Fast Buck

I

The slow-moving, mud-coloured Red River wound through a dense undergrowth of saw-grass, duck-weed and sagittaria. The great naked roots of the mangrove trees, anchored in the mud flats, gave the impression of a forest on stilts. An oppressive, tropical heat hung over the river. The only sound Rico could hear was the thump-thump of a diesel engine a long way away, pounding out a monotonous rhythm.

Rico wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He was sitting in the prow of a flat-bottomed boat that seemed to him to be horribly fragile, and likely to tip over if he moved.

Baird sat in the stern and paddled the boat through the slow-moving water, keeping close to the bank.

The Thompson gun, loaded and cocked, lay at his feet. His pale eyes scanned both sides of the bank as they moved slowly upstream.

‘Hear that noise?’ he said suddenly. ‘That’s the dredge. It’s farther away than it sounds. That’s where Hater is.’

Rico hunched his shoulders. Mosquitoes droned above his head. He was afraid to flap his hands at them in case he upset the boat.

‘What a hole!’ he said, looking at the tal saw-grass on either side of the bank. ‘How can we hope to make a path through that stuff? How the hell are we going to get him away?’

‘We haven’t got him yet,’ Baird said. ‘Keep your voice down. Sounds carry a long way across water.’

Rico grunted and lapsed into silence. As the boat moved slowly up the river, taking him farther into the dense undergrowth and away from civilisation, he regretted still more getting himself mixed up in this crazy, dangerous business.

He noticed a big log of wood, like a tree trunk, floating motionless in the water. Baird suddenly swung the boat’s nose away from it, and slightly increased his speed.

‘Don’t wake that guy up,’ he said. ‘That’s an al igator.’

Rico felt suddenly sick. He gripped the sides of the boat as he stared at the black object that was now in their rear.

‘An al igator?’ he repeated hoarsely. ‘You sure?’

‘Yeah. This river’s lousy with them,’ Baird said indifferently. ‘They’l leave you alone if you leave them alone. It’s crocodiles you have to watch. They’ll charge you on sight.’

Rico gulped.

‘Any around here?’

‘Not likely,’ Baird said. ‘Farther south you might find some, but not here, I guess.’

A big bird rose out of the saw-grass with a tremendous flapping of wings, and climbed above Rico’s head, making him start violently. The boat rocked, and Baird cursed him.

‘Sit still, can’t you?’ he snarled. ‘Do you want to have us over?’

A hundred yards farther on, Baird swung the nose of the boat towards the shore.

‘That is it,’ he said. ‘Mind how you get out. The ground’s like glue along the bank.’

The nose of the boat rammed the bank and sank into it.

‘Get hold of the boat and steady it,’ Baird said.

Rico got out awkwardly. His foot sank up to his ankle in the soft ground. Miserably he held the boat steady while Baird threw their suitcases on to the bank, and then worked his way aft and joined him.

‘Most of the ground near the shore’s like this,’ Baird said, hauling the boat into the saw-grass and picking up the Thompson and his suitcase. ‘Mind you don’t lose a shoe. This stuff pulls like hell.’

He began to walk through the high grass, forcing a passage, pulling one foot after the other out of the swampy ground.

Rico followed as best he could. He felt he was walking through a sea of molasses, and after he had gone a few yards he had sweated right through his clothes.

Baird seemed indifferent to the conditions. He kept on until he reached higher ground, then paused until Rico came panting up.

‘It’s okay here,’ he said. ‘It’s only by the water it’s so soft. Come on, let’s get under cover before these goddamn mosquitoes eat us alive.’

Rico followed him along a path bordered each side by dense thickets of custard apple. He could hear the steady pounding of the dredging machine distinctly now. It sounded close.

After walking some distance through the thicket, they came upon a small wooden cabin in what had once been a clearing, but which was now almost overgrown. Big cypress trees obscured the light around the cabin, but Rico was thankful to be out of the direct sunlight that had been scorching him during the trip up river.

‘This is it,’ Baird said, pushing open the cabin door. ‘Not much of a place, but it’l do. I found it when I came down to look over the ground. I’ve fixed it up pret y wel . There’re mosquito nets, food and all the stuff we want for a couple of days. Come on in and take a look.’

Rico entered the cabin and looked around the one big room.

‘Doesn’t anyone come here?’ he asked uneasily.

Baird shook his head.

‘No. Used to belong to the overseer of the dredging gang, but now they’ve moved up the river, he’s got another place. Noddy said he’d keep an eye on the stuff I left here.’ Baird went over to a pile of canned food, two wooden cases, blankets and mosquito netting stacked in a corner. ‘It seems to be all here.’

‘Noddy?’ Rico repeated. ‘Who’s he?’

Baird pulled a blanket from the pile, tossed it on the floor and sat down on it.

‘The guy who’s helping us,’ he said, looking at Rico, his pale eyes expressionless. ‘Can’t do the job without inside help.’

Rico got himself a blanket and sat down. His head ached from the heat, and his feet felt too big for his shoes. He pulled off his shoes with a grunt of relief, and sat back against the wall, wiping the sweat from his face. Roughing it in a swamp wasn’t his idea of enjoying life, and he thought wistfully of the quiet and luxury of his apartment, the ice drinks and an understanding woman to amuse him. He would gladly have given up his share of the half million if he could turn the clock back and pick up his life again before Zoe died.

‘Noddy,’ he said, looking questioningly at Baird. ‘Who is he? Can we trust him?’

‘We’ve got to trust him,’ Baird said curtly. ‘We can’t pul this without him. He’s one of the guys working the dredge. The gang is made up of three experts who direct the dredging operations, five guys who handle the dredge. Noddy’s one of them. Then there’re around fifty convicts handling the trucks and bulldozers, and doing the dirty work. There’re five guards on duty the whole time; armed with automatic rifles and a bunch of trained dogs.’ He stretched and yawned, went on, ‘I met Noddy in Astora. He goes in there every week for supplies. We got talking. He agreed to help get Hater out.’

