After a moment, he spat it out.
"I can't eat it." He was silent for a moment, his arms wrapped around himself. "It's gettin' damn cold out here," he said, shivering slightly.
Max looked at him.
It wasn't that cold. Faint beads of perspiration stood out on Reeves's face and he was beginning to tremble.
"Lay down," Max said. "I’ll cover you with grass – that'll keep you warm."
Reeves stretched out and Max bent down and touched his face.
It was hot with fever.
Max straightened up slowly and went to cut some more grass.
It was a hell of a time for Reeves to come down with malaria.
Reluctantly he took one of his matches from its oilskin wrapping and lighted a fire.
Reeves continued to shake spastically beneath the blanket of swamp grass and moan through his chattering teeth.
Max glanced up at the sky.
The night was almost gone.
Unconsciously he sighed. He wondered how long it would take for the warden to catch up with them now.
He dozed, swaying slightly, as he sat. A strange sound hit his subconscious and suddenly he was awake.
He reached for his fishing spear and crouched down. The sound came again. Whatever it was, it was large.
He heard the sound again, closer this time. His legs drew up beneath him. He was set to lunge the spear. It wasn't much but it was the only weapon he had. Then Mike was standing there casually, his rifle crooked in his arm.
"You' a damn fool, boy," he said. "Shoulda knowed better'n to light a fire out here." Max got to his feet.
He could feel fatigue spread over him now that it was over.
He gestured to the sick man.
"He got the fever."
Mike walked over to Reeves.
"Sure 'nough," he said, his voice marveling. "That warden, he was right.
He figgered Reeves would get it after three days in the swamp." Mike sat down next to the fire and warmed his hands. "Man but that fire sure do feel good," he said. "You should'n'a waited aroun'."
"What else could I do?"
"He would'n'a waited if it was you."
"But it wasn' me," Max said.
The Negro looked down at the ground. "Maybe you better git goin' now, boy."
Max stared at him. "What do you mean?"
"Git goin'," Mike said harshly. "But the rest of the posse?" "They won' catch up fo' a couple of hours," Mike said.
"They be satisfied catchin' Reeves."
Max stared at him, then looked off into the swamp. After a moment, he shook his head.
"I can't do it," he said.
"You' a bigger fool than I thought, boy," Mike said heavily. "
'Twas him, he'd be off in the swamp now."
"We busted out together," Max answered. "It's only fittin' we go back together."
"All right, boy," Mike said in a resigned voice. He got to his feet. "Drown that fire."
Max kicked the fire into the water, where it sputtered and died. He glanced back and saw Mike pick up Reeves as if he were a baby and sling him over his shoulder.
Max started back into the swamp toward the prison.
"Where at you goin', boy?" Mike's voice came from behind him.
Max turned around and stared.
Mike pointed in the opposite direction. "The end o' the swamp about twenty-fi' miles that way."
Sudden comprehension came to Max.
"You can't do it, Mike.
You ain't even officially a prisoner no more."
The big man's head nodded. "You' right, boy.
I ain't a prisoner. That means I kin go where I wants an' if I don't want to go back, they can't say nothin' about it."
"But it's different if they catch you helpin' me."
"If they catch us, they catch us," Mike said simply. "Anyway, I don't wanta be the one who lays the snake on you.
I can't do it.