The man on the bed did not answer for some time. When he spoke, he spoke without looking at the other man.
"They said it was black-water fever. Then they said it was yellow-jack. But I know it's not. I think it's typhoid, or swamp fever. It's worse than malaria. I dam' near burn up every night. I get out of my head. I 've done that three nights. That's why the niggers won't come near me now!"
Blake leaned forward and fought away the flies again.
"Then it's a good thing I got up with you."
The sick man rolled his eyes in their sockets, so as to bring his enemy into his line of vision.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I 'm not going to let you die," was Blake's answer.
"You can't help it, Jim! The jig 's up!"
"I 'm going to get a litter and get you up out o' this hell-hole of a swamp," announced Blake. "I 'm going to have you carried up to the hills. Then I 'm going back to Chalavia to get a doctor o' some kind. Then I 'm going to put you on your feet again!"
Binhart slowly moved his head from side to side. Then the heat-lightning smile played about the hollow face again.