"Yes," Ben wheezed—"I think so."
The sergeant paused, seeing Jesse's side. "You're bad hurt."
Someone tossed a jacket over Jesse. The sergeant offered a leather flask and Jesse grabbed his arm, muttering uneasily: "Water?"
"Water of Jamaica."
"God magnify you!" Jesse drank. "Don't know you—'d pray for you was I a'ready in Hell."
The sergeant jerked his head at the north. "How many?"
"Jesus, I don't know. Killed one Inj'an with my axe." Jesse said that in startled thoughtfulness as if just remembering. "My own gun got me—peddler sold it me for a musket, bloody grape-shot it is now, might've killed me deader'n a son of a bitch." The sergeant ran on to the head of the column. "A'n't left you much," Jesse apologized, and discovered the flask still in his hand. "Why, he's gone and left me it, in the name of God."
"Come on, Jesse—he meant to. Come on!"
"I will, Ben. But do you boys walk on ahead—it be'n't right a thing so ugly as me should walk naked in the sun, the Lord never intended it."
Some others of the column called to them, words sounding kind, passing over Ben like a slightly warming breeze.