Webb's hand came out of the half dark, holding the tin cup to his mouth again.
"Drink up!" the other ordered sharply.
Drew obeyed. But he was not so far under, now. Objects around him took on clarity. He was lying on the ground, not too far from a fire, and there were walls. Was he in a cabin?
There had been a cabin before, but he had not been the sick one then. The guerrillas!
"Bushwhackers?" He got that out more clearly. A shadow which had substance, moved behind Webb. Croff's strongly marked features were lined by the light.
"Dead ... or the Yankees have them."
Webb was making him drink again. With the other supporting his head and shoulders, Drew was able to survey his body. A blanket was wrapped tightly about his legs, and over his chest and middle a wet wad of material steamed. When Webb laid him flat again, the two men, working together, wrung out another square of torn blanket, and substituted its damp heat for the one which had been cooling against him.
"What's the ... matter—? Shot?"
Croff reached to bring into the firelight a belt strap. Dangling it, he held the buckle-end in Drew's line of vision. The plate was split, and embedded in it was an object as big as Drew's thumb and somewhat resembling it in shape.
"We took this off you," the Cherokee explained. "Stopped a bullet plumb center with that."