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.