a solid table with an oil lamp were the extent of the furnishings. Lines of traps hung on the walls, along with the wooden boards for the stretching of drying skins, and there was a half-finished grass 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 coarse but clean sheet.
Ricky tore the sheet and made a creditable job of washing 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 assure 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 passed 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 passing 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.
It was when Ricky had made their passenger 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 shifted 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 impassioned French.
“Yes,” Val replied firmly as Ricky pushed the swamper down. “Of course you’re coming with us. You’ve had a nasty knock on the head that needs attention.”
“Ah’m not a-goin’ to no hospital!” His eyes burned into Val’s.
“Certainly not!” cried Ricky. “You’re bound for our guest-room. Now keep quiet. We’ll be there soon.”
“Ah ain’t a-goin’,” he declared mutinously.
“Don’t be silly,” Ricky scolded him; “we’re taking you. Does Val have to come and hold you down?”
“Ah can’t!” His eyes flickered from Val’s face to hers. There was something more than independence behind that firm refusal. “Ah ain’t a-goin’ theah.”
“Why not?”
He seemed to shrink from her. “It ain’t fitten,” he murmured.
“How perfectly silly,” laughed Ricky. But Val thought that he understood.
“Because of the secret you know?” he asked quietly.
The pallor beneath Jeems’ heavy tan vanished in a flush of slow-burning red. “Ah reckon so,” he muttered, but he met Val’s eyes squarely.
“Let’s leave all explanations until later,” Val suggested.
“Ah played haunt!” the confession came out of the swamper in a rush.
“Then you were my faceless ghost?”
Jeems tried to nod and the action printed a frown of pain between his eyes.
“Why? Didn’t you want us to live there?” asked Ricky gently.
“Ah was huntin’—”
“What for?”
The frown became one of puzzlement. “Ah don’t know—” His voice trailed off into a thin whisper as his eyes closed wearily. Val signaled Ricky to keep quiet.
“Ahoy there!” Along the bank toward them came Rupert and after him Sam. Beyond them lay the Ralestone landing. Val headed inshore.
“Just what does this mean—Val! Has there been an accident?” The irritation in Rupert’s voice became hot concern.
“An intended one,” his brother replied. “We’ve got the real victim here with us.”
They tied up to the landing and Sam came down to hand out Jeems who apparently had lapsed into unconsciousness again.
“You’d better call a doctor,” Val told Rupert. “Jeems has a head wound.”
But Rupert had already taken charge of affairs with an efficiency which left Val humbly grateful. The boy didn’t even move to leave the boat. It was better just to sit and watch other people scurry about. Sam had started for the house, carrying Jeems as if the long-legged swamper was the same age and size as his own small son. Ricky dashed on ahead to warn Lucy. Rupert had Sam Two by the collar and was giving him instructions for catching Dr. LeFrode, who was probably making his morning rounds and might be found at the sugar-mill where one of the feeders had injured his hand. Sam Two’s sister had seen the doctor on his way there a scant ten minutes earlier.
Val watched all this activity dreamily. Everything would be all right now that Rupert was in charge. He could relax—
“Now,” his brother turned upon Val, “just what did—What’s the matter with you?”
“Tired,
