by Alan Hyder
‘Well, how goes it, Bingen?’ I asked, cheerily. Too cheerily, I’m afraid, for he scowled at me in return. ‘Still boozing?’
‘Ain’t I entitled to booze?’ he asked pugnaciously. ‘You’re not the boss here, anyway. What you got to grouse about? You got what you set out to get. Didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t set out to get anything. And, look here, Bingen, you’ve had a good long run now. Why don’t you pack it up?’
‘Pack what up?’
‘D’you have to be told that? It’s about time you were told. Janet’s held my hand all this time, hoping you would sober up and be your old self again. There doesn’t seem to be much hope of that. And I’m telling you, Bingen, I’ve had about all I’m going to stand from you. Knock off the booze. Pal in again like a good fellow. . . . Or . . . get out!’
‘Huh! Get out! Sounds nice from you. That. Get out!’ Bingen sneered and drank heavily from his bottle. ‘Old pal of mine you were!’
‘I was. And still am. Providing that you give me a chance.’
‘Give you a chance. Huh! Hell of a lot of chances you want. Make your own chances, an’ stop other blokes at that.’
‘Oh! What’s the use of trying to give in to you,’ I said disgustedly. ‘There’s nothing to it, except that you’ve either got to stop the booze, help us in the valley . . . or get out. That’s final.’
‘Fine, old pal. Been pals for years, soldiered together, drunk together, gone without drink together, fed together, gone without food together. Gone through this,’ Bingen waved his hand about the valley, ‘together. And, now, after you’ve got the girl, it’s get out for me.’
‘You asked for it.’
‘Asked for it! What about you? Haven’t you asked for it? What would you have done if I’d got her? Got out? Like hell you would. You’d have stayed snooping around, like I’m going to. Like I’m going to, until I get her. Even if it’s after you’ve done with her.’
Bingen’s voice rose, and I placed the bucket I was using on the ground. Janet came nervously behind me. I looked at Bingen thoughtfully. I could not do anything to him in that state. As near to delirium tremens as it was possible for a man to get without actually seeing things. His hands shook, and the brandy he drank slobbered as much down his chin as into his mouth. What was there for me to do? Short of roping him in one of the caves, forcibly stopping his drink, there was nothing I could do. And that, if I knew Bingen, would make matters far worse. All I could do was to see that he did not molest Janet, and leave him alone, ignore him as much as lay in my power.
He glared at me blearily, sulkily, taking no notice of Janet peering from my side, and seemed to muse over some project he wanted to put before me. He drank again before speaking.
‘Garry, we’ve been pals for years, haven’t we?’ Bingen said thickly.
He waited for my nod of agreement, hiccoughed, and continued slowly:
‘Well, here we are, two old pals. What we want to break up now for? Just over a girl. Girls ain’t nothing, really. Nothing to bust up two old pals. Garry, you’ve got Janet all right so far. But you won’t always have her. Not with me knocking around, you won’t. Because I’m sticking! Sticking, I tell you. ’Spite of all your telling me to get out.’
‘What’s the good of listening to all this?’ I cut in wearily. ‘Come on, Janet. Let’s leave him to it.’
‘Listen to what I got to say first,’ Bingen answered. He stumbled to his feet, steadied, and then spoke determinedly. ‘Here’s what I’ve got to say. We agreed we’re two pals. We used to share. What d’you say to being pukka pals again, an’ sharing now. You a week, me a week. That’d solve everything.’
I didn’t answer him, standing steadily. I felt Janet plucking nervously at my arm.
‘Bingen, there is nothing for me to say. You’re drunk,’ I said at last. ‘So drunk, you’re a damned maniac. There isn’t a chance for me to tell you what I think about you. You wouldn’t understand. And I think, when you’re sober, you won’t even remember what you’ve been saying. I don’t know if you’re capable of understanding this, but here it is. Hang around, just as long as you control yourself, behave yourself. Take Janet away, if you can take her fairly. Understand? She’d have to come to you freely. And if I know anything about her, she’ll never do that.’
‘Oh, Garry,’ Janet cried. ‘You both know I wouldn’t. Don’t let’s speak about it any more. Let’s go away.’
