if.themanwiththegoldengun-第21部分

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　but；　largely　thanks　to　the　Americans　leaning　on　Cuba　the　way　they　do；　he's　kept　the　country　together。　If　the　Americans　once　let　up　on　their　propaganda　and　needling　and　so　forth；　perhaps　even　make　a　friendly　gesture　or　two；　all　the　steam'll　go　out　of　the　little　man。　I　don't　often　see　him。　He　leaves　me　alone。　Likes　to　keep　his　nose　clean；　I　guess。　But　I　get　all　the　cooperation　I　need　from　the　D。S。S。　Okay？　Well　let's　go　see　if　the　folks　are　ready　to　move。　It's　eleven…thirty　and　the　Belle　of　Bloody　Bay　is　due　to　be　on　her　way　at　twelve。　Guess　it's　going　to　be　quite　a　fun　day。　Pity　our　chiefs　aren't　going　to　be　along　to　see　the　limey　eye　get　his　chips。〃
　〃Ha！〃　said　Mr。　Hendriks　nonmittally。　James　Bond　moved　away　from　the　door。　He　heard　Scaramanga's　passkey　in　the　lock。　He　looked　up　and　yawned。　Scaramanga　and　Mr。　Hendriks　looked　down　at　him。　Their　expressions　were　vaguely　interested　and　reflective。　It　was　as　if　he　were　a　bit　of　steak　and　they　were　wondering　whether　to　have　it　done　rare　or　medium　rare。
　
　13
　Hear　the　Train　Blow！
　
　At　twelve　o'clock　they　all　assembled　in　the　lobby。　Scaramanga　had　added　a　broad…brimmed　white　Stetson　to　his　immaculate　tropical　attire。　He　looked　like　the　smartest　plantation　owner　in　the　South。　Mr。　Hendriks　wore　his　usual　stuffy　suit；　now　topped　with　a　grey　Homburg。　Bond　thought　that　he　should　have　grey　suede　gloves　and　an　umbrella。　The　four　hoods　were　wearing　calypso　shirts　outside　their　slacks。　Bond　was　pleased。　If　they　were　carrying　guns　in　their　waistbands；　the　shirts　would　hinder　the　draw。　Cars　were　drawn　up　outside；　with　Scaramanga's　Thunderbird　in　the　lead。　Scaramanga　walked　up　to　the　desk。　Nick　Nicholson　was　standing　washing　his　hands　in　invisible　soap　and　looking　helpful。　〃All　set？　Everything　loaded　on　the　train？　Green　Island　been　told？　Okay；　then。　Where's　that　sidekick　of　yours；　that　man　Travis？　Haven't　seen　him　around　today。〃
　Nick　Nicholson　looked　serious。　〃He　got　an　abscess　ia　his　tooth；　sir。　Real　bad。　Had　to　send　him　in　to　Sav'　La　Mar　to　have　it　out。　He'll　be　okay　by　this　afternoon。〃
　〃Too　bad。　Dock　him　half　a　day's　pay。　No　room　for　sleepers　on　this　outfit。　We're　shorthanded　as　it　is。　Should　have　had　his　choppers　attended　to　before　he　took　the　job　on。　Okay？〃
　〃Very　good；　Mr。　Scaramanga。　I'll　tell　him。〃
　Scaramanga　turned　to　the　waiting　group。　〃Okay；　fellows；　here's　the　picture。　We　drive　a　mile　down　the　road　to　the　station。　We　get　aboard　this　little　train。　Quite　an　outfit；　that。　Fellow　by　the　name　of　Lucius　Beebe　had　it　copied　for　the　Thunderbird　pany　from　the　engine　and　rolling　stock　on　the　little　old　Denver；　South　Park　and　Pacific　line。　Okay。　So　we　steam　along　this　old　cane…field　line　about　twenty　miles　to　Green　Island　Harbour。　Plenty　birds；　bush　rats；　crocs　in　the　rivers。　Maybe　we　get　a　little　hunting。　Have　some　fun　with　the　hardware。　All　you　guys　got　your　guns　with　you？　Fine；　fine。　Champagne　lunch　at　Green　Island　and　the　girls　and　the　music'll　be　there　to　keep　us　happy。　After　lunch　we　get　aboard　the　Thunder　Bird　big　Chris…craft；　and　take　a　cruise　along　to　Lucea；　that's　a　little　township　up　the　coast；　and　see　if　we　can　catch　our　dinner。　Those　that　don't　want　to　fish　can　play　stud。　Right？　Then　back　here　for　drinks。　Okay？　Everyone　satisfied？　Any　suggestions？　Then　let's　go。〃
　Bond　was　told　to　get　in　the　back　of　the　car。　They　set　off。　Once　again　that　offered　neck！　Crazy　not　to　take　him　now！　But　it　was　open　country　with　no　cover　and　there　were　five　guns　riding　behind。　The　odds　simply　weren't　good　enough。　What　was　the　plan　for　his　removal？　During　the　〃hunting〃　presumably。　James　Bond　smiled　grimly　to　himself。　He　was　feeling　happy。　He　wouldn't　have　been　able　to　explain　the　emotion。　It　was　a　feeling　of　being　keyed　up；　wound　taut。　It　was　the　moment；　after　twenty　passes；　when　you　got　a　hand　you　could　bet　on…not　necessarily　win；　but　bet　on。　He　had　been　after　this　man　for　over　six　weeks。　Today；　this　morning　perhaps；　was　to　e　the　payoff　he　had　been　ordered　to　bring　about。　It　was　win　or　lose。　The　odds？　Foreknowledge　was　playing　for　him。　He　was　more　heavily　forearmed　than　the　enemy　knew。　But　the　enemy　had　the　big　battalions　on　their　side。　There　were　more　of　them。　And；　taking　only　Scaramanga；　perhaps　more　talent。　Weapons？　Again　leaving　out　the　others；　Scaramanga　had　the　advantage。　The　long…barrelled　Colt　。45　would　be　a　fraction　slower　on　the　draw；　but　its　length　of　barrel　would　give　it　more　accuracy　than　the　Walther　automatic。　Rate　of　fire？　The　Walther　should　have　the　edge…and　the　first　empty　chamber　of　Scaramanga's　gun；　if　it　hadn't　been　discovered；　would　be　an　additional　bonus。　The　steady　hand？　The　cool　brain？　The　sharpness　of　the　lust　to　kill？　How　did　they　weigh　up？　Probably　nothing　to　choose　on　the　first　two；。　Bond　might　be　a　shade　trigger…happy…of　necessity。　That　he　must　watch。　He　must　damp　down　the　fire　in　his　belly。　Get　ice…cold。　In　the　lust　to　kill；　perhaps　he　was　