Fast Buck

Baird didn’t wait for the police to take action. He opened up with the Thompson. He saw splinters fly from the deck, shifted his aim a little higher. The two men at the machine-gun were blasted off the deck into the river.

Answering fire came from the bridge. Baird again shifted his aim, but the three men had ducked down below the armour of the bridge, and the launch went on at full speed down stream.

Baird stood up and watched it. As soon as it was out of range, it turned. The searchlight had gone out, smashed by Baird’s fire. He guessed they’d man the machine-gun again and sweep the bank on the return trip.

He took cover behind the tree and waited. His turn would come when the launch went about.

The launch came on. They had got the machine-gun on the bridge now. When it was almost abreast of Baird’s boat the gun opened up. A hail of bullets churned up the bank, smashed through the trees, sending splinters of wood flying like shrapnel and hammered the boat to pieces.

Baird lay flat behind the tree, waiting for his chance to return the murderous fire.

Rico could hear the slugs zipping through the bush, and he squirmed down farther into the soft ground. Then the launch passed by him, and he came under the direct fire of the gun. A deluge of lead threw mud and water over him. The noise drove him crazy with fear. Not knowing what he was doing, he sprang up wildly and began to run into the bush. He had only taken a few steps when something bit into his leg, bringing him face down in the swamp.

Baird had seen Rico panic, and he cursed softly. No one could stand up in that hail of lead and survive. He might have guessed Rico would have done that, the useless punk! Just when he was wanted he had to get himself killed.

Baird swung up the Thompson. The launch was turning, and for the moment the machine-gun was out of action. He sprayed the bridge with a long burst. There came a smashing of glass and the launch suddenly wheeled sharply round. Baird caught sight of a man wrestling with the wheel, and he fired again.

The steersman threw up his hands and disappeared. The launch headed straight for the bank close to where Baird was standing, and drove its prow into the soft mud. The launch swung half round, its engines still running, its propellers churning up the water.

From his hiding-place Baird could look into the bridge. Two of the guards lay face down, while the remaining guard sat propped up against the wall, his head down on his chest.

Baird didn’t hesitate. He dropped the Thompson, snatched out his Colt and jumped from the bank to the deck.

He entered the bridge house cautiously. The guard against the wall raised his head. Blood ran down the side of his mouth. He stared at Baird, then made an effort to lift the gun that lay across his knees.

Baird shot him through the head before he could get the gun up.

As the guard slumped over, Baird ran over to the controls, throttled back the engine, put it in reverse, then opened the throttle slowly. The launch pulled out of the soft mud into deeper water. Baird half closed the throttle, and brought the launch alongside the bank.

Every movement he had to make was by sheer effort of will. His head was expanding and contracting, and it was as much as he could do to stand upright. He drove himself ruthlessly. Here was a chance of escape. If he could get Hater on board, most of his troubles would be over.

He slid overboard into the warm, muddy water, climbed up the bank and hunted around for Hater. He found him still lying motionless where he had left him. He made sure he was still alive, then began to drag him through the bush to the bank.

It took him a long time to get Hater on board. He was so exhausted by the time he had rolled Hater on to the deck that he flopped down in the shallow water, holding his head between his hands, only half conscious.

He sat there for some minutes. Conscious he was wasting time, he finally made an effort and stood up. He got back on the bank and began to search for the suitcase and the Winchester. He found them with difficulty, and as he picked them up he heard Rico calling.

He stood looking in the direction of the shouts, surprised that Rico was still alive. Leaving the case and the gun, he staggered into the bush in search of Rico.

By now the moon had swung up into the sky. Baird came upon Rico lying on his back, his white, sweating face agonised with pain.

‘I thought you’d forgotten me,’ Rico gasped, and began to sob with relief. ‘I thought you were going to leave me here to die.’

‘Get up, you rat!’ Baird snarled. ‘What do you think you’re doing, lying there?’

Rico groaned.

‘It’s my leg, it’s broken. It’s bleeding. Help me, Baird.’

Baird stood over him. He could scarcely keep his feet.

‘You asked for it,’ he said, his breath coming in great laboured gasps. ‘Why didn’t you keep down?’

‘Help me,’ Rico said, reaching out a shaking hand. ‘Don’t leave me here to die.’