantage. “I do know, then. And Lon! The quicker I start, the better.”
“I reckon that’s true,” said Lon slowly. “Yes; if you’re dead sot to go, there’s no good in lingerin’. And you’re as husky as any of the boys. But who’ll you be takin’ with you?”
As one the club stepped forward, and volunteered.
“Choose me, Sam!”
“No; I’m the one!”
“Here, I’m your man!”
“Say! I’ve got a right to go!”
“Cut it out! He wants me, I tell you!”