He turned back to the lake. It lay before him smooth as a piece of luminescent oiled silk. The far shore was a bank of grotesque shadows between the lake and the moon-silvered hills.
Garson stepped forward, bent back a limb of a bush at his side and let it whip back into place. He crouched, fearful of the noise his movements had produced. And now, he noticed with an abrupt choking sensation of fear that the sounds of the insects behind him had taken on an irregular pattern. It was like the movement of a zone of silence toward him.
With infinite care, Garson stooped, crawled forward, drew his revolver and stretched out behind the rotten log.
Something grated on the sand of the trail.
Light exploded above the lake.
Garson cursed under his breath, believing in that moment that Luac had betrayed him. Then he saw the pattern of falling sparks from the rocket. They formed a zig-zag tracing back to the ridge above the hacienda.
We’re not the only ones with flares!
The bushes above Garson cast a meager shadow. He tried to move farther back into the obscurity, froze at a low voice from the swamp on his left.
“Ah, Mr. Garson!”
Raul Separdo! Garson tried to probe the blackness of the swamp, saw only twisting shadows and the reflection of the flare from glistening leaves.
“Drop your gun, Mr. Garson.”
The low voice, despite its emotionless flatness, carried the heaviest threat that Garson had ever heard. His fingers seemed to open of their own accord. The revolver plopped into the leaves.
Separdo, dragging his left foot in a twisting limp, came out of the swamp, crossed to a position beside Garson, bent and retrieved the revolver.
“Now, we will wait for Choco to come to the rescue,” said Separdo.
He grinned down at Garson, his face like a hole-pierced mask in the blue-white glare.
Separdo’s alone, thought Garson. One of those dugouts couldn’t hold more than three persons. Choco accounted for one of them. Someone on the ridge fired the flare. That means one against one here if I can trick him off guard!
“Be very cautious about your movements,” whispered Separdo. He backed away from Garson into the shadows of the bushes. Separdo’s left leg dragged heavily. He grimaced at every step.
A wounded tiger!
Garson looked up the sanded line of the trail. Choco will come! He’ll wait for a reasonable length of time, then he’ll come searching. He twisted his head very slowly, looked up at the dazzling brilliance of the flare. It had been fired lower than the others, but there was still five minutes of light. Maybe Choco will wait for the darkness.
Evidently Separdo had the same idea. He whispered from the darkness: “Choco will wait until the light is gone. But I have the ears of a cat, my friend. Do not disturb the leaves around you. And when Choco comes, give no warning, or my first bullets will be for you!”
Garson swallowed in sick impotence, abruptly recalled the empty revolver he had hidden beneath this log. He guessed the position of it to almost where his left hand rested on the leaves. Slowly, Garson moved his hand into the damp earth beneath the log. The leaves rustled.
“What are you doing?” hissed Separdo.
“Something crawling up my sleeve,” whispered Garson.
“Perhaps a scorpion,” said Separdo. “Leave it alone.”
Garson’s questing hand encountered only the earth.
The shadows from the flare crept across the ground, darkness blotted out the scene.
Garson’s heart hammered. He could feel clammy perspiration running down his jaw line, down his neck, along his sides. It felt like so many running insects.
A twig snapped in the darkness.
Separdo’s Luger dug into Garson’s side.
Someone went “Hssssst!” from the swamp side.
The Luger dug deeper.
Garson moved his left hand along under the log, fighting to hide the motion. He had no idea what he would do with the empty gun when he found it, only felt the great need of it in his hand.
Above him, Separdo went “Hssssst!”
An answering sound came from the swamp.
Garson’s hand encountered cold metal.
The Luger was removed from his side. He felt rather than heard Separdo move back.
The revolver came out from under the log with only the faintest rustling of a leaf. It felt crusted under his hand, and he wondered if it would work even if he managed to get bullets from his belt and into the cylinder.
Footsteps grated on the trail beside the log.