‘But you understand? I’m warning you, Bingen.’
‘Well, that’s that,’ Bingen shouted. ‘Get out, you said. Well, I’ll get out. But mark this! I’ll bust up this little tea-party before I go.’ He swore softly to himself as though I did not exist, and then spoke to me again. ‘I helped to save the girl, and she’s as much mine as she is yours. Half the stuff we’ve got here belongs to me. You’ve let me have that, and if I get out I’m busting all up if I don’t take it with me. Savvy!’
Bingen wandered back into the cottage, the door slammed behind him, and Janet twisted her fingers together nervously.
‘Oh, why can’t he be sensible,’ she cried. ‘Thinking things like that, let alone saying them. Just as if I wasn’t here.’
‘You mustn’t take any notice of him. Try and forget it.’
‘Yes. That’s best. He is bound to get over it before long, and be his own self again. Then, everything will be all right.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ I told her thoughtfully. ‘Janet. It’s no good beating about the bush. We’re going to have trouble with Bingen. He’s got some insane idea in his head, and if I know him at all, he’ll try to carry it out. Whatever it is.’
‘What can he do?’
‘I don’t know. Not much, because as soon as he starts anything, I’ll flatten him out and tie him down. He’s nearly in the rats.’
‘Rats?’ Janet queried.
‘Yes. Delirium tremens. Delicious tremblings,’ I laughed. ‘You’d think what we’ve been through would send anyone daffy, without them having to get that way on brandy.’
‘Oh! But you couldn’t do that. Not without hurting him. You mustn’t hurt him. Not with just us three here alone.’
‘Hum! As if I would. For your sake, I’ll try and knock him out without hurting him.’
And then, in the cottage, something started.
A bottle flew through the window and a crash followed, as though Bingen had flung the table to the floor. Furniture was hurled about. The door flew open as something bumped against it.
‘Garry! You’d better go in and see what he is doing.’
‘Not much use. I can’t do anything.’
‘But you ought to go in. He might hurt himself. Go in and try to make him stop. Try not to fight or anything, for my sake.’
‘I think it’s foolish to interfere with him. I know Bingen, and if I go in it’ll mean a scrap.’
‘Oh, I think you ought to go in. He might be doing anything. Go and see, Garry.’
‘I’ll just keep an eye on him through the window.’
Walking to the window, I saw what Bingen was up to, and the sight jumped me to the door. Furniture was being piled in a heap, and he was pouring brandy about. Even as I reached the door he was striking a match. Too late to stop the match, I flung him to the floor, stamped furiously at the flames, pulled a chair that was well alight, and heaved it through the door.
‘You daft, drunken lunatic!’ I raged, stamping and beating on the spirit burning bluely as it ran over the floor. ‘For God’s sake, haven’t we had enough fires without you setting the infernal place alight. Get out of the damned way.’
Bingen pulled himself to his feet, staggered across the room, trying foolishly to kick the burning stuff together, so that I had to swing a vicious blow at him. He lay where he had fallen, eying me balefully with his hand cuddling his chin.
‘Now, you swine. This is the finish. You’ve had all the rope you’re getting. You’ve hung yourself. Either you’ll give your word that this is the finish—I’ll be damned silly enough to
take it—or you’ll get out of the valley. Which is it going to be? Quick.’
Janet had come running, and stayed outside to smother the flaming chair. She came into the cottage now, and together we watched Bingen on the floor, staring at us sullenly, a trickle of spittle and blood dribbling down his chin, crouching like a cornered rat.
‘Oh, Bingen. What’s the matter? Why don’t you be nice? There’s only the three of us. We ought to all be friends. Let me help you up.’
‘Get to hell away from me,’ Bingen answered, and thrust Janet vindictively aside, so that she almost fell. He cursed at her. ‘Get back to your owner. Get away from me.’
Bingen rose slowly to his feet, his red eyes glaring.
‘This is what you want!’ He slobbered the words out viciously.
‘Don’t be a fool, man. Get out of the way, Janet!’ Springing forward I swept her out of the way, hurled myself on Bingen. ‘You damn fool!’