‘What are you paying him?’ Rico asked suspiciously.

‘Five grand,’ Baird said. ‘Half tonight when he comes here to go over the plan, and half when we’ve got Hater.’

‘Five grand?’ Rico repeated, staring. ‘Now, wait a minute… five grand! That’l come out of our share.’

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Baird said. ‘How do you imagine we can get Hater without inside help?’ He grinned slyly at Rico. ‘Maybe he won’t col ect the dough. He might run into trouble. This job’s not going to be a picnic’

He got up and began to prepare a meal. Rico sat watching him, brooding. He was surprised to see how efficient Baird was. He had a meal cooked on a small primus stove in a very short time. After Rico had eaten and washed the meal down with several whiskies, he felt less worried.

They sat outside the cabin, smoking, until the light began to fade, then Baird lit a paraffin lamp and put it in the window, and they made themselves as comfortable as they could on the blankets and waited for Noddy to show up.

He came when it was dark. They saw the beam of his flashlight some time before he reached the cabin. He pushed open the door and came in: a tall, thin man with a pinched, sallow face, lank black hair and stubble on his chin. He was wearing soiled duck trousers and a singlet, and carried a .45 Smith and Wesson in a pistol holster at his hip. A battered panama hat rested at the back of his head.

Rico didn’t like the look of him. Not a man to be trusted, he thought uneasily: like a ferret.

‘So you got here,’ Noddy said, closing the door. ‘I’ve been in two or three times. No one’s been near.’

Baird waved his hand to Rico.

‘This is Ralph Rico. He’s working with me.’

Noddy gave Rico a sharp, inquisitive stare, and then came and sat down on the blanket. They lit cigarettes, and no one spoke until Baird had poured out three whiskies.

‘Hater okay?’ Baird asked abruptly.

‘Sure. The guy’s nuts, but he’s harmless,’ Noddy said indifferently. ‘Keeps to himself. I don’t reckon he ever opens his mouth. The other guys hate him.’

‘What’s the matter with him?’ Rico asked.

‘Stir-crazy, I guess,’ Noddy said. ‘Been in too long. He’s got something on his mind. You might have trouble with him.’ He paused to take a long pul at his glass, went on, ‘You didn’t make it clear why you wanted him.’ He was looking at Baird. ‘Or ain’t it my business?’

‘That’s right,’ Baird said, and yawned. ‘Five grand should take care of your curiosity.’

‘It does,’ Noddy said, grinning. ‘I plan to buy me a turkey farm. I’m about sick to the guts working in this goddamn swamp. Five grand’l be a life saver.’

‘Make sure you earn it,’ Baird said softly.

‘Sure,’ Noddy said carelessly, but his eyes went shifty. ‘When does the balloon go up?’

‘Tomorrow, midday,’ Baird said. ‘Let’s get this straight. Each of us has his own special job: I take care of the guards. Rico creates a diversion. You grab Hater and bring him to us. Okay?’

‘Sure,’ Noddy said. ‘That’s the way it was arranged.’

‘What diversion?’ Rico said, alarmed.

‘Smoke bombs,’ Baird said. ‘All you have to do is to toss the bombs at the big dredge. As soon as we have a blanket of smoke you make your way back here. Noddy and I will join up and bring Hater here.

Noddy goes back to the dredge with his dough. You and I and Hater will take the boat and get the hell out of it. That’s the set-up.’

Rico immediately saw a number of snags to this. How could he be sure Baird and Noddy would come to the cabin? Suppose they planned to double-cross him? They could make for the boat and leave him to get out the best way he could. Suppose Hater resisted? How could they hope to control a struggling man in such a frail boat?

‘How far do you think we’l get if they come after us?’ he asked, looking uneasily at Baird.

‘We don’t reckon they’l come after us. That’s why we’re coming back here,’ Baird said. ‘If you do your job right, there’l be a heavy smoke screen that’l blanket out everyone in sight. I reckon al the convicts will make a break. I’m relying on it. They’re certain to stampede. There are only three routes out of the swamp if you haven’t got a boat. These guys won’t have boats. They’l make for the three routes in small parties. The guards and the dogs will know they must be going by the paths and not by the river. We’l come here to give the guards time to take to the paths, then we go down to the boat and get clear.’

Rico looked a little less uneasy.

‘But if Hater resists? He’l upset the boat.’

Baird looked at him steadily, his pale eyes gleaming.

‘He won’t be given the chance to resist. I’l handle him.’

Noddy said, ‘He won’t be hard to handle. He ain’t got the strength of a mouse. When I’ve got him where do I find you?’

‘About seventy yards from where you’re working there’s a big oak. I’ll be up in that where I can get a clear view of the guards,’ Baird said. ‘As soon as the smoke gets going I’l come down. Meet me there.

We’l take Hater along the path, then through the thickets to here. I’l pay you off. Rico and me wil take over Hater, and you’l get back the way you came. If you’re spotted, you were going after one of the convicts, but he got away. Stall them so we can get clear. Okay?’

‘Sure,’ Noddy said, and rubbed his sweating hands on his knees. ‘I guess that takes care of it. At twelve tomorrow?’

‘Yeah,’ Baird said. ‘Hater will be where you can get to him?’

‘He’s working on my shift. I won’t make a move until the smoke starts. Then I’l grab him as if I thought he was trying to escape. As soon as the smoke gets thick I’l rush him to you. You’l have to handle him after that.’

‘If he gets tough, clip him and carry him. Think you can do it?’

Noddy grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth.

‘For five grand I could push over the Woolworth building,’ he said. ‘I’l get him to you if I have to take him on my back.’

‘Right,’ Baird said. ‘I guess I owe you some dough.’

Noddy’s eyes glistened.

