"We found out where dat struggle took place," answered, Aleck.
"And Cujo reckons as how he can follow de trail if we don't wait
too long to do it."
"Must go soon," put in Cujo for himself.
"Maybe tomorrow come big storm -- den track all washed away."
Tom sighed and shook his head. "You can go on, but you'll have to
leave me behind. I couldn't walk a hundred yards for a barrel of
gold."
"Oh, we can't think of leaving you behind!" cried Sam.
"I'll tell you wot -- Ise dun carry him, at least fe a spell,"
said Aleck, and so it was arranged.
Under the new order of things Cujo insisted on making a scouting
tour first, that he might strike the trail before carrying them
off on a circuitous route, thus tiring Aleck out before the real
tracking began.
The African departed, to be gone the best Part of an hour. When
he came back there was a broad grin of satisfaction on his homely
features.
"Cujo got a chicken," he announced, producing the fowl. "And here
am some werry good roots, too. Now va dinner befo' we start out."
"Right yo' am, Cujo!" cried Pop, and began to start up a fire
without delay, while Cujo cleaned the fowl and mashed up the
roots, which, when baked on a hot stone, tasted very much like
sweet potatoes. The meal was enjoyed by all, even Tom eating his
full share in spite of his swollen ankle, which was now gradually
resuming its normal condition.
Cujo had found the trail at a distance of an eighth of a mile
above the wayside hostelry.
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