Part 27 (1/2)

”What about Jeems?”

”Take him with us, of course. We won't be able to manage the canoe. But you brought the outboard, so we'll go in that and tow the canoe. We ought to have something to cover his head.” Val regarded the bleeding wound doubtfully.

Without answering, Ricky leaned forward and began systematically going through Jeems' pockets. In the second she found a key. Val took it from her and hobbled up the cabin steps. For a wonder, he thought thankfully, the key was the right one. The lock clicked and he went in.

Like the clearing, the interior of the one-room shack was neat, a place for everything and everything in its place. Under the window in the far wall was a small chest of some dark polished wood. Save for its size, it was not unlike the chests the Ralestones had found in their store-room.

Opposite it was a wooden cot, the covers smoothly spread. A stool, a blackened cook stove, and a solid table with an oil lamp were the extent of the furnis.h.i.+ngs. Lines of traps hung on the walls, along with the wooden boards for the stretching of drying skins, and there was a half-finished gra.s.s basket lying on top of the chest.

Val hefted a stoneware jug. They had no time to hunt for a spring. And if this contained water, they would need it. At the resulting gurgle from within, he set it by the door and returned to rob the cot of pillow and the single coa.r.s.e but clean sheet.

Ricky tore the sheet and made a creditable job of was.h.i.+ng and bandaging the ugly bruise. Jeems drank greedily when they offered him water but he did not seem to recognize them. In answer to Ricky's question of how he felt, he muttered something in the swamp French of the Cajuns. But he was uneasy until Val locked the cabin door and put the key in his hand.

”How are we going to get him to the boat?” asked Ricky suddenly.

”Carry him.”

”But, Val--” for the first time she looked at her brother as if she really saw him--”Val, you're hurt!”

”Just a little stiff,” he hastened to a.s.sure her. ”Our late visitors play rather rough. We'll manage all right. I'll take his shoulders and you his feet.”

They wavered drunkenly along the path. Twice Val stumbled and regained his balance just in time. Ricky had laid the pillow across their burden's feet, declaring that she would need it when they got to the boat. Val pa.s.sed the point of aching misery--when he thought that he could not shuffle forward another step--and now he came into what he had heard called ”second wind.” By fixing his eyes on a tree or a bush a step or two ahead and concentrating only upon pa.s.sing that one, and then that, and that, he got through without disgracing himself.

At the bayou at last, they wriggled Jeems awkwardly into the boat. Val had no doubt that a woodsman might have done the whole job better in much less time and without a tenth of the effort they had expended. But all he ever wondered afterward was how they ever did it at all.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _At the bayou at last, they wriggled Jeems awkwardly into the boat._]

It was when Ricky had made their pa.s.senger as comfortable as she could in the bottom of the boat, steadying his head across her knees, that her brother partially relaxed.

”Val, you run the engine,” she said without looking up.

He dragged himself toward the stern of the boat, remembering too late, when he had cast off, that he had not taken the canoe in tow. The engine coughed, sputtered, and then settled down to a steady _putt-putt_. They were off.

”Val, do you--do you think he is badly hurt?”

He dared not look down; it required all his powers of concentration on what lay before them to keep his hand steady.

”No. We'll get a doctor when we get back. He'll come around again in no time--Jeems, I mean.”

But would he? Head injuries were sometimes more serious than they seemed, Val remembered dismally.

It was not until they came out into the main bayou that Jeems roused again. He looked up at Ricky in a sort of dull surprise, and then his gaze s.h.i.+fted to Val.

”What--”

”We won the war,” Val tried to grin, an operation which tore his mask of dried blood, ”thanks to Ricky. And now we're going home.”

At that, Jeems made a violent effort to sit up.

”_Non_!” his English deserted him and he broke into impa.s.sioned French.