Pluck on the Long Trail Part 32

"Not much!" exclaimed both the Red Foxes, indignant. "What kind of Scouts do you think we are? You'll need more than two men, if there's much carrying to be done. We stick."

"So do we," chimed in Fitz and I. "We'll get the message through, and get you through, too."

The major flushed and stood up.

"If that's the way you talk," he snapped (he was the black-eyed, quick kind, you know), "then I order that this march be resumed. Pack the burro. I order it."

"You'd better ride."

"I'll walk."

Well, he was our leader. We should obey, as long as he seemed capable.

He was awfully stubborn, the major was, when he had his back up. But we exchanged glances, and we must all have thought the same: that if he was taken seriously again soon, and was laid out, we would try to persuade him to let us manage for him. Fitz only said quietly:

"But if you have to quit, you'll quit, won't you, Tom? You won't keep going, just to spite yourself. Real appendicitis can't be fooled with."

"I'll quit," he answered.

We packed Sally again, and started on. The major seemed to want to hike at the regulation fast Scouts' pace, but we held him in the best that we could. Anyway, after we had gone three or four miles, he was beginning to pant and double over; his pain had come back.

"I think I'll have to rest a minute," he said; and he sat down. "Go ahead. I'll catch up. You'd better take the message, Fitz. Here."

"No, sir," retorted Fitz. "If you think that we're going on and leave you alone, sick, you're off your base. This is a serious matter, Tom. It wouldn't be decent, and it wouldn't be Scout-like. The Red Foxes ought to go--"

"But we won't," they interrupted--

"--and we'll get you to some place where you can be attended to. Then we'll take the message, if you can't. There's plenty of time."

The major flushed and fidgeted, and fingered the package.

"Maybe I can ride, then," he offered. "We can cache more stuff and I'll ride Sally." He grunted and twisted as the pain cut him. He looked ghastly.

"He ought to lie quiet till we can take him some place and find a doctor," said Red Fox Scout Van Sant, emphatically. "There must be a ranch or a town around here."

"We'll ask this man coming," said Fitz.

The stream had met another, here, and so had the trail; and down the left-hand trail was riding at a little cow-pony trot a horseman. He was a cow-puncher. He wore leather chaps and spurs and calico shirt and flapping-brimmed drab slouch hat. When he reached us he reined in and halted. He was a middle-aged man, with freckles and sandy mustache.

"Howdy?" he said.

"Howdy?" we answered.

"Ain't seen any Big W cattle, back along the trail, have you?"

No, we hadn't--until suddenly I remembered.

"We saw some about ten days ago, on the other side of the Divide."

"Whereabouts?"

"On a mesa, northwest across the ridge from Dixon Park."

"Good eye," he grinned. "I heard some of our strays had got over into that country, but I wasn't sure."

We weren't here to talk cattle, though; and Fitz spoke up:

"Where's the nearest ranch, or town?"

"The nearest town is Shenandoah. That's on the railroad about eight miles yonder. Follow the right-hand trail and you'll come out on a wagon-road that takes you to it. But there's a ranch three miles up the valley by this other trail. Sick man?" The cow-puncher had good eyes, too.

"Yes. We want a doctor."

"Ain't any doctor at Shenandoah. That's nothing but a station and a store and a couple of houses. I expect the nearest doctor is the one at the mines."

"Where's that?"

"Fifteen miles into the hills, from the ranch."

"How far is Green Valley?" asked the major, weakly.

"Twenty-three or four miles, by this trail I come along. Same trail you take to the ranch. No doctor now at Green Valley, though. The one they had went back East."

"Then you let the Red Fox Scouts take me to the station and put me on the train for somewhere, and they can catch their own train; and you two fellows go ahead to Green Valley," proposed the major to Fitz.

"Ain't another train either way till to-morrow morning," said the cow-puncher. "They meet at Shenandoah, usually--when they ain't late. If you need a doctor, quickest way would be to make the ranch and ride to the mines and get him. What's the matter?"

"We don't know, for sure. Appendicitis, we think."

"Wouldn't monkey with it," advised the cow-puncher.

"Then the Red Foxes can hit for the railroad and Fitz and Jim and I'll make the ranch," insisted the major.

"We won't," spoke up Red Fox Scout Ward, flatly.

"We'll go with you to the ranch. We'll see this thing through. The railroad can wait."

"Well," said the cow-puncher, "you can't miss it. So long, and good luck."

"So long," we answered. He rode on, and we looked at the major.

"I suppose we ought to get you there as quick as we can," said Fitz, slowly. "Do you want to ride, or try walking again, or shall we carry you?"

"I'm better now," declared our plucky corporal. He stood up. "I'll walk, I guess. It isn't far."

So we set out, cautiously. No, it wasn't far--but it seemed _mighty_ far. The major would walk a couple of hundred yards, and then he must rest. The pain doubled him right over. We took some of the stuff off Sally, and lifted him on top, but he couldn't stand that, either, very long. We tried a chair of our hands, but that didn't suit.

"I'll skip ahead and see if I can bring back a wagon, from the ranch,"

volunteered Red Fox Scout Van Sant; and away he ran. "You wait," he called back, over his shoulder.