‘That was the arrangement.’

‘Give him twenty-five Cs,’ Baird said to Rico. ‘You’l get the rest tomorrow.’

Reluctantly, Rico went to his suitcase, opened it and counted out the money. He handed it to Noddy, who checked it, his breath whistling through his nostrils with suppressed excitement.

‘Gee! I’ve never seen so much dough al in one heap,’ he said, stuffing the money in his hip pocket.

He patted the bulge, grinning. ‘There lies half a turkey farm.’

Baird lit a cigarette. He held the flame of the match so it lit up his face. His eyes were like stones, and his expression menacing.

‘Maybe I’d better warn you not to try any tricks with me,’ he said softly. ‘Make sure you pul this job off or you won’t be interested in even half a turkey farm.’

Noddy flinched from the implied threat, but he managed an uneasy laugh.

‘Sure, sure,’ he said. ‘You can rely on me. You’l have Hater by tomorrow morning.’

When he had gone, Rico said uneasily, ‘I don’t trust that guy.’

Baird was settling down for the night. He pulled a blanket over him as he glanced up to stare at Rico.

‘What makes you think I do?’ he said curtly, and turned out the lamp.

II

From his lofty perch in the oak tree, Baird had a clear view of the large dipper dredge, operating a steam shovel that deposited its load in a waiting truck, parked on the concrete path constructed along the bank. Fifty yards farther upstream was a hydraulic dredge, driven by a diesel engine, that was removing the far side grass bank, widening the river.

Baird sat astride a thick branch, his back braced against the trunk, some thirty feet above ground.

Across his knees lay a .22 Winchester repeater, fitted with a telescopic sight and silencer. He was wearing a loose jacket and trousers of green and yellow camouflage: the kind of kit the U.S. Army issued for jungle fighting. He had smeared burnt cork over his face. No one looking up at the tree, even with the aid of field-glasses, could spot him.

Below him, also astride a branch and similarly dressed, Rico sat and sweated. Slung over his shoulder was a canvas sack which contained a dozen smoke bombs Baird had given him.

They could see the convicts working in the blazing sunshine, manhandling the mud as it poured from the steam shovel into the trucks; sweat poured off them as they toiled. They worked stripped to the waist; old, battered straw hats shielded their shaven heads from the sun.

Baird surveyed the scene through a powerful pair of glasses. Up to now he had counted three guards, and was trying to locate the other two. Two of the guards were on the bridge house of the dipper dredge.

One of them had an automatic rifle under his arm; the other appeared to have only a pistol at his hip. The third guard walked slowly up and down on the narrow deck of the hydraulic dredge. He was armed with an automatic rifle and a .45 Smith and Wesson.

Baird shifted his glasses to a building made of logs and thatched with saw-grass that stood in a clearing away from the bank. He spotted another guard sitting in the shade, astride a Browning machine-gun, covering the road that led out of the swamp.

The machine-gun startled Baird. Noddy hadn’t said anything about a machine-gun.

‘Take a look at that guy in front of the hut,’ he said in a low voice to Rico. ‘He’s the one I’ve got to take care of.’

Rico raised his glasses and nearly dropped them when he saw the Browning.

‘He goes first,’ Baird went on. ‘There should be one more guard, but I can’t spot him. What’s the time?’

‘Six minutes to twelve,’ Rico said, through dry lips.

Baird grunted. He began to search the bush with his glasses, but he couldn’t spot the fifth guard.

‘Maybe he’s in the hut or somewhere with the dogs,’ he said, slipping the glasses into their case. He raised the Winchester and squinted through the telescopic sight. ‘I wish I’d had a little more practice with this gun,’ he muttered under his breath. He cradled the barrel in a fork of a branch. After shifting the gun a little he got the guard’s head in the exact centre of the cross-piece in the sight. He grunted, satisfied, and lowered the gun. ‘Seen Noddy?’

‘He’s by the truck with the red disc on it,’ Rico said, looking through his glasses. ‘That must be Hater near him.’

Baird took his glasses from the case and focused them on the truck. He spotted Noddy, standing by the truck, a cigarette in his mouth. His battered panama hat shielded his face, but Baird recognised him by his pigeon chest and tall, stooping figure.

Hater was shovelling liquid mud off the steam shovel into the truck. He was standing up to his knees in the heavy wet muck, and Baird recognised him immediately by his balding head and beetling eyebrows. He was the only convict in the gang who was bareheaded. He worked slowly and listlessly, stripped to the waist, his emaciated body burned brown by the sun.

‘That’s Hater,’ Baird said, nodding. ‘You’d better get down now and take up your position. Lob the first bomb on to the deck of the big dredge. Make sure every bomb you throw falls on something hard.

They won’t go off if they hit mud.’

Rico muttered something. Sweat ran into his eyes, making them smart. He was trembling so badly he was afraid to let go of the branch he was clinging to.

‘Make a job of it,’ Baird went on, watching him. ‘If you throw them high in the air, they won’t spot where they’re coming from.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Get going. We’ve got half a minute to twelve.’

Rico began to climb down the tree. His breath was laboured, and once or twice he had to stop while he tried to control his trembling. Baird watched him, his face set.

‘Get on with it!’ he snarled. ‘What are you scared about? Nothing’s going to happen to you.’

Rico finally reached the ground. He leaned against the tree trunk, his legs buckling under him, then he made an effort, and began to move forward, completely screened by the tall saw-grass.

From his perch Baird could watch his progress through the bush, but the guard on the bridge of the dredge was not in a high enough position to see him. From time to time Rico stopped and looked up at Baird to get his direction. Baird waved him on, and he turned and continued through the saw-grass, stumbling over the swampy ground until he was within thirty yards of the big dredge. Baird signalled him to slow down. He focused his glasses on Rico’s face.

‘The little rat’s nearly dead with fright,’ he mut ered to himself. ‘If he fal s down on this, we’re all sunk.’

