The Vivero Letter

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 other hand, and I didn't bother to slow at the corners but just carried straight on.

When I arrived at the clearing the chicleros had chopped out for their little camp I stopped and felt the embers of the fire. It never occurred to me to be cautious in my approach; I just marched into me clearing, found no one mere, and automatically bent to feel the heat of the embers. They were still warm and, as I turned them over with the point of the machete, there was a glow of red. It was evident that tire chicleros were not long gone.

But which way? Up-trail or down-trail? I didn't particularly care and set off again at the same pace, striding out and trying to make good time. And I did make good time. I had examined the map and tried to trace the course of my wanderings during the days I had been harried. It was something of an impossibility, but as near as I could reckon I thought I was within three miles of Uaxuanoc, and I was damned well going to keep to that trail until I got there.

Fools may rush in where angels fear to tread, but there is also something called Fool's Luck. All the time those bastards had been chasing me and I'd been scared out of my wits, I had run into them, twist and turn as I would. Now, when I didn't give a damn, it was I who saw them first. Rather, I heard them nattering away in Spanish as they came up the trail, so I just stepped aside into the forest and let them pass.

There were four of them, all armed and all pretty villainous-looking, unshaven and dressed in the universal dirty whites of the chicleros. As they passed I heard a reference to Senor Gatt and there was a burst of laughter. Then they were gone rip the trail and I stepped out of cover. If they'd had their wits about them they could easily have spotted me because I hadn't gone far into cover, but they didn't even turn their heads as they went by. I'd reached the stage when I didn't give a damn.

But I was heartened as I went on. It was unlikely that any more of them would be coming up the trail and I lengthened my stride to move faster so that I'd outpace any possible chicleros coming up behind. It was hot and strenuous work and the precious water I had drunk filmed my body in the form of sweat, but I drove myself on and on without relenting and kept up a killing pace for the next two hours.