Hurtz ran the palms of his hands down the sides of his trousers. "I'll give you another shot and then I'll get the radio set up. You'll be all right."
The boy shook his head slowly, the bright eyes never looking away from Hurtz. "You're not going to give me anything, and I'm not going to be all right."
"I can't waste more time, Jones. You are hurt. Bad. And I've got to get help." He turned abruptly and went back to the radio. There were only wires loosened and parts slightly shaken. No irreparable damage. His hands moved quickly.
When he heard the thump of the boy's body hitting the floor of the cabin his stomach jumped. He turned, made a step forward, then halted.
The boy was stretched below the bunk. Blood was spilling from his mouth. But he was moving and alive, and in his hands now was the pistol Hurtz had dropped.
"What the hell are you doing?" Hurtz said.
But the boy was motioning with the pistol. "Stay where you are. Stay the hell where you are."
Hurtz waited, watching the way the boy lay on one of his arms, the broken one. The drug would be cutting out the pain to some extent, but he was breaking himself up. "Jones," Hurtz said, "for God's sake, you're killing yourself."
"Oh, no," the boy said, pointing the pistol. "You're killing me. I would have been all right, but you had to come along and this is your work, Hurtz. You're killing me. Now you're going to get your reward for that."
"Jones," Hurtz said, "if you think this was my fault, all right then. I'm suddenly very damned tired. I was tired before I started this, and it's worse now. If what went wrong was my fault, then I'm sorry. I really am. Do what you want to about it." Hurtz felt his energy draining out, and all he seemed to want to do at that moment was sit down and be quiet.