He was fumbling at the revolver in his waistband, struggling with it desperately, and even as I reached him the muzzle came free, wavered in my direction. He pulled the trigger, and the shot burned along my ribs and I hit him. Like a sodden sack he dropped, and I swayed beside him, kicking the gun away over the floor.
‘Garry! Garry!’ screamed Janet, and ran to me, pulled my shirt from my side. She gasped thankfully. ‘Oh, it’s only a scratch. The beast! The beast! It’s bleeding terribly! Does it hurt? Come, and we’ll get it bound up. No. Leave him there. He won’t hurt. And I was worrying about you hurting him! The beast!’
‘Oh, I’m not worrying about him,’ I said. ‘I only just want to take that gun away. He’s done enough damage with it. I’m not really hurt, I suppose. But it smarts.’
From the cave, where we had stored medical supplies, Janet brought gauze, bandage, iodine, and with my wound bound we returned, to find Bingen lifting himself dazedly from the floor. He watched our entrance, not recollecting what had occurred. I went over to kick him as he rose.
‘Well? You’ve tried to do it, Bingen. Tried to bust up your half of everything. Up you get. The cave for you tonight. You’re going to be barricaded in, and then in the morning . . . out of the valley!’
‘Aw! I’m sorry, Garry,’ Bingen pleaded, and I saw that the blow on his chin had sobered him. ‘I didn’t realize what I was doing. You won’t have any more trouble from me. I’m through, Garry.’
‘Is that honest Injun? Is that true, Bingen?’
‘Of course it is. I’m sorry.’
‘Come on, then. Let me help you up. Have one last drink to send you to sleep, and then, in the morning, we’ll forget everything and start all over again. Will you?’
‘I will. ’Course I will.’
‘I’m sorry I walloped you. Feel better? Janet, things are all right again now. Bingen and I have apologized to each other. He’s going to have this last drink and then chuck it. I’ll have one with him too, I think. Will you?’
‘I don’t know. I think he ought to be thoroughly ashamed of himself, and I don’t think he ought to be forgiven so easily. After nearly having murdered you.’
‘Oh, let’s forget all that, Janet,’ I said.
‘Will you really be nice again? Will you, Bingen? Please! Then we’ll all have just one drink and be friends. You have been silly. We three here together . . . and bad friends. It’s ridiculous.’
‘That’s that, then,’ I said, and poured out three drinks. Bingen scowled when he saw I offered him but half a glass. ‘Not enough? Well, there’s some more in the other room. But, go careful.’
‘Oh. D’you want to be always telling me?’ Bingen grumbled, and went from the room carrying his glass in a shaking hand.
‘Garry. He’s not a bit sorry,’ Janet whispered carefully, and repeated emphatically, when I motioned that he was. ‘He’s not. He’s only fooling. Don’t give him a chance. He’s not sorry.’
‘SSSH! He’ll hear you. He’s sorry, all right. That sock under the chin I gave him would make anyone sorry. Don’t you worry.’
Bingen came back, and we sat yarning with an undercurrent of anxiety for some time until I yawned. The wound in my side began to throb and burn. I felt dizzy, tired.
‘What about bed? I’m tired. You ready, Bingen?’
‘Yes. I’m ready.’
Silently he got into bed, without undressing, pulled the clothes about him, without answering my good night. I went out to Janet.
‘Garry. I want you to sleep in the cave tonight and let me have my old place. Fix the curtain like it was, and then I’ll feel safe.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about now.’
‘I’m frightened of Bingen.’
‘Really? I’m a bit worried about him, too, but there’s nothing to be frightened of tonight. If you really want me to, I’ll sleep in the front of your cave.’
‘Please. I’m frightened. He wasn’t a bit sorry. I knew he was lying, even while he was speaking. Garry, I feel about him like I did about Rhodes.’
‘That’s not fair,’ I reassured her. ‘Bingen’s certainly a nasty bit of work when he’s drunk, but he’s nothing like Dusty Rhodes. You’d be safe with him, even when he’s like he is now.’
And while I said it I knew that I was fabricating. Bingen was not to be trusted with Janet! I knew that.
‘Anyway, I’ll be all right with you here,’ she smiled. ‘How’s your side feel now?’
‘Feels a bit rotten. I think it’s made me feel faint, too.’ I laughed at her alarm. ‘Nothing really. I’ll be all right in the morning.’
