Wyndham's Pal

by Harold Bindloss

"Then we'll send them up the creek and put them in the store. You can let them remain or take them, as you like. We have paid our debt."

"I doubt," said the other grimly and with an ironical salutation went off.

Marston felt relieved when he had gone, and soon afterwards he and Wyndham walked through the silent village to the creek. There were no lights, the quietness and gloom were disturbing and Marston noted that the negroes had not left the boat. He thought they were glad when Wyndham told them to shove off.

"We have made our first move. I expect you don't see the next," he said.

"Not yet," Wyndham agreed. "It depends on our antagonist. I think he'll understand our challenge, but it's going to be an intricate game."

Marston lighted his pipe and tried to think about something else. He hated intrigue and liked to see his path. It was a relief when Columbine's lights began to twinkle in the mist, and he went to the cabin when they got on board. The little room was very hot and no air seemed to pass the gauze beneath the skylight, but the glow of the brass lamp was comforting. He owned that he had begun to fear the dark.

Next day they unloaded cargo and when they stopped in the evening Marston took his gun and went off in the dinghy. The tide was near its lowest ebb, the uncovered mud banks gave off a sickly smell, and for a time Marston pulled languidly down the channel. Then he saw a strip of firmer bank, where a little path came out. A creek flowed through the wet forest not far off, and he thought he might find his way across; the ducks fed at twilight in the pools in the swamps. Pulling up the dinghy, he looked at his watch. The tide had not turned, there was a moon, and it would not be very dark. One got cramped on board the yacht and he wanted exercise.

The path was faint and the ground wet, but it bore his foot. Here and there a huge cottonwood towered above the jungle, which was choked by fallen branches and fresh growth that sprang from the tangled ruin of the old. Knotted creepers strangled slender trees and pulled each other down to the corruption that covered the boggy soil. Green things rotted as they grew; parasitic plants drained the sap from drooping boughs. One sensed the pitiless savageness of the struggle for life, in which the beaten were devoured by the survivors before they were dead.

Dark water that smelt horribly oozed through the jungle, the mosquitoes had come out, and Marston pulled down the veil fastened to his double felt hat. The forest daunted him, there was something about it that one felt in a nightmare, but he was tired of loafing, and pushed on. If he could reach the creek, he might get a shot. By and by, however, the path bent back towards the lagoon, and he stopped at the edge of a channel that crossed his path. It was not wide, but looked deep and the banks were very soft. The creek he meant to reach was farther on.

Marston considered. The channel marked the edge of the forest, which it followed for some distance and then, turning, ran obliquely to the lagoon. There was a muddy flat on the other side where he thought ducks might feed, and he did not want to turn back. All the same, he did not like the bridge that spanned the channel. Somebody had thrown a small trunk across and stayed it, as a suspension-bridge is stayed, by creepers partly pulled down from neighboring trees. The log looked rotten and the rounded top was wet with slime. The water obviously covered it when the tide was full. Marston, however, was sure footed and steadying himself by the bent creepers, went cautiously across.