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.