“I want that shotgun. I'll tell you how to cross over.”
There was no immediate answer. Gary lay back and waited, counting on the greedy desire in the man. The silence of the night had fallen over the river and the surrounding fields, while somewhere far off a nightbird was crying. Gary absently wondered if it were a bird, or a prowler's signal. The two scavengers had crowded in close, listening to their heated conversation.
“How?” Harry said grudgingly.
“The shotgun,” the corporal calmly reminded him.
“Now wouldn't I be a blamed fool to give it to you now? You'd grab the mask and beat it.”
“I want the gun — it's a good one. I can go back to that store and get me another mask tomorrow.”
Harry shook his head, not realizing the gesture was lost in the darkness. “Nothing doing, I don't trust you that much.” He clutched the weapon tightly. “And I don't give it up until you show me.”
“Then let your partner hold it,” Gary said savagely. “Dammit, Harry, we can't sit here and argue all night. Let him hold it until you come back, if what I say is wrong. But if you do get across — if you're not back here by daylight, the gun is mine. That's my deal, take it or leave it.”
Harry accepted it after the proper examination for trickery and loopholes. There was little else he could do for reaching the other side of the river was the one and only ambition left in his life, his constant and only goal other than food to stay alive each day. What happened to his partners and the gun once he reached the other side was of no concern to him — so to hell with them.
“Okay,” he growled, “spit it out.”