Fast Buck (23 page)

‘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 bet er 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.