I could see by the way Timoteo stiffened that he had spotted the snake and that the snake had spotted him. It turned its head away from my foot and its forked tongue flickered in Timoteo's direction.
'Don't move,' Timoteo said quietly.
I had been about to snatch my leg out of range, but his quiet, confident tone stopped me.
Very slowly, he hoisted himself up to another branch. He was now within four feet of the snake.
I watched him, sweat rolling off me, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Very slowly, his hand began to move towards his hat. The warning rattle sounded again.
His long fingers closed on the brim of his hat and slowly removed it from his head.
Simultaneously two things happened. The snake struck as Timoteo flicked the hat in its direction.
Scarcely breathing, I watched.
The snake's fangs sank into the felt brim of the hat. Timoteo, with a speed that almost defeated my eyes, had the snake off the branch. His right hand caught the snake at the back of its head. The length of the snake immediately wrapped itself around his arm. He sat astride the branch, just below me, gripping the back of the snake's head so it couldn't strike him, then his left hand came down on the spade-shaped head, his long fingers shutting the jaws. He paused. I could see the snake's body tight around his arm. Then firmly and deliberately, he turned his hands in the opposite direction, breaking the snake's back.
As he let the thin rope of snake flesh drop out of his hands, he looked up at me.
'It's dead.'
I sat with my back pressed against the trunk of the tree, looking down at him. I saw myself in the sun goggles and what I saw I didn't like.
Then the roar of the motor-boat snapped me back to life.
'Get down!' I said. 'Fast !'
Even before he began to climb down, I slid around him, dropping from one branch to another until I reached the roof. I grabbed up the rifle, spread myself flat tinder the shade of the shelter I had built and dug the rifle butt into my shoulder.
The motorboat was now in the bay. I could see the negress at the wheel. Nancy and a man were skiing side by side, but he was on her offside and through the telescopic sight, she was shielding him.
When they turned, I thought, he would be on my side and I would have him.
I adjusted the focus. Every so often I caught a glimpse of him in the sight. He was a typical South American male sex symbol : well-built, muscular, handsome with long black hair held in place by a white bandeau.
The boat made a sharp turn and began the return run. She and he were proving to each other how good they were. As the boat turned, he jumped her tow rope, skidding along on one ski and he was again on her off- side.
I waited, following them through the sight. I had the girl's head between the cross wires more often than Diaz's. It was an impossible shot. I could more easily kill her than him. They were now holding on to their tow bars with one hand and holding each other's hand with the other. They were now so close together I couldn't even see him on her off-side.
I lay there, sweating, but patient. I had been trained to wait. I had once waited three hours before I got a head shot and I remembered that while I waited.
The boat was coming round again. This time he kept to the on-side. They were doing a straight run. I now had his head on the cross wires. I could just see Nancy's nose and chin on the edge of the sight.
To anyone but an expert this would have been too dangerous. To anyone but an expert this could mean hitting the girl and not the man, but I was an expert.
This is it, I thought, this finishes the nightmare even if it starts another.
I drew in a long, slow breath, moving the sight to keep his head in the centre of the cross wires, then I slowly took up the slack of the trigger.
Suddenly, Nancy dropped back a little and she disappeared out of the sight. I knew then I had him. He wasn't even jinking. It was such a straightforward shot that Timoteo could have made it.
I squeezed the trigger.
Faintly, above the roar of the motorboat engine, I heard the metallic snap of the hammer in the gun. There was no recoil and that told me there was no cartridge in the breech. For a long stupefied moment I lay there, then I slammed down the loading lever which should jack up another cartridge under the firing- pin. The feel of the lever as it operated told me it wasn't lifting a cartridge.
I realised then the gun wasn't loaded. I had loaded it. I had had a cartridge in the breech, now it was unloaded.
I turned on my side and looked back at Timoteo who was standing away from me. I remembered the time lag before he had called to me : a time lag when he had been on the roof alone.
'Did you unload this gun, you sonofabitch?'
He nodded.
I looked out at the bay.
The two skiers were now well out of range, the boat taking them out to sea. I knew the opportunity had gone and the nightmare was still with me.
I got to my feet and walked over to him. I wanted to smash him flat, but there was no point. I told myself there was still tomorrow.
'Are you so goddam gutless you can't even let me kill this man for you?' I said, my voice low and