Rico again looked over his shoulder. Baird made a signal telling him to go on more slowly still.

Another ten yards brought Rico to the edge of the saw-grass. He could see the bridge of the dredge now, and he hurriedly ducked back, dropping on one knee.

He and Baird had rehearsed what he had to do again and again during the morning. He had to remain just out of sight until Baird gave him the signal to throw the bombs. He opened the canvas sack and took out one of the bombs. It immediately became slippery in his sweating hands and he put it back and wiped his hands on his handkerchief.

He looked up at Baird. He had to stare for some seconds before he could see him. Baird was aiming the Winchester now, covering the guard at the machine-gun.

Baird felt completely impersonal as he squinted through the telescopic sights at the guard. The big, fat, red-faced man he could see in the sights was no more human to him than the close-up of a movie star on a cinema screen. Baird thumbed back the bolt, steadied the rifle and drew in a long, slow breath. The sights of the rifle were as if fixed to the guard’s head. It wasn’t a difficult shot: fifty yards, probably a little more, but everything depended on it. If he missed, the cat would be out of the bag, and the whole set-up ruined. His finger began to squeeze the trigger. The guard sat motionless. He seemed half asleep.

His hands rested on his knees, his head was lowered. Slowly and steadily Baird continued to put pressure on the trigger: then suddenly the gun went off: making a sharp plopping sound which was drowned by the steady thump-thump-thump of the diesel engine.

The guard slumped forward very slowly over the machine-gun, as if he had fallen asleep. His hat fell off and rolled away in the dust. His head rested on the barrel of the gun, and blood ran from his right ear in a quick, steady stream on to his trouser cuff and shoe.

Baird looked quickly at the dredge. Neither of the guards was looking towards the hut; neither of them appeared to have noticed that anything had happened.

Baird signalled to Rico. He watched Rico take a bomb from the sack. Rico seemed to be having difficulty in holding it, and it nearly slipped out of his hand. Baird held his breath as he watched Rico set himself and toss the bomb high up in the air. It was a wild, panicky throw, and Baird could see it was going to be wide and short of the dredge, and he cursed.

He watched the flight of the bomb. It seemed to hang in the hot, still air, sharply outlined against the blue sky. Neither of the guards noticed it, but out of the corner of his eye Baird saw Noddy had stiffened and was watching the bomb as it fell.

It landed with a loud splash in the river. Immediately both guards looked in the direction of the sound. The one with the automatic rifle swung up the rifle, looking for something to shoot at. They both stared at the circle of ripples forming on the still water of the river. Then one of them looked across at the hut. He stared, shading his eyes, then pulled out a pair of field-glasses from a case slung around his neck and lifted them to his eyes.

Baird signalled frantically to Rico to throw more bombs, but Rico’s nerve had gone. He crouched down in the swampy mud, hunching his shoulders, waiting for the shooting to start.

Baird’s waving hand at racted the at ention of the guard with the automatic rifle. He threw the rifle up to his shoulder. Baird saw him in the nick of time, and fell forward on to the branch, nearly losing his Winchester as he did so. The automatic rifle cracked three times. Slugs hummed dangerously close to Baird.

Realising no one was shooting at him, Rico managed to get to his feet. Feverishly he began to lob bombs towards the dredge, not looking where they were falling. It was entirely due to luck that two of them landed on the deck of the dredge. They burst, throwing out a mass of white smoke that enveloped the deck and the bridge before the guard could fire a fourth time.

A siren started up.

The guard on the hydraulic dredge began to shoot into the saw-grass.

Two men in white duck trousers and singlets appeared on the bridge of the smaller deck, revolvers in hand. They began to shoot at the oak tree as Baird slithered down it. A slug passed so close to his face he felt a burning sensation against his cheek. He let go of the branch he was clinging to and dropped heavily to the ground.

He ran through the saw-grass towards Rico. The three men on the small dredge could see the top of the grass sway violently as Baird forced his way through it, and they concentrated their fire on the moving grass.

Slugs hummed past Baird. He kept on, expecting to be hit at any second, his face set and hard, his breath whistling through his open mouth.

He came upon Rico, crouching in the mud, holding his hands over his head.

‘Get up, you yel ow sonofabitch!’ Baird snarled, and kicked Rico to his feet. ‘Give me those bombs!’

He snatched the sack from Rico, dropped the Winchester, jerked out his Colt and moved towards the bank where he could get a view of the small dredge.

Cautiously he reached the edge of the saw-grass and lay flat, looking towards the dredge. He could see the guard standing on the deck, his rifle thrust forward, staring uncertainly ahead. Baird lifted the .45 and shot the guard through the head. The guard sprang into the air and fell with a splash into the water.

The automatic rifle hit the deck and went off.

Baird began to plaster the smaller dredge with smoke bombs. The scene before him was quickly blotted out in white smoke. He could hear a lot of shouting and rifle firing. The siren continued to scream its warning.

Grabbing Rico by his arm, Baird dragged him through the tall grass to the oak tree.

‘Get back to the hut!’ he said, ‘and hurry. If I don’t join you in a quarter of an hour, I shan’t be coming.’

‘What about the boat?’ Rico panted. He looked as if he were going to faint. Sweat ran down his ashen face and his knees were buckling.

‘Never mind the boat — get going!’

Baird gave him a shove that sent him reeling, then swung himself up on an overhanging branch of the oak tree and climbed just high enough to look over the saw-grass.

The two dredges and the trucks were wiped out by the mass of white smoke. The hut was still visible, and as Baird looked he saw a guard come running out of the smoke, pull the dead guard out of the way and sit astride the machine-gun.

Baird knew it was too long a shot for his Colt, but he thought he might drop a bomb near enough to make the gun useless.

He pulled a bomb from his pocket as the guard swivelled the Browning around on its mounting to cover the tree and that part of the swamp where Rico was.

