'Christ, I don't know! The cenote's not very big. We could quite easily miss it.'
It dawned upon me that perhaps we were lost. I had been relying on Harry's navigation, but perhaps he wasn't in a fit state to make decisions. We could even have overshot the cenote for all I knew. I could see that it would be up to me to make the decisions in the future.
I made one. I said, 'Well head due north for two hundred yards, then we'll take up a track parallel to this one.' I felt the edge of the machete; it was as dull as the edge of a poker and damned near useless for cutting anything. I exchanged it for the other, which wasn't much better, and said, 'Come on, Harry; we've got to find water.'
I carried the compass this time and changed direction sharply. After a hundred yards of hewing, much to my surprise I came to an open space, a sort of passage through the bush -- a trail. I looked at it in astonishment and noted that it had been cut fairly recently because the slash marks were fresh.
I was about to step on to the trail when I heard voices and drew back cautiously. Two men passed within feet of me; both were dressed in dirty whites and floppy hats, and both carried rifles. They were speaking in Spanish, and I listened to the murmur of their voices fade away until all was quiet again.
Harry caught up with me, and I put my finger to my lips. 'Chicleros,' I said. 'The cenote must be quite near.'
He leaned against a tree. 'Perhaps they'll help us,' he said.
'I wouldn't bet on it. No one I ever heard has a good opinion of chicleros.' I thought about it a bit. 'Look, Harry: you make yourself comfortable here, and I'll follow those two tads. I'd like to know a bit more about them before disclosing myself.'
He let himself slip to a sitting position at the bottom of the tree. 'That's okay with me,' he said tiredly. 'I could do with a rest.'
So I left him and entered the 'trail. By God, it was a relief to be able to move freely. I went fast until I saw a disappearing flick of white ahead which was the hinder most of the chicleros, then I slowed down and kept a cautious distance. After I'd gone about a quarter of a mile I smelted wood smoke and heard more voices, so I struck off the trail and found that the forest had thinned out and I could move quite easily and without using the machete.
Then, through the trees, I saw the dazzle of sun on water, and no Arab, coming across an oasis in the desert, could have been more cheered than I was. But I was still careful and didn't burst into the clearing by the cenote; instead I sneaked up and hid behind the trunk of a tree and took a good look at the situation.
It was just as well I did because there were about twenty men camped there around a blue and yellow tent which looked incongruously out of place and seemed more suited to an English meadow. In front of the tent and sitting on a camp stool was Jack Gatt, engaged in pouring himself a drink. He measured a careful amount of whisky and then topped it with soda-water from a siphon. My throat tightened agonizingly as I watched him do it.
Immediately around Gatt and standing in a group were eight men listening attentively to what he was saying as he gestured at the map on the camp table. Four of them were obviously American from the intonation of their voices and from their clothing; the others were probably Mexican, although they could have come from any Central American country. To one side, and not taking part in Gatt's conference, were about a dozen chicleros lounging by the edge of the cenote.
I withdrew from my position and circled about the cenote. then went in again to get a view from a different angle. I had to get at that water somehow, without drawing attention to myself, but I saw that anyone going to the cenote would inevitably be spotted. Fortunately, this cenote was different from the others I'd seen in that it wasn't like a well, and the water was easily accessible. It was more like an ordinary pond than anything else.
I watched the men for a long time. They weren't doing anything in particular: just sitting and lying about and talking casually. I had the idea they were waiting for something. Gatt. sitting with his men under the awning in front of his elegant tent, seemed quite out of place among these chicleros, although if Harris was to be believed, he was worse than any of them.
There was nothing I could do there and then, so I drew away and continued to make the full circle around the cenote and so back to the trail. Harry was asleep and moaning a little, and when I woke him up he gave a muffled shout.
'Quiet, Harry!' I said. 'We're in trouble.'
'What is it?' He looked around wildly.
'I found the cenote. There's a crowd of chicleros there -- and Jack Gatt.'
'Who the hell is Jack Gatt?'
Fallon, of course, hadn't told him. After all, he was only a chopper jockey in Fallen's employ and there was no reason why he should know about Gatt. I said, 'Jack Gatt is big trouble.'
'I'm thirsty,' said Harry. 'Can't we go along there and get water?'
'Not if you don't want your throat cut,' I said grimly. 'Look, Harry: I think Gatt is ultimately responsible for the sabotage to the helicopter. Can you stick it out until nightfall?'
'I reckon so. As long as I don't have to keep putting one foot in front of the other.'
'You won't have to do that,' I said. 'You just lie here.' I was becoming more and more worried about Harry. There was something wrong with him but I didn't know what it was. I put my hand to his forehead and found it burning hot and very dry. Take it easy,' I said. 'The time will soon pass.'
The afternoon burned away slowly. Harry fell asleep again or, at least, into a good imitation of sleep. He was feverish and moaned deliriously, which wasn't at all a good sign for the future. I sat next to him and tried to hone the machetes with a pebble I picked up. It didn't make much difference and I'd have given a lot for a proper whetstone.
Just before nightfall I woke Harry. 'I'm going down to the cenote now. Give me the water-bottles.' He leaned away from the tree and unslung them. 'What else have you got that will hold water?' I asked.