The Luger cracked in a blue spurt of flame above Garson’s head, was answered by the roar of Medina’s revolver.
Two bodies collided above Garson. A foot dug into his back, was gone. Garson shook the revolver, broke it open, dug frantically for cartridges, fumbled them into the cylinder, closed it.
A loud sound came from directly ahead of Garson. Medina cursed. There came a moment of silence. The circle of a small penlight dug a hole out of the night, revealed Medina on hands and knees feeling across the ground for his revolver. The dim figure of Separdo stood outlined behind the light, the Luger held in his right hand.
The light flicked once across Garson’s face, back to Medina.
“Do you want it like that, Choco?” asked Separdo. He chuckled. “Or will you try running and give me a moving target?”
Garson said a silent prayer that no earth clogged the revolver. He brought it up, squeezed the trigger. He seemed to feel the kick of the gun in his hand before he heard the shot.
Separdo stumbled backward. The penlight in his hand described a slow arc from the ground up across the bushes. He sprawled sideways off the trail. The light fell, was extinguished.
There came the sound of swift movement from Medina’s position, then his voice: “Garson?”
“Yes?”
“You got him!”
“Is he dead? Check! Are you all right, Choco?”
“Yes. He missed me.” Medina came closer. “Again I owe you a debt, Señor.”
“No, Choco. This was one that took both of us.” He explained what happened, speaking quickly in a low voice.
Medina laughed softly, gripped Garson’s arm. “Now, I will teach you a trick. If one pushes a limb ahead of one along a trail like this where it will make noise, the sound will hide one’s own passing, and never give the true position!”
Garson recalled the grating sound on the trail just before Separdo fired, seemed to hear Luac’s voice saying: “Choco knows many bad tricks!”
At the house, Luac accepted their story with only a grunt when they said Separdo was dead.
Anita Luac dug her fingers into Garson’s arm while he spoke. Her face in the moonlight revealed a wide-eyed elation.
“I shouldn’t be glad,” she whispered. “But I am!”
“There’s still one of them on the ridge,” said Medina.
“Leave him,” said Luac. “The clouds will be across the moon in a few minutes. Get the flare pistol ready.” He bent over the machine gun, smoothed the cartridge belt.
Garson took up a rifle, moved to the window ledge beside Luac, sat down and rested the rifle across the broken glass. Anita Luac took up a position beside him with another rifle.
“There’s movement along the shore,” said Medina.
“Where?” asked Luac.
“Down toward the printing plant. They may be trying to get some more men around the edge.”
“Try a few shots with the rifle, Mr. Garson,” said Luac. “We do not want them to know yet about the Lewis gun.”
Garson brought up his rifle, aimed it into the blackness down the lake, squeezed off one shot. Immediately, a crackling of return fire came from directly across the lake. He got off two more shots before ducking behind the window, heard Anita’s rifle fire once. She crouched down beside him.
Antone Luac’s voice came from the shadows. “Olaf’s force is across there. They are organized and well directed.”
“I fear
you’re right, Patron,” said Medina.
“That toad!” said Anita Luac.
Garson watched the moonlight fading from the floor behind the window, lifted his head, stared across the lake. An occasional rifle shot still sparked from the opposite shore. He heard bullets slam into the adobe wall, felt curiously immune to them, as though the darkness were a shield.
The moon became a misty luminescence behind the clouds, grew darker, darker. The lake faded into blackness.
“Now we count off a couple of minutes,” said Luac.
“Give them three minutes,” said Medina. They heard him counting under his breath.
The seconds passed like hours. They could hear a faint whispering of sound on the lake.
“Let there be light!” said Luac.
The rocket arched into the darkness, exploded to hissing brilliance. The light revealed a long line of canoes out from the far shore, paddles frozen for one instant like a great tableau. Then several back-paddled. Others shot their canoes ahead. The heavy cracking of rifles punctuated by spurts of flame winked along the shore behind the canoes.
“Now!” snapped Medina.