Baird threw the bomb with all his great strength. As it whistled through the air, the guard opened up with the machine-gun. Splinters flew off the trunk of the tree ten feet above Baird’s head. He saw the bomb drop on to the concrete path about fifteen feet from the gun and explode. He didn’t wait to see what the result of the smoke would be. The hail of lead smashing through the leaves of the tree so close to him shook even his iron nerve, and he dropped to the ground.

The gun kept on for a second or so, then stopped. Away in the distance Baird could now hear the sharp barking of dogs. As he wiped the sweat from his face, he wondered if the convicts had made a break.

Where was Noddy? What the hell had he been doing while all this had been going on?

The sound of the siren was deafening. Baird knew it would warn the guards at the prison some five miles away that there was trouble at the river, and it wouldn’t be long before reinforcements arrived.

Then he heard running feet and the sound of someone coming through the saw-grass. He got quickly behind the tree, his Colt ready, and waited.

Noddy and Hater came into the clearing. Noddy was pulling Hater along by his arm. Noddy looked scared. His eyes were bolting out of his head, and he was panting. Hater appeared to be dazed, and he let Noddy drag him along without protest.

Baird stepped out behind the tree.

Immediately Hater saw him, he seemed to come alive. He snatched his arm free from Noddy’s grasp, spun around on his heel and darted back into the thick saw-grass.

Both Noddy and Baird were so startled they didn’t move for a second. Then seeing Hater was escaping the way he had come, they both rushed forward, smashing their way through the bush, trying to head Hater off before he reached the smoke screen that was drifting towards them in the slight breeze that came off the river.

Baird was the first to overtake Hater. He grabbed at Hater’s naked shoulder. Hater squirmed away from him, twisted to his right and ran slap into Noddy, who closed with him.

‘What are you playing at?’ Noddy panted as Hater began to struggle like a madman. If Baird hadn’t grabbed his arm he would have broken loose again.

‘Get his other arm,’ Baird snarled to Noddy. ‘Come on; if they come this way…’

Feeling himself powerless to break free, Hater suddenly began to scream. The sound that came from his mouth was shrill, loud and horrifying. It was the sound of an animal caught in a trap. It made Baird’s nerves creep. It did more than that to Noddy. It scared him so badly he let go of Hater and hurriedly stepped back.

Hater slashed at Baird’s face with hooked finger-nails. Baird managed to jerk his head aside and save his eyes, but the short, sharp nails ploughed down his cheek, leaving deep, bloody ruts in his flesh.

Baird let go of Hater, but as Hater turned to run, Baird jerked out his gun and hit Hater on the top of his balding head with the gun butt. He was careful not to hit hard. The force of the blow drove Hater to his knees. He began to scream again as he struggled desperately to get to his feet.

‘Hit him! Hit him!’ Noddy cried, unnerved. ‘Stop his noise!’

Baird hesitated. He felt a murderous urge to shoot Hater, and he had to struggle against emptying his gun into the brown, emaciated body. As he hesitated, Hater got to his feet and began to run unsteadily across the clearing towards the saw-grass.

Baird went after him, caught up with him in three long strides and spun him around.

Hater looked at him. His face was working with fear: the facial muscles, the thin skin over the bone structure moved like water disturbed by a sudden wind. The vacant, dark eyes glared horribly. The thin, cracked lips drew off his teeth in a snarl of defiance.

Baird brushed aside Hater’s up-raised arms as he stepped in close. The gun butt smashed down on Hater’s bleeding scalp. Hater’s eyes went blind. He gave a dry little groan and crumpled at Baird’s feet.

Baird stepped back. Blood and sweat ran down his face. His eyes were a little wild, and he felt a sick uneasiness he had never known before.

‘Get him up,’ he said, without looking at Noddy. ‘You carry him. Get him to the hut as fast as you can. I’l be right behind.’

‘He’s crazy!’ Noddy said, bending over the stil body. ‘I told you we’d have trouble with him.’

‘Get on with it!’ Baird snarled, as he wiped his face with his handkerchief. The deep scratches were bleeding badly. He could feel blood running down inside his shirt and across his chest.

Noddy got Hater across his shoulders and began a slow jog-trot towards the hut.

Baird went back for the Winchester. He had trouble finding it as the smoke screen had drifted over the saw-grass, but finally he located it. He couldn’t see the river now. The dense smoke had blot ed out the dredges and the water. The firing had died down. Away to his right he could hear men shouting, but couldn’t make out what they were saying.

He ran after Noddy, and caught up with him a quarter of a mile or so from the hut.

Noddy was leaning against a tree, trying to get his breath back. Hater lay at his feet.

‘Come on!’ Come on!’ Baird said. ‘Do you want them to catch up with you?’

‘I’m beat,’ Noddy panted. ‘I can’t carry him any farther.’

Baird thrust the Winchester into Noddy’s hand, bent and pul ed Hater up and across his broad shoulders.

‘Come on!’ he said. ‘You go ahead.’

Noddy went forward, still gasping for breath.

By the time Baird reached the hut, he was breathing heavily. Hater was heavier than he looked, and the heat in the swamp seemed to drain all Baird’s strength.

Rico came to the door. He was trembling and his white face looked ghastly.

‘Are they coming this way?’ he asked fearful y.

Baird shoved him aside and entered the hut. He let Hater slide off his shoulder on to the floor.

Both Rico and Noddy followed him in. Noddy stood by the window, looking down the path and the way they had come.

‘Give Noddy the money,’ Baird said to Rico. ‘Twenty-five Cs. Snap it up! We’ve got to get to the boat.’

Rico stared at him.

‘Aren’t you going to wait here, like we planned?’ he asked.

‘If you’d done your job like I told you,’ Baird said furiously, ‘we could have waited. But now those guys know we’ve come this way. We’ve got to get out quick.’

