withdrew and looked at my watch to find it was after five in the afternoon, not far from nightfall. I debated with myself whether or not to take a chance and use the trail. I was tired, and perhaps my judgement wasn't as keen as it ought to have been, because I said out loud, The hell with it!' and boldly stepped out. Again it was a relief to have unhampered freedom of movement. There was no need for the machete, so I unslung the rifle and took it in both hands, and made good time, conscious that every step brought me nearer Uaxuanoc and safety.
This time I surprised a chiclero. He was standing in the trail with his back to me and I could smell the smoke of the foul cigarette he was puffing. I was retreating cautiously when, apparently by some sixth sense, he became aware of me and turned fast. I popped off a shot at him and he promptly fell flat and rolled into cover. The next thing was an answering shot, so close that I felt the thrill of air on my cheek.
I ducked for cover and, hearing shouts, pushed into the forest. Again, there was a fantastic game of hide- and-seek. I found another hidey-hole and froze in it like a hare in its form, hoping that the hunt would go around me. I listened to the chicleros plunging about and shouting to each other and there was something about the quality in their voices which made me think their hearts weren't in it. After all, one of their number was dead, stabbed in a very nasty way, and I had just taken a pot-shot at another. It can't have been very encouraging; after all, I'd shown definitely murderous tendencies, they didn't know who I was and I could be standing in wait to garrotte any one of them. No wonder they stuck together and shouted at each other -- there was comfort in numbers.
They gave up at nightfall and retreated to wherever they had come from. I stayed where I was and put in a bit of solid thought on the problem, something which I'd been neglecting to do in the hurry-scurry of the day's events. I'd run into two lots of them during the day, and as far as I could make out, they were moving in groups of three or four. Whereas the first chiclero -- the one I bad killed -- had been alone.
Again, this last lot was neither spying on Uaxuanoc nor staying at Gatt's camp, and it seemed to me that its sole purpose was to hunt for me, otherwise why would they have been stoked out on the trail? It was very likely that Gatt had identified the body of Harry Rider and he had a shrewd suspicion of who Rider's companion was. Anyway, every time I tried to make a break for Uaxuanoc there had been someone placed to stop me.
Apart from all that, I had no illusions about what would happen to me if I were caught. The man I had killed would have friends, and it would be useless to expostulate that I hadn't intended killing him and that I was merely dissuading him from splitting Harry's skull. The fact was that I had killed him and there was no getting away from it.
Remembering how he had looked with the machete obscenely sticking from his body made me feel sick. I had killed a man and I didn't even know who he was or what he thought. Still, he had started it by shooting at us and he had got what he deserved, yet, oddly, that didn't make me feel any better about it. This primitive world of kill or be killed was a long way from Cannon Street and the bowler-hatted boys. What the hell was a grey little man like me doing here?
But this was no time for indulging in philosophy and I wrenched my mind back to the matter at hand. How in hell was I going to get back to Uaxuanoc? The idea came to me that I could move along the trail at night -- that I had already proved. But would the chicleros be watching at night? There was only one thing to do and that was to find out the hard way.
It was not yet dark and I had just time to get back to the trail before the light failed. Moving in the forest at night was impossible, and movement on the trail wasn't much better but I persevered and went slowly and as quietly as I could. It was very depressing to see the fire. They had hewn out a little clearing, and the fire itself was built right in the middle of the trail. They sat around it talking and obviously wide awake. To go round was impossible at night, so I withdrew regretfully and, as soon as I thought I was out of hearing, I hacked into the forest and found myself a tree.
The next morning the first thing I did was to go further into the forest away from the trail and find myself another tree. I chose it very carefully and established myself on a sort of platform forty feet above the ground with leaf cover beneath so thick that I couldn't see the ground at all and no one on the ground could see me. One thing was certain -- these boys couldn't possibly climb every tree in the forest to see where I was hiding, and I thought I'd be safe.
I was tired -- tired to death of running, and fighting this bloody forest, tired of being shot at and of shooting at other people, tired because of lack of sleep and because too much adrenalin had been pumped into my system, tired, above all, of being consistently and continually frightened.
Maybe the grey little man inside me was intent on running away. I don't know -- but I rationalized it by saying to myself that I wanted a breathing space. I was staking everything on one last throw. I had a quart of water left, and a tittle food -- enough for a day if I didn't have to run too much. I was going to stay in that tree for twenty-four hours -- to rest and sleep and get my wind back. By that time I'd have eaten all the food and drunk all the water, and I'd bloody well have to make a move, but until then I was going to take it easy.
Maybe it's a trail of little grey men that they only go into action when pushed hard enough, and perhaps I was unconsciously putting myself into such a position that hunger and thirst would do the pushing but what I consciously thought was that if the chicleros saw neither hair nor hide of me for the next twenty-four hours then they might assume that I'd either quit cold or gone elsewhere. I hoped, rather futilely, than when I came down out of that tree they'd have gone away.
So I made myself comfortable, or as comfortable as I could, and rested up. I split the food up into three meals and marked the water-bottle into three portions. The last lot was for breakfast just before I left. I slept, too, and I remember thinking just before I dozed off that I hoped I didn't snore.
Most of the time I spent in a somnolent condition, not thinking about anything much. All the affairs of Fallon and Uaxuanoc seemed very far away, and Hay Tree Farm could just as well have been on another planet. There was just the clammy green heat of the forest enfolding me, and even the ever-present danger from the chicleros seemed remote. I daresay if a psychiatrist could have examined me then he'd have diagnosed a case of schizophrenic retreat. I must have been in a bad way and I think that was my nadir.
Night came and I slept again, this time more soundly, and I slept right through until daybreak and awoke refreshed. I think that night's sleep did me a lot of good because I felt remarkably cheerful as I munched the tough dried beef and ate the last of the bread. I felt devilish reckless as I washed it down with the last of the water from the bottle. Today was going to be make or break for Jemmy Wheale -- I had nothing left to fall back on, so I might as well push right ahead.
I abandoned the water-bottles and the knapsack and all I retained were the switchblade knife in my pocket, the machete and the rifle. I was going to travel light and fast. I didn't even take the bandolier, but just put a half- dozen rounds in my pocket. I didn't see myself fighting a pitched battle, and all the ammunition in the world wouldn't help me if I had to. I suppose the bandolier and the water-bottles' are still up in that tree -- I can't imagine anyone finding them.
I came out of the tree and dropped on to the ground, not worrying ton much whether anyone saw or heard me or not. and made my way through the forest to the trail. When I pot to it I didn't hesitate at all, but just turned and walked along as though I hadn't a care in the world. I carried the rifle at the trail and held the machete in the
