That night the native girl, with her lucky-bag and her rags of faithfully guarded print, crouching in darkness, saw a great light. A lantern was held over her head, a hand hauled her mightily from her hiding place. She was dazed as by the coming of a god: she suffered a resurrection: she shook, and was still. But the god’s voice was kind.
“I like you,” said Buck Brennan, that uncommon thoughtfulness still upon him. “You’re my kind; and you’d be right pretty for a brown one if you was washed. I like you for sticking to her; the place where she was. . . I can’t leave you here, now them poor little fools is gone. . . Them poor little damn fools. You better come with me. I’ll be straight with you . . . . take care of you . . . . hand you over to the first missionary we meet, and may the Lord have mercy on my soul.” Buck was a bit confused; but neither this closing solemnity, nor the parson’s collar, nor the parson’s canvas shoes seemed quite enough . . . . Buck swallowed hard, suddenly dry of throat.
“Bonnie West,” he said, distinctly. “Bonnie West. . . . There, will that do you?”
Yes, it was the talisman of trust. The dark little wild thing rose and went with him, holding on to the tail of the parson’s coat.
“And after all,” said Grier, “how little Buck knew, how little he was able to tell! And yet enough—plenty. If the girl told him more, he kept it to himself; and I don’t know if he or anyone else but Franca knows the close of the story of the poor little good little Wests and their mission. The secure and comfortable organization that sent them out doesn’t know: I’ve asked it. They just went out: were swallowed up in the great dark land that was so unlike her winter in Ceylon, and frightened her sometimes. And Franca. . . . Why didn’t Buck shoot Franca and have it done with? I don’t pretend to know that either. It scarcely needs putting into words, the certainty that Franca killed, wiped out, abolished the Wests and their little mission because he didn’t want ’em to get that rubber: and then couldn’t find it himself. . . . Any good man would have shot the beast and thanked God for the chance. But Buck wasn’t good—only in spots. He had an erratic sense of humour, and he’d been in that house some time—with Bonnie West. The method he chose involved more risks to himself. But think of the devilish far-reaching completeness of it!
“The story of his escape with that girl from the jungles of the Horado would make a saga. But he can’t tell it. The rains came on, and it took them a month to find the river; Franca fighting on behind them—in case they were making for the blessed rubber! They stole a dugout somewhere and launched it for the sea; followed a long fever-dream of bars, and beasts, swimming trees, sunken islands, reversing currents, falls, impossible portages; and all the time the knowledge that Franca was dogging them behind or waiting in an agony for them in front. Afraid to let them out of his sight. . . . It probably brought Buck through; as I say, he had a peculiar sense of humour; and then he had the plucky girl. . . . I don’t know when the brass ring made its appearance, or what ingenious ceremony it celebrated. Once, I believe, she got fever and gave out; and Buck would tie her in the fork of a tree, drag the dugout overland, launch it, go back for her, and carry her to it. No wonder his feet were bad. Think of it! And all the weary way, Franca followed.
“I tell you, that villain began to pay then, as he’d never paid in his life, and it was only the beginning. He hated Buck, as, I suppose, few ever come to be hated; and he was mad with anxiety over the personal safety of the only living being who knew where to find that rubber. What a vengeance, eh? I tell you, I saw him crawling on the jetty, before I had heard anything about him, when Buck was very bad aboard the Dorotea, and he was the hot ghost of a man. Of a man? Of a devil. He looked like a devil dying of hunger, and that’s just what he was.
“He said to me, panting as he spoke, ‘Is it true that you have the Señor Brennan aboard there?’ ‘Yes,’ I says, ‘And is it true that the fever is heavy on him, and is he talking much in it?’ ‘No,’ I says, ‘he’s no fever, and does nothing but snore, and the fo’c’sle’s complaining. . . . And who may you be, so anxious to hear what he says in his sleep?’ But he crawled away with a sort of groan. Yes, Buck’s way was the best; Franca had begun to break then, torn as he must have been between his hate and his greed; but I doubt if my—well, my sense of humour!—would have been strong enough to let me take it! . . . All for the knowledge of the direction that unlucky little saint of a missionary had taken when he found the rubber trees, and that knowledge in Buck’s head, and nowhere else in the world.
“Yes, it was masterly. How he must have thought, ‘Some day, he must betray it. Some day, he must go back to his rubber, some day, he must show—me—where it is. . .’ But Buck hasn’t!
“Queer, isn’t it? I told you he’d a fat sense of humour. He enjoys himself immensely over it. He starts suddenly on wild expeditions with a great air of secrecy over them; Franca drops everything, beats up a party too, and trails him. When he’s been led far enough, Buck turns round and comes back. It’s ruining Franca. He’s obsessed. He can do nothing but follow, follow, follow. . . . But the worry, and the travelling, and the hate on an empty stomach! He’s taken to drinking now, Buck tells me, and he can’t last long. What worries me is that he’ll realize the game’s up, and stick that itching knife into Buck at last.