With my bed fixed across the entrance, I lay awake for a long time that night. Bingen, why the devil couldn’t you lose like a white man? Why couldn’t we three live contentedly together? And then I wondered again, how I would have taken it, had Janet chosen Bingen. Perhaps not so badly, for I had no expectations. Bingen had. If it had been me . . . But I would never know that.
The bullet wound troubled me, so that I twisted, turning from side to side, finding a position in which to lay at ease, and when finally I did fall asleep, slept heavily, exhausted by loss of blood.
Late in the morning I woke. I was feverishly thirsty and felt weak when I rose. The wound in my side must have been worse than I imagined. It burned, and the whole of my side ached, burning and throbbing. I lay down again, calling for Janet. For an hour I waited, and then, with no response to my calls, went out in the yard to search the cottage and valley for Janet and Bingen.
They were gone.
Heating water, I took off the bandage. It had stuck to my side; the wound had bled badly during the night. I bathed and re-covered it, wondering the while, but not seriously, where Janet and Bingen had gone. Making tea, I sat in the sun, languidly watching the hills, and noon drew into afternoon, and dusk came gradually with no sign of either Janet or Bingen. Where could they have gone? Anxiously, I climbed the hill, shouting vainlessly, having no thought then but what Janet had gone with Bingen, uncoerced, of her own free will. With evening purpling the valley, I wondered. A presentiment that Bingen was responsible intensified.
I got myself a meal as this feeling grew, thinking that, should it be so, I would want all the strength I possessed. What could I do? Leaving the valley meant risking having Janet return while I was away. I had no idea where to search. There was nothing I could do, except wait, and, as I waited, conviction that Bingen was responsible for Janet’s absence forced itself on me. She would not have left me alone. What had he done? How had he coaxed her away? That he dragged her away forcibly was unthinkable. He could not have done it. Janet would have fought like a wild-cat. Wakened me. Pain in my side increased, so that I was forced to heat water again, bathing the wound for relief. Returning, I sat waiting by the cave entrance, and now a rifle lay ready to my hand.
The moon rose over the hill, a crescent of silver in rosy glow from the sinister comet. The chill of evening seeped beneath the feverish heat of my skin. I shivered.
And then, against the glow in the night sky, I saw Janet poised
upon the hilltop. She called and scrambled down in a slide of falling pebbles.
‘Garry! Garry!’
Meeting her at the bottom of the hill, we walked through the valley together. She trembled beneath my arm, swaying as though faint. In the cottage, a lighted lamp let me see that she was deathly white. A great purple bruise circled with scarlet was vivid on her forehad under tangled damp curls. I lifted her to a chair, kneeling at her feet.
‘Bingen! He did that?’ My fingers caressed the bruise on her forehead. ‘Janet.’
‘Garry! Oh, Garry!’ Her control broke, and she was sobbing in my arms.
I let her cry, holding her tightly, wondering dully what had occurred. It was a long time before she recovered sufficiently for me to leave her, while I boiled tea, lacing it with brandy.
She brushed curls from her forehead listlessly, and it was curious how her eyes evaded mine.
‘Are you better now?’ I asked. ‘D’you think you could tell me?’
‘Oh, Garry. I can’t tell you.’
‘But you must! Everything’s all right now. You’re back with me. But you must tell me. I want to know what happened.’
‘I can’t tell you. I can’t.’ Her voice rose shrilly, hysterically. ‘Everything’s not all right.’
‘Then I’ll have to go after Bingen and ask him. Tell me what happened. Where have you been?’
‘Where I’ve been! Oh, Garry. You think that I . . .?’
‘D’you mean he took you away by force?’ I asked incredulously.
‘You never thought I went away with him while you were ill. Garry, how is your wound?’
‘It’s nothing. Tell me.’
‘You were asleep. I bent over to see, pulled the clothes over you again,’ Janet whispered huskily. ‘You looked so hot, I worried about you. There was perspiration on your forehead. I tiptoed out of the cave to get Bingen. I felt sure that he would be nice, if you were ill. I went into the cottage because I couldn’t see him anywhere, put the kettle on, and then, when I came out . . .’