The Lewis gun flamed and roared beside Garson. Its bullets started at the far left, swept across the canoes like a deadly scythe.
The rifle fire from the shore stopped as though in shock, then came on with a redoubled crescendo. Bullets smacked all along the wall, around the window, against the back wall of the room.
Garson pushed Anita down below the window ledge, held his own gaze fascinated on the scene across the lake.
The Lewis gun began a second deadly traverse through the shattered canoes, then lifted to the shore.
“Another belt, Choco,” said Luac.
“Sí, Patron.”
Garson could smell paint blistering from the window ledge near the gun barrel as it concentrated on one grouping of rifle flamings.
Again the machine gun traversed the far shore.
Now, there were only sporadic shots from the darkness across the lake.
“I wonder what Olaf is thinking now?” said Luac. He stopped firing.
The lake across from them was a scene of madness: overturned canoes, floundering and screaming men, the deadly boiling of the caribe through the water.
They could see a few men make it to the opposite dock. Others fell back, sank from sight.
“They will not try that again soon,” said Luac.
“It’s horrible!” said Anita.
Garson became conscious that she had straightened, was staring at the lake as fascinated as he.
“Now, I will tell you something,” said Luac. “What we have just done makes it absolutely necessary that none of us is captured alive.
Garson stared at him. “What?”
“Sí,” muttered Medina. He looked down at Anita Luac. “Señorita, you must not let them take you.” He shifted his attention to Garson. “If it becomes necessary, save one bullet for the Señorita and one for yourself, Mr. Garson.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Choco and I have seen the peon legions in action,” said Luac. “We will all keep in mind that it would be a kindness to my daughter and to ourselves if . . .”
“Stop it, Father!”
“Yes, my dear.” His voice was strangely gentle.
Medina stirred restlessly. “This is not like Queretero, eh, Patron?”
“No, Choco. Then we had Pancho telling us what to do.”
“I do not think we have much time, Patron.”
“I was thinking the same thing, Choco. This is a long gamble. I will spike the machine gun now.”
Garson stared at the shadowy figure of Luac. “Spike the . . .”
“We must go down to the lake,” said Medina. “If El Grillo comes, we must be there.”
“What if they shoot up a flare?” asked Garson.
“I do not believe they want light,” said Luac. “Eh, Choco?”
“That is my thought, Patron.”
Luac said, “There! They will not use this weapon!” He stood up, turned away into the darkness at the rear of the house. “Excuse me one moment.”
“Listen!” hissed Garson.
They became very still.
The murmuring of many voices came from across the lake.
“How many men over there, Choco?”
“They could muster perhaps three hundred. I think we caught about half of them on the lake.”
Antone Luac returned, his shoulder bent under a heavy suitcase. Medina took it from him.
“Our insurance policy,” said Luac.
The manuscripts! thought Garson.
“Stay close behind me,” said Medina.
Garson hung a bandolier of rifle cartridges over his shoulder, slung a rifle over the bandolier. Anita came up beside him, slipped her hand in his.
“Do you hear something on the lake?” asked Luac.
“I think they are making another try, Patron.”
“So soon!”
“I believe they are angry, Patron. Were I directing them, I would make the rush silently in a body, and detail men to shoot down another flare if we try to light up the lake.”
“This is not good,” whispered Luac. “Garson! Remember what I said about them taking us alive!”
“Let us go,” said Medina.
They slipped out the front door into the thick warmth of the night. Now they could hear faint splashings on the lake.
Garson felt the trail underfoot, saw the ghostly movement of Medina ahead, felt Anita’s palm moist against his own. Her silence was like a resignation, a giving up of hope.
At the lakeshore, they crouched in the bushes. The heavy moisture of the night seemed to close in on them, crawling with the movement of insects.
Antone Luac put his mouth close to Garson’s ear, whispered: “If someone other than El Grillo comes, we must try to take the canoes silently.”
