The Vivero Letter

I looked up and down the trail, wondering if anyone had heard the shot, then said, 'Let's get off this trail -- quickly!' I grabbed the machete which Harry had dropped and slashed at the bush by the side of the trail, penetrating about ten yards into the forest, then I helped Harry, and he collapsed helplessly on to the ground.

His mouth was opening and closing and I bent down to hear him whisper, 'My chest -- it hurts like hell I'

Take it easy,' I said. 'Have some water.' I made him as comfortable as I could, then went back to the trail. The chiclero was indubitably dead and was lying in a puddle of rapidly clotting blood. I put my hand under his armpits and hauled the body off the trail and into cover, then went back and tried to disguise the evidence of death, scuffing up earth to cover the blood. Then I picked up the rifle and went back to Harry.

He was sitting with his back against a tree and his arms still hugged about his chest. He lifted lacklustre eyes, and said, 'I think this is it.'

I hunkered down next to him. 'What's wrong?'

That fall -- it's finished me. You were right; I think my ribs have got into my lungs.' A trickle of blood oozed from his mouth.

I said, 'For Christ's sake! Why didn't you tell me? I thought you were just bleeding from the mouth.'

He gave a twisted grin. 'Would it have made any difference?'

Probably it wouldn't have made any difference. Even if I had known about it I couldn't see that we could have done any different than we had. But Harry must have been in considerable pain marching through the forest with punctured lungs.

His breath came with a curious spasmodic whistling sound. 'I don't think I can make it to Uaxuanoc,' he whispered. 'You get out of here.'

'Wait!' I said, and went back to the body of the dead man. He was carrying a big water-bottle that held about a half-gallon, arid he had a knapsack. I searched the pockets and came up with matches, cigarettes, a wicked-looking switchblade knife and a few other odds and ends. The knapsack contained a few items of clothing, not very clean, three tins of bully beef, a round, flat loaf about the size of a dinner plate, and a hunk of dried beef, I took all this sniff back to Harry. 'We can eat now,' I said He shook his head slowly. 'I'm not hungry. Get out of here, will you? While you still have time.'

'Don't be a damned fool,' I said. 'I'm not going to leave you here.'

His head dropped on one side. 'Please yourself,' he said, and coughed convulsively, his face screwed up in agony.

It was then I realized he was dying. The flesh on his face had fallen in so that his head looked like a skull and, as he coughed, blood spurted from his mouth and stained the leaves at his side. I couldn't just walk away and leave him. no matter what the danger from the chicleros, so I stayed at his side and tried to encourage him.

He would take no food or water and, for a time, he was delirious; but he rallied after about an hour and could speak rationally. He said. 'You ever been in Tucson, Mr, Wheale?'

'No, I haven't.' I said. 'And my name is Jemmy.'

'Are you likely to be in Tucson?'

I said, 'Yes. Harry; I'll be in Tucson.'

'See my sister,' he said. 'Tell her why I'm not going back.'

'I'll do that,' I said gently.

'Never had a wife,' he said. 'Nor girl-friends -- not seriously. Moved around too much, I guess. But me and my sister were real close.'

'I'll go and see her,' I said. 'I'll tell her all about it.'

He nodded and closed his eyes, saying no more. After half an hour he had a coughing fit and a great gout of red blood poured from his mouth.

Ten minutes later he died.

Ten

They chased me like hounds chase the fox. I've never been much in favour of blood sports and this experience reinforced my distaste because it gave me a very good idea of what it's like to be on the wrong end of a hunt. I also had the disadvantage of not knowing the country, while the hounds were hunting on their home ground. It was a nerve-racking and sweaty business.

It began not long after Harry died. I couldn't do much about Harry although I didn't like just leaving him there for the forest scavengers. I began to dig a grave, using Harry's machete, but I came across rock close to the surface and had to stop In the end I laid him out with his arms folded across his chest and said goodbye.

That was a mistake, of course, and so was the attempt at a grave. If I had left Harry as he was when he died, just a tumbled heap at the foot of a tree, then I might have got clean away. The body of the dead chiclero was found, and so was Harry's body, a little further in the forest; if I had left him alone then Gatt's men might not even have suspected that I existed. But dead men don't attempt to dig their own graves, nor do they compose themselves for their end in such a neat manner, and the hunt was on.