A trader by the name of William Morrison, in the United States, had sent goods there, three years ago, in charge of another man named Baptiste Lalande, to be sold. But Lalande had never come back with the money. Doctor Robinson had agreed with William Morrison to visit Santa Fe, if near there, and collect the money. This would be an excuse for spying around.
At the end of the first week, when the stockade was partially finished, the doctor left for Santa Fe. He set out westward, up the south bank of the fork (which was the wrong direction, although none of them knew it), and promised to return with his report in a week or ten days.
The men were not so certain about this. Sergeant Meek wagged his grizzled head dubiously.
"Not to criticize a superior officer, but strikes me it's a risky move. The doctor's pure grit, all right enough, to head alone through a country full o' Injun sign and Spanish sign to boot, and he's like to run his foot into a wolf trap. For if he gets there, them Spanish will be curyus to know where he come from; and what's to prevent their back-trailing him? Oh, well; there's something afoot that we don't understand. Our duty's to obey orders, and if the lieutenant says for us all to go to Santy Fee,