‘I couldn’t help it…’ Rico said, wringing his hands.

‘Shut up!’ Baird exclaimed. ‘Get the money!’

Rico staggered over to his suitcase. As he fumbled with the locks, Noddy said sharply, ‘Hold it!

Leave it alone! I’ll take it as it is.’ He had a gun in his hand, and it pointed at Baird. ‘I’m going to have more than five grand for this job. Make a move, and I’ll give it to you in the guts!’

III

Rico remained like a statue, looking helplessly at Baird. There were seven thousand dollars in cash in the suitcase: every nickel he owned. His hand gripped the handle of the case convulsively. He had warned Baird, and now this pigeon-chested double-crosser would take the money and shoot them.

Baird stood very still, his eyes on Noddy’s gun. His face was expressionless, but the muscle below his right eye was twitching.

‘Turn around,’ Noddy said, ‘then shed your rod. Drop it on the floor. Don’t try anything funny. I’m a dead shot at this range. Go on! Turn around!’

Baird turned. Slowly his right hand went inside his coat and pulled out the Colt. Rico saw him softly thumb back the safety-catch.

Noddy said, ‘This is where you get yours, pal. I’l get a pat on the back for rubbing you two out and capturing Hater. Drop that rod!’

It happened so quickly Rico had no idea how Baird did it.

Baird jumped to the right and turned at the same time. Noddy fired and missed. Baird’s gun exploded three times; the gun flashes lit up the dark hut. Noddy dropped his gun, clutched his stomach with both hands and bent forward as if he had a hinge to his spine. He stood like that for a second or so, then his knees buckled and he fell forward on his face.

Baird stood over him.

Shuddering with relief, Rico came over and peered down at Noddy. All he could think of was that the money was safe.

‘The mug,’ Baird said softly, and stirred Noddy with his foot. ‘To have tried to pul that ancient gag on me.’

Noddy groaned. He looked up at Baird, his breath whistling in his throat.

Baird knelt by his side and ran his hands over his clothes. He found the roll of bills he had given Noddy the previous night.

‘He won’t need his turkey farm now,’ Baird said, and put the money in his hip pocket. ‘Come on! It’s time we moved. Give me a hand with Hater. Where’s that bandage?’

Rico found the wide roll of adhesive bandage, and together they strapped Hater’s hands and ankles together. Baird strapped up Hater’s mouth.

‘I’ll carry him. You bring the case and the Winchester,’ Baird went on. ‘They’re certain to have heard the shots.’

While Rico went over to pick up the case, Baird again bent over Noddy. He had stopped breathing.

Baird touched the artery in his throat. Then he straightened with a little grunt.

‘He won’t double-cross anyone again,’ he muttered.

Then he hauled the unconscious Hater across his shoulder and moved to the door.

Rico followed him down the path, carrying the case and the Winchester.

Rico’s mind was in a whirl. They had got Hater, but they had still to get out of this awful swamp.

They had still a twelve-hour paddle down the river ahead of them before they reached the place where the get-away car was hidden.

Even if they got Hater away, there was still the complex business of getting the money from Kile. The whole scheme now seemed to Rico to be a madman’s pipe-dream.

A distant sound suddenly brought him to a standstill as if he had run against a brick wall. Baird had heard it too, and had also stopped. Both of them looked back along the path. Baird had his gun out.

Away in the distance they could hear the barking of dogs. Even as they listened the barking got nearer.

‘Snap it up!’ Baird exclaimed. ‘They’ve got our scent.’

He turned and began to jog-trot down the path, while Rico blundered after him. Hater’s weight made it impossible for Baird to move fast. He had still some distance to cover before he reached the boat, and he knew he had to conserve his strength for a final burst.

The barking grew louder, and they could hear men shouting to each other. They kept on. Baird even managed to increase his speed a little, but he was already beginning to pant. Rico was so scared he scarcely knew what he was doing as he stumbled blindly along behind Baird.

With every yard of ground covered, the sound of the dogs became louder. Baird was gasping for breath when he saw the river ahead of him. He stepped off the path and dumped Hater in the undergrowth.

Rico came up panting. He kept looking over his shoulder, his eyes rolling. He was hysterical with exhaustion and fear.

Baird grabbed him and pulled him off the path.

‘We’ve got to nail those dogs,’ he said. ‘If they guess we’ve got a boat we’re sunk. They’l come after us in a motor launch. We wouldn’t stand a chance.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Rico sobbed, lying on his side and looking helplessly up at Baird.

Baird grabbed up the Winchester.

‘It’s a lucky break I went back for this. They won’t hear the shooting, and maybe I can wipe them out before they know what’s hit them.’

A sudden crackling of undergrowth made Baird swing around. He caught sight of a prison guard coming down the path. He had a revolver in one hand and in his other hand he held a chain that restrained a massive Alsatian dog that was dragging the guard down the path.

Baird hadn’t time for any fancy shooting. He got the rifle to his shoulder as the guard saw him. If the guard hadn’t been pul ed off balance by the dog he would have got Baird, but Baird fired a fraction of a second before the guard could get his gun sight on Baird. The rifle slug hit the guard in the centre of his forehead. He dropped in his tracks, his dying ringers releasing the chain.

The dog didn’t hesitate. It came down the path like a black streak of lightning. Baird hurriedly levered another slug into the breech and fired again, but the dog was coming too fast for accurate shooting. Baird’s shot went wide, and before he could fire once more, the dog was on him.

Baird stabbed at its massive chest with the barrel of the gun, but force of the dog’s charge sent the rifle out of his hands. Baird grabbed hold of the dog by its throat, throwing back his head to avoid the white fangs that slashed at him.

Man and dog rolled over and over, down the path towards the river bank. It was all Baird could do to keep the brute away from his throat. He screwed his fingers into the loose skin around the dog’s throat and hung on, while the dog clawed at his chest with its front paws and tried to get close enough to snap.