Garson patted the old man’s shoulder to show that he understood.
A soft splash sounded from the lake directly ahead of them. Garson tensed. It could have been a fish, or a piece of dirt dropping from the bank. He put Anita’s hand into her father’s, slipped forward.
Directly beneath him a soft voice whispered: “Señor Garson?”
“Yes.”
Now he could make out a dim movement of white, the darker blot of a log canoe on the lake.
“It is El Grillo,” whispered the voice. “I saw your signal. Are you alone?”
“No. The Luacs and Choco are with me.”
“That was my guess. I brought two canoes.”
Medina whispered in Garson’s ear, voice so low that Garson had to strain to hear it. “I smell a trap. Be very careful!”
Garson tried to ignore the hammering of his heart. He reached back for Anita, drew her forward and passed her down to El Grillo’s canoe.
A door slammed at the hacienda. They froze to waiting stillness.
Medina hissed, “Quickly!” He helped Luac down to the spare canoe, handed him the heavy suitcase of manuscripts.
Garson slipped into the front of El Grillo’s canoe, saw Medina take the stern of the other. Side by side, they pushed into the lake, turned right along the shore.
Louder sounds came from the hacienda. A powerful flashlight speared into the lake along the dock. Someone cursed. The light was extinguished.
The two canoes skimmed into the upper curve of the lake, moving with fewer than six feet between them.
Abruptly, El Grillo whispered, “Wait!”
Paddles dug into the water. The canoes stopped, drifted.
Garson experienced a sudden sense of extreme menace, glanced back at the dim figure of El Grillo in the stern. El Grillo turned to the other canoe.
“Patron,” he said.
“What is it, Grillito?”
“I have some questions, Patron.”
“Later!” hissed Medina.
Garson stared at the other canoe coasting slowly beside them, the darker shado
ws of the swamp edge behind it.
“This is a shotgun in my lap,” said El Grillo. “It has a hair trigger. It is pointed at you.”
Anita gasped. Their canoe tipped, steadied.
“Who killed my nephew, Eduardo?” demanded El Grillo.
“Raul Separdo, you fool!” said Luac.
Garson slipped his revolver from its holster, slowly moved it around until it pointed past Anita toward El Grillo.
“And who shot the boat from under my sister?” demanded El Grillo.
“Don’t be an idiot!” said Medina. “You know it was Raul!”
“Perhaps you ordered both of them to be killed, Patron!”
“No!” said Anita.
“I have you covered with my gun, El Grillo,” said Garson. “Drop your shotgun over the side!”
“You are a child,” said El Grillo. “I could still sink the other canoe even with your bullet in me. The caribe would do the rest. The recoil of my gun would overturn this canoe unless I was here to prevent it with my paddle.”
Antone Luac said, “Stop this nonsense, Grillito!”
“I do not think it is nonsense, Patron.” Again Garson felt the canoe shift and steady under him. “I give you a choice: You two will swim ashore in the swamp. Your daughter and the foolish gringo I will take to my barrio and help to escape.”
“That’s no choice,” said Garson.
Anita said, “My father’s telling you the truth!”
“You, of course, would say so,” said El Grillo.
Garson glanced back toward the hacienda, saw lights glowing now in the windows, the movement of many people on the lakeshore. He looked across at the other canoe, thought of how quickly the caribe would swarm, attracted by Medina’s wound.
“You know Raul gave the orders around here,” said Luac. “You know we were his prisoners!”
“So you say, Patron.”
“And I have already killed Raul for you,” said Garson. “You should realize that we’re not lying. The shots that sank your sister’s boat came from the ridge beyond the hacienda. You know Raul was up there.”
“Why would Raul kill my nephew?” asked El Grillo.
Garson sensed that the man was weakening, knew that the time they were losing could be fatal. “He found out that Eduardo was responsible for my coming here. Eduardo was working with me to rescue the Luacs.”
“Then why did Raul kill my sister?”
A Game of Authors Page 12