Bricks to warm the bed, hot soup of Mam Gusta's expert concocting, a thick onion poultice to ease the pain in throat and chest and draw out inflammation: every one of those were as far beyond reach now as Oak Hill itself! For a moment Drew was gripped with a panic born of utter frustration.
"Shelly? You there, Shelly?" Boyd's hoarse voice came from the dark. "I'm sure thirsty, Shelly!"
Drew turned his head. Kirby had been behind him, but now the Texan was back to the fire, ladling more hot water out of the pot. When he returned, Weatherby was with him. Drew slipped his arm under that restlessly turning head to support the boy while the Texan held the tin cup to Boyd's lips. They got a few mouthfuls into him before he turned his head away with a ghost of some of his old petulance.
"I'm hungry, Shelly. Tell Mam Gusta...."
Weatherby squatted down on the other side of Boyd's limp body and put his hand to the boy's forehead.
"Fever."
"Yes." Drew knew that much.
"There's a farmhouse two miles that way." Weatherby nodded to the south. "Maybe nobody there, but it will be cover—"
"You can find it?" Drew demanded.
The Cherokee scout answered quickly. "Yes. You tell the lieutenant, and we'll go there."