Rico lay motionless, sick with horror. He knew he should go to Baird’s help, but he hadn’t the will to move.

Baird tried to choke the dog, but its heavy brass-studded collar protected its throat. He rolled over, dragging the dog with him, not daring to release his grip for a second. The dog was incredibly strong: it was like holding on to a tiger. Baird realised his grip was slipping. The white fangs were now snapping within inches of his face. He made a tremendous effort, half reared up and threw himself and the dog into the river.

The warm, muddy water closed over his head. One of his hands lost its grip, but the dog was under the water too, and was more anxious to get to the surface than to snap at Baird. They both came to the surface together, and as Baird found his feet, he grabbed the dog by its collar with both hands and shoved it under the water again.

The struggling animal churned up the water into foam. It was as much as Baird could do to hold it.

Just when he thought it was beginning to weaken, it managed to break surface and get some air before Baird forced it under again.

Rico had got to his feet and had come down to the bank. He watched the struggle with fascinated horror, unaware of the approaching sounds of more dogs.

The dog finally began to weaken and gave Baird the chance of freeing one hand. He snatched out his Colt and hit the dog on the top of its skull. The dog made a convulsive movement, snapped at Baird’s wrist, and Baird felt white-hot pain shoot up his arm as the dog’s teeth sank into his flesh. He hit it again and again until the teeth released their grip on his wrist and the dog, kicking and twitching, went limp.

Gasping, Baird let go of it, and it sank slowly out of sight in the muddy, churned-up water.

Baird came staggering out of the water to the bank.

‘Get the boat!’ he panted, as he toiled up the steep slope of the bank, blood running down his fingers.

‘Hurry!’

Rico floundered up to his knees in water and mud as he made for the place where the boat was hidden. He started to drag it from its hiding-place of bush and saw-grass as Baird came up with Hater across his shoulder.

‘Okay,’ Baird said, ‘get the case and rifle.’

Rico floundered back to the bank and returned with the case and the Winchester. Baird had got Hater into the boat and held the boat steady while Rico got in. Then he climbed in himself, took the paddle and pushed off, turning the nose of the boat up stream.

He paddled hard for some minutes, sending the boat along at a good pace, keeping close to the tangled shrub and bush that made an impenetrable screen along the bank. After he had gone some hundred yards, he steered the boat under the branches of an overhanging tree, and drew up by the bank.

The boat was well hidden from the opposite bank. They could hear the barking of dogs dangerously close now, and Rico looked appealingly at Baird.

‘Hadn’t we better get on?’ he whispered. ‘Those dogs wil find us!’

‘Shut up!’ Baird said. ‘Give me the case.’

Rico pushed the suitcase to him, and Baird opened it and took out the first-aid box. He carefully washed his torn wrist in the river water and strapped it up. Then he took off his wet jacket and washed the scratches on his face, dabbing iodine on them after he had dried his face on a towel. He put away the first-aid box and took out the gun-cleaning outfit He hurriedly cleaned the Colt and reloaded it. Then he cleaned the Winchester and added four more slugs to the magazine.

‘That’s better,’ he mut ered, laying the Winchester in the bot om of the boat where he could get at it quickly. ‘Phew! I don’t want to meet any more damned dogs.’ He glanced over at Rico. ‘Keep an eye on Hater. If he comes to the surface, he may try to overturn the boat. Hit him over the head if he looks like making trouble.’

Rico gulped. He fingered the .38 which he wasn’t sure how to use, and looked doubtfully at the still body lying at his feet.

‘There they are,’ Baird whispered suddenly, and pointed.

Rico looked in the direction. He caught a glimpse of three guards standing half hidden by the bush on the opposite side of the river, looking to right and left. Each man carried a Thompson riot gun, and they all looked as if they could use the gun. They were talking, and one of them pointed down stream.

Then a man’s voice called out so close to the hidden boat that Baird and Rico started violently and grabbed at their guns.

‘This is the way they came,’ the man shouted. They couldn’t see him as he was on the same side of the river as they were, but the other guards could see him. ‘They’ve kil ed Ben. The bastards have got a rifle.’

‘Think they’ve got a boat?’ one of the guards cal ed back.

‘Don’t see how, unless they’re get ing outside help. It’s my bet they’ve swum over to your side.’

‘The dogs won’t be long,’ the guard on the far side of the river said. ‘We’l soon pick up their scent.

Have you checked the old cabin? Maybe some of them have holed up there.’

‘Jed’s doing that. I’m staying with Ben until they get a stretcher down to him.’

The three guards waved and moved off down stream.

‘We stay right here,’ Baird whispered. ‘The dogs can’t get through the bush, and as long as we’re on the water they won’t get our scent. We’l give them a couple of hours to cool off, then we’l try and make a break.’

He took off his wet trousers, and sitting naked in the bottom of the boat, dried himself carefully. He hung the jacket and trousers over a branch to dry, then uncorked a bottle of whisky and took a couple of shots.

Rico sat motionless, staring with frightened eyes at the opposite bank. He could hear the distant barking of dogs and men shouting. There was a lot of activity going on in the bush.

‘Here, have some of this,’ Baird said, offering him the bottle.

Rico took a long drink. The spirit helped him a little, but he still couldn’t control his trembling.

‘Think we’l get out of this?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Yeah,’ Baird said, ‘I guess so. They won’t waste too much time here. They’ve got fifty convicts to round up.’

He made himself as comfortable as he could on a blanket and took another drink.

‘Wish I could smoke,’ he said, half to himself, ‘but the dogs might smell it.’ He glanced at Hater. ‘Is he okay?’

Rico could see Hater’s thin chest moving as he breathed.

‘He’s stil breathing.’

‘That’s something,’ Baird said, and grinned sourly. ‘He must have a skul like granite.’

‘He’s crazy,’ Rico said uneasily. ‘There’s something about his face…’

‘You should take a look at yourself,’ Baird said. ‘You look a little nuts, too. Maybe I do. That dog nearly had me.’

Rico shivered.

‘You’ve been a big help,’ Baird went on. ‘I must have been soft in the head to have picked on you for a caper like this. If you’d hit the dredge with your first shot they wouldn’t have known where to look for us. We’d been the hel out of this by now.’

Rico didn’t say anything. He was thinking he must have been soft in the head to have got mixed up with Baird in the first place.

‘Maybe we’d better take it in turns to sleep,’ Baird said, yawning. ‘Hel ! My wrist hurts. We may have to paddle all night. I’l take the first nap. Keep your eye on Hater. Wake me if he shows any sign of coming to the surface.’

He stretched and closed his eyes. Rico watched him, fascinated. To be able to contemplate sleep at such a time! He had always known Baird had nerves of steel, and looking at him, a naked giant of solid bone and muscle, already dozing, Rico felt suddenly more hopeful. If there was a way out of this jam, Baird would find it. If they did get out of the swamp there was a quarter of a million dollars waiting for him.

An hour dragged by. Every now and then the sound of voices and the barking of dogs seemed unpleasantly close. Once Rico caught sight of some guards moving slowly along the opposite bank.

They passed without even looking across the river.

Hater showed no signs of recovering consciousness, and Rico wondered uneasily if he were going to die. He rigged up some shading for Hater by draping a blanket over the suitcase. It was very hot in the boat, and Rico longed for an iced highball.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he made no at empt to wake Baird. He sat in the prow of the boat, his ears and eyes missing nothing, while the hours dragged by.

By four o’clock the sounds of men and dogs had died away. The silence was broken now only by the drone of mosquitoes and the lapping of water against the side of the boat.

A river snake slid from under the boat and went swimming swiftly downstream, startling Rico. He took another drink from the whisky bottle, then reached over and shook Baird.

‘What’s up?’ Baird asked, instantly awake. His hand automatical y reached for the Winchester.

‘Isn’t it time we did something?’ Rico asked uneasily. ‘It’s after four o’clock.’

Baird sat up slowly and stretched. He touched his wrist with a grimace and shook his head.

‘I guess you’l have to do some work. This wrist of mine doesn’t feel so good. I doubt if I can use the paddle.’ He looked towards the opposite bank. ‘Seen anything?’

‘Nothing for the past hour. I haven’t heard anything, either.’

Baird took a drink from the whisky bottle, then lit a cigarette.

‘We’d better stay here until it’s dark,’ he said. ‘We might run into them on their way back. Now we’ve got so far, it’d be crazy to take any more risks than we have to.’

Rico shrugged. He wanted to get moving, but he realised what Baird said made sense.

‘How’s Hater?’ Baird went on.

They both looked at the still body lying at the bottom of the boat. They were startled to see the dark eyes were open and watching them.

Baird shifted over to Hater and knelt at his side.

‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘You’re okay now.’

Hater made a soft, moaning noise, but he kept still. Rico leaned forward to stare down at him. Could this frail, odd little man, with his beetling eyebrows, his thin, emaciated face and body, his wild, staring eyes, be Paul Hater, the internationally renowned jewel operator? It didn’t seem possible, until Rico remembered Hater had been inside for fifteen years: probably been working in this ghastly heat and swamp for most of that time. He shuddered at the thought, wondering what he himself would look like if he had been through what Hater had had to face.

Baird undid the gag and lifted Hater’s head.

‘Have a drink, pal,’ he said, and offered the whisky bottle.

‘Who are you?’ Hater asked in a hoarse whisper. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘We’re getting you out of here,’ Baird said. ‘You’ve got friends on the outside rooting for you.’

Hater licked his lips. His eyes went from Baird’s hard, expressionless face to Rico.

‘I haven’t any friends,’ he said.

‘Sure, you have,’ Baird returned. ‘You take it easy. You’ve got nothing to worry about now.’

Hater closed his eyes.

‘I know what you’re after,’ he muttered. ‘But you’re not going to get it. No one’s going to get it.’

‘Don’t get excited,’ Baird said. ‘We’ll talk about who’s going to get what when we’re out of here.’

Hater started to say something, but the effort was too much for him. His face went slack, and he seemed to drift off once more into unconsciousness.

After watching him for a while, Baird returned to his blanket. He sat down and began to pull on his camouflage jacket and trousers. When he had finished dressing he told Rico to go to sleep.

‘We’ll get going as soon as it’s dark. Get some rest. You’ll have to do most of the paddling.’

Rico was still watching Hater.

‘Did you hear what he said? Suppose he doesn’t tel Kile where he’s cached the stuff? The cops must have tried to make him spill it. If they couldn’t do it, how does Kile think he’ll get him to talk?’

Baird shrugged.

‘That’s not my headache. If Kile can’t make him talk, maybe I’ll take charge of him.’ He stared at Rico for a long second. ‘I could make him spill it. A half a mil ion’s worth taking a little trouble for. I don’t say it’d be easy, but in the end he’d come clean.’

‘Why don’t you do it now?’ Rico asked anxiously. ‘Why hand him over to Kile at all?’

‘Suppose we did know where the stuff was hidden? What good would it do us? We couldn’t get rid of it. Talk sense. Kile’s got an in with this Rajah guy; we haven’t.’

Rico lay down in the boat. His feet were close to Hater’s head.

‘If we don’t pull this off I’m ruined,’ he said miserably. ‘I don’t know what I shall do.’

‘Aw, shut up!’ Baird snapped. ‘Go to sleep. I don’t want to listen to your belly-aching.’

Rico closed his eyes, but he knew he wasn’t going to sleep. He watched Baird through his eyelashes.

Baird stared thoughtfully at Hater while he nursed his aching wrist. His mind made plans.

IV

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.