Around nine o’clock the light began to go quickly. For five hours the three men had lain in the boat, sweltering in the tropical heat, tormented by mosquitoes that buzzed above their heads in a thick cloud.
Only twice during the long wait for darkness had Hater moved. He seemed to hover on the edge of consciousness, but the slightest movement or effort to open his eyes drove him back again into a coma that made Rico nervous.
If Hater should die before he could be persuaded to talk! Rico kept thinking. This nightmare he was enduring would be for nothing. If he didn’t get that money his future would be something he dared not contemplate.
Rico had scarcely noticed the heat or the mosquitoes so engrossed was he in worrying about Hater.
Every now and then he would reach forward and touch Hater’s pulse to reassure himself that Hater was still alive. This bundle of skin and bones represented Rico’s future. There was nothing Rico wouldn’t have done for him if there had been anything to do. He kept urging Baird to get moving. Hater should see a doctor, he told Baird repeatedly. It was madness to let him lie in this awful heat without proper attention.
Baird wouldn’t listen. He lay in the stern of the boat, nursing his wrist. Rico was so busy fussing over Hater that he hadn’t noticed how red and angry looking Baird’s left arm had become. Long red streaks came from under the bandage and reached up as far as Baird’s elbow. Every so often Baird hung his arm over the side of the boat, keeping his burning forearm in the water.
He was worried about his arm. He knew it was infected, and he knew, too, he was growing feverish.
His head felt hot, and he experienced hot and cold chills up and down his spine. To be ill at a time like this! he thought savagely. To have to rely on a useless sonofabitch like Rico! If he told Rico how he was feeling, Rico would promptly lose his head. Would the darkness never come? He needed a doctor far more urgently than Hater did.
Rico said sullenly, ‘It’s dark enough now, isn’t it? It’s nearly nine.’
The sun had gone down behind the trees, but they could still see the far bank quite clearly. Sick of doing nothing and tormented by the pain in his arm, Baird decided to take the risk.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘let’s go. Think you can handle this tub?’
Rico looked startled.
‘Isn’t your arm all right now?’
‘It’s stiff,’ Baird said. ‘Maybe I’ll take over in a while. We’re going with the stream. It won’t be hard work.’
Rico picked up the paddle. He shoved the boat away from the bank and began to paddle into midstream. The boat zigzagged through the water under his uneven strokes.
‘Keep by the bank,’ Baird said, ‘and don’t try so hard.’
After a few minutes Rico got the hang of the paddle, and managed to keep the boat fairly straight.
‘Should be dark in about ten minutes,’ Baird said, staring up at the cloudless sky. ‘There’ll be a big moon in an hour, I’d say.’
It was almost dark when they heard the sound of an aircraft. Rico had allowed the boat to drift away from the bank, and they were away from the shelter of the overhanging trees.
Baird had been dozing. He was lying down in the boat now, his arm hanging over the side. The cool water made the throbbing and burning bearable. He opened his eyes and half sat up. Rico was staring up at the sky. Then realising the plane was heading towards them, he tried desperately to paddle the boat to the shelter of the trees. He got in such a panic he nearly capsized the boat, churning up the water and scooping water on to his legs and into the boat.
‘Steady, you crazy punk!’ Baird snarled, ‘or you’ll have us over!’
Rico controlled himself and began to paddle more carefully. The boat swung towards the bank and the sheltering darkness of the trees. They were within three or four yards of cover when the aircraft went roaring overhead.
It was flying low, and the roar of its engine and the rush of wind from its slipstream made both men duck. It was gone as quickly as it had come.
‘Hell!’ Baird exclaimed. ‘Think they were looking for us?’
Rico wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand.
‘They couldn’t have seen us,’ he said uneasily. ‘It’s nearly dark, and at that speed…’
‘Better get going,’ Baird said. ‘Keep nearer to the bank, and put your back into it.’
Rico drove the boat forward. He was rapidly tiring. It was years since he had taken any exercise, and paddling a boat as heavy as this made his arms ache.
‘I can’t keep this up much longer,’ he panted. ‘Can’t you take a turn?’
‘You’re damn well going to,’ Baird said. ‘Take a look at this,’ and he thrust his swollen arm at Rico.
In the failing light Rico could see the angry red streaks, and the flesh turning blue around the bandage.
The sight horrified him.
‘That’s poisoned,’ he said. ‘Hadn’t you better do something about it?’
‘What the hell do you think I can do, you dope?’ Baird said, exasperated. ‘Keep going, and make it fast!’
Rico continued to paddle. He kept glancing at Baird uneasily. Baird looked bad. Sweat beaded his face and his eyes seemed to have sunk into their sockets. He kept passing his hand across his forehead, and every now and then he swayed as if he were going to topple out of the boat.
‘Bet er lie down,’ Rico said feverishly. ‘You look bad.’
‘Aw, shut up!’ Baird said, but his voice lacked its usual snap. After a moment or so, he did lie down.
Rico was paddling more slowly now. There was a burning ache in his shoulders, and he could feel blisters forming on the palms of his hands. He kept digging the paddle into the water, but their progress was slow.
‘How much farther do you reckon we’ve got to go?’ he asked, after a long silence.
Baird grunted.
‘Another three or four hours at this rate. Can’t you go faster? We want to be miles from the river before dawn.’
Rico made the effort and slightly increased his stroke. He groaned softly to himself. Baird had said they would earn every nickel of that half million. He hadn’t believed him at the time, but he believed him now.
An hour crawled by. Rico was so tired he scarcely did more than make the motions of paddling. The boat moved sluggishly along with the stream. It had become almost dark since the plane had passed, but now Rico was aware of more light, and he could see the outlines of the trees against the night sky. The moon was coming up, he thought thankfully. This drifting in the darkness was beginning to get on his nerves.
He increased his rate of paddling slightly. His hands were so sore it was an effort to hold the paddle tightly. Would this nightmare journey never end? he asked himself. It was too dark to see how Hater was. For all Rico knew Hater might have died. He could hear Baird muttering to himself as he dozed.
How was he going to manage Hater as well as Baird? Rico thought wildly. There was a five-hour car drive to the shooting-lodge yet to be tackled.
Suddenly he imagined he heard a sound, and he stopped paddling to listen, letting the boat drift. Far away he thought he could hear a faint throbbing of an engine. Was the aircraft coming back?
He looked towards the bank, and turned the nose of the boat so that he could get under cover if the plane was returning.
‘Baird! Wake up!’ he cal ed anxiously.
‘What’s the matter now?’ Baird asked harshly, sitting up.
‘Listen!’
The pulse in Baird’s head drummed violently, and his arm was a blaze of fire. Cursing softly, he leaned out of the boat, bringing his head close to the water. He picked up the sound that Rico had heard.
‘It’s a motor boat!’ he said, swinging upright. ‘That goddamn plane spot ed us!’
Rico went cold with panic. He began to paddle furiously until Baird snarled at him to stop.
‘We don’t stand a chance of racing them, you fool! Get over to the bank!’
Rico paddled the boat to the bank.
‘Shall we get out?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ Baird said. ‘Those boys will be carrying a machine-gun.’
He hauled himself out of the boat on to the bank, surprised to find how weak his legs were.
‘Get Hater up here, and snap it up.’
Rico struggled with Hater. He managed to get him from the boat to the bank, nearly upsetting the boat as he did so. Baird reached down and dragged Hater to higher ground.
‘Get the Thompson and the Winchester,’ he said. ‘Better bring the suitcase, too.’
Rico floundered up to his knees in the water as he got the guns and case. He climbed up the bank and joined Baird. They lay down in the darkness.
‘The chances are they’ll miss the boat in the darkness,’ Baird said, ‘but if they don’t we’ve got to nail them somehow. They’ll probably have a radio on board…’ He broke off as a light appeared on the river.
A white motor launch came around the river bend with a big searchlight mounted on the bridge. They could make out three figures on the bridge and two others kneeling in the prow with a machine-gun between them. The light was sweeping both banks, and Baird could see at once that the police couldn’t fail to spot the boat.
‘Split up!’ he said urgently. ‘Quick! You go to the left. Use your gun if they start shooting.’
Bending double he ran from where their boat was moored and took shelter behind a tree.
Rico was too scared to move. He flattened down in the long grass and lay still. His hands covered his head.
The beam of the searchlight crept along the bank, reached the boat and then passed on. For a moment Baird thought they had missed the boat, but as he began to relax he heard someone shout, from the bridge and the searchlight swung around and focused on the boat. There was a clanging of a bell and the motor launch went about in a tight circle.
Baird didn’t wait for the police to take action. He opened up with the Thompson. He saw splinters fly from the deck, shifted his aim a little higher. The two men at the machine-gun were blasted off the deck into the river.
Answering fire came from the bridge. Baird again shifted his aim, but the three men had ducked down below the armour of the bridge, and the launch went on at full speed down stream.
Baird stood up and watched it. As soon as it was out of range, it turned. The searchlight had gone out, smashed by Baird’s fire. He guessed they’d man the machine-gun again and sweep the bank on the return trip.
He took cover behind the tree and waited. His turn would come when the launch went about.
The launch came on. They had got the machine-gun on the bridge now. When it was almost abreast of Baird’s boat the gun opened up. A hail of bullets churned up the bank, smashed through the trees, sending splinters of wood flying like shrapnel and hammered the boat to pieces.
Baird lay flat behind the tree, waiting for his chance to return the murderous fire.
Rico could hear the slugs zipping through the bush, and he squirmed down farther into the soft ground. Then the launch passed by him, and he came under the direct fire of the gun. A deluge of lead threw mud and water over him. The noise drove him crazy with fear. Not knowing what he was doing, he sprang up wildly and began to run into the bush. He had only taken a few steps when something bit into his leg, bringing him face down in the swamp.
Baird had seen Rico panic, and he cursed softly. No one could stand up in that hail of lead and survive. He might have guessed Rico would have done that, the useless punk! Just when he was wanted he had to get himself killed.
Baird swung up the Thompson. The launch was turning, and for the moment the machine-gun was out of action. He sprayed the bridge with a long burst. There came a smashing of glass and the launch suddenly wheeled sharply round. Baird caught sight of a man wrestling with the wheel, and he fired again.
The steersman threw up his hands and disappeared. The launch headed straight for the bank close to where Baird was standing, and drove its prow into the soft mud. The launch swung half round, its engines still running, its propellers churning up the water.
From his hiding-place Baird could look into the bridge. Two of the guards lay face down, while the remaining guard sat propped up against the wall, his head down on his chest.
Baird didn’t hesitate. He dropped the Thompson, snatched out his Colt and jumped from the bank to the deck.
He entered the bridge house cautiously. The guard against the wall raised his head. Blood ran down the side of his mouth. He stared at Baird, then made an effort to lift the gun that lay across his knees.
Baird shot him through the head before he could get the gun up.
As the guard slumped over, Baird ran over to the controls, throttled back the engine, put it in reverse, then opened the throttle slowly. The launch pulled out of the soft mud into deeper water. Baird half closed the throttle, and brought the launch alongside the bank.
Every movement he had to make was by sheer effort of will. His head was expanding and contracting, and it was as much as he could do to stand upright. He drove himself ruthlessly. Here was a chance of escape. If he could get Hater on board, most of his troubles would be over.
He slid overboard into the warm, muddy water, climbed up the bank and hunted around for Hater. He found him still lying motionless where he had left him. He made sure he was still alive, then began to drag him through the bush to the bank.
It took him a long time to get Hater on board. He was so exhausted by the time he had rolled Hater on to the deck that he flopped down in the shallow water, holding his head between his hands, only half conscious.
He sat there for some minutes. Conscious he was wasting time, he finally made an effort and stood up. He got back on the bank and began to search for the suitcase and the Winchester. He found them with difficulty, and as he picked them up he heard Rico calling.
He stood looking in the direction of the shouts, surprised that Rico was still alive. Leaving the case and the gun, he staggered into the bush in search of Rico.
By now the moon had swung up into the sky. Baird came upon Rico lying on his back, his white, sweating face agonised with pain.
‘I thought you’d forgotten me,’ Rico gasped, and began to sob with relief. ‘I thought you were going to leave me here to die.’
‘Get up, you rat!’ Baird snarled. ‘What do you think you’re doing, lying there?’
Rico groaned.
‘It’s my leg, it’s broken. It’s bleeding. Help me, Baird.’
Baird stood over him. He could scarcely keep his feet.
‘You asked for it,’ he said, his breath coming in great laboured gasps. ‘Why didn’t you keep down?’
‘Help me,’ Rico said, reaching out a shaking hand. ‘Don’t leave me here to die.’
Why not leave him here? Baird asked himself. All along Rico had been useless. Now with a broken leg he’d be worse than useless. Baird had already exhausted himself get ing Hater on board. The thought of having to go through that all over again with Rico decided him.
‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back. I’ve got to find Hater.’
Rico knew at once he was lying.
‘You can’t leave me like this!’ he cried, half sitting up. ‘I’m bleeding! Baird! You can’t do it!’
‘Aw, shut up!’ Baird said, and staggered back to where he had left the gun and the suitcase.
Rico shouted after him, but Baird didn’t look back. Sure now Baird was going to leave him, Rico started to crawl after him, dragging his broken leg behind him. His body was torn with pain, but somehow he managed to keep moving, digging his fingers into the soft ground to pull himself forward.
‘Baird!’ he shouted. ‘Wait for me!’
Baird looked over his shoulder. He saw Rico crawling after him, and he was tempted to put him out of his misery, but he decided not to risk a shot. The guards might still be near at hand looking for him for all he knew.
He slid down the bank into the water, hoisted the Winchester, then the suitcase on board and heaved himself over the gunwale.
Rico made a desperate effort to increase his speed. He was half out of his mind with pain and fear, and he began to scream at Baird.
‘Come back! Come back!’
Baird dragged himself to the bridge, eased open the throttle and the launch began to edge away from the bank.
Rico pulled out his gun.
‘Come back, Baird!’ he yelled. ‘I’l kil you if you don’t come back!’
Baird spun the wheel and the launch headed out to midstream. Already he was fifty yards or so from the bank. He wasn’t even listening to Rico’s frantic cries.
Rico pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He tried to thumb back the safety-catch, but the gun slipped out of his hands and fell with a splash into the river. He made a frantic effort to save it, overbalanced and toppled over into the shallow water.
His broken leg twisted under him, and for a moment he lost consciousness, engulfed by pain. The water, closing over his head, brought him round, and he struggled to the bank, where he lay half in and half out of the water.
With sick horror, he watched the dim shape of the launch gathering speed and disappearing down the river into the darkness.
He dropped back, sobbing wildly. He could feel blood coming from his wound. In the bright light of the moon he saw the water around him was turning red.
Even then he wouldn’t believe he was going to die. The police would find him, he told himself frantically. Another launch would come in search of the first one, and they would find and save him.
He closed his eyes and began to pray: words coming from his mouth without meaning.
He didn’t see a dark, log-like shape slither down the opposite bank and take to the water. The scent of his blood drifted across the river: it was an irresistible invitation the alligator accepted with alacrity.
The dark silent shape came through the water with surprising speed, only its scaly snout showing; as dangerous and as menacing as the half-hidden periscope of a submarine.
Rico felt a movement of water against his face. He opened his eyes. A few yards away from him he saw a steady ripple on the water that was advancing towards him. He stared at it, wondering what it could be. Pain had dulled his fears. The ripple didn’t frighten him. He watched it, puzzled.
He only realised what it was when it was too late even to cry out.