When Val looked up into that flushed, snarling face, he knew
that he was as hopeless as a trapped animal. The man could--and
would--finish him at his leisure.
"This way, Rupert! Sam!" the cry reached even Val's dulled ears.
The man above him stirred. The boy saw the blood-lust fade from his eyes
and apprehension take its place. He got to his feet, launching a last
bruising kick at Val's ribs before he limped across the clearing. On his
way he hauled Red to his feet. They were going, not toward the path from
the bayou, but around the house on the trail that Jeems had followed.
Val struggled up and looked around. The turf was torn and gouged. In the
dust lay his club and Red's revolver.
And by the steps lay something else, a slight brown figure. Painfully
the boy got to his feet and lurched across to Jeems.
CHAPTER XII
THE RALESTONES BRING HOME A RELUCTANT GUEST
The swamper was lying on his back, his eyes closed. From a great purple
welt across his forehead the blood oozed sluggishly. When Val touched
him he moaned faintly.
"Val! Are you hurt? What's the matter?" Ricky was upon them like a
whirlwind out of the bush.
"Jeems stopped a nasty one," her brother panted.
"Is he--" She dropped down in the dust beside them.
"He's knocked out, and he'll have a bad headache for some time, but I
don't think it's any worse than that."
Ricky had pulled out a microscopic bit of handkerchief and was dabbing
at the blood in an amateurish way.
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