“I know,” said Conacher. “It’s part of my job to map this country; and I carry the existing map in my mind. Two or three hundred miles away—I can only make a rough guess as to the distance; there is an important river called the Mud River. We only have reports of it from the Indians. But the name tells you what kind of a river it is. It must be a prairie river like this one; fairly deep and moderately swift. If there are cottonwood trees I could make a rough dug-out; or I could always make rafts. The Mud River eventually falls into the Sinclair. It is up the Sinclair River that my outfit is making its way at present. According to their schedule they will make the mouth of the Mud River on July fifteenth. That gives us a month. If we are too late we could follow them up the Sinclair. They travel slow on account of the work they have to do. It is the best chance I see. No woman has ever made such a journey, but men have; and you are as plucky and strong as a boy.”
“I can do it if you can,” said Loseis quickly. “But how could we escape from here with an outfit; grub, blankets, ax, gun, ammunition?”
“It would have to be a mighty slim outfit,” said Conacher. “I could feed you with my gun if I had to.”
“Across the river there are only a few broken horses,” said Loseis. “We could not be sure of finding them at the moment we needed them.”
“We may have to walk,” said Conacher.
“But when Gault missed us, he could swim his horses over. What chance would we have then?”
“Not much of a one. . . . But a crazy idea has been coming back to me again and again. Maybe the very craziness of it is in its favor. . . .”
“What is it?”
“If we could persuade Gault that we had committed suicide in our desperation . . . . ?”
Loseis’ eyes widened like a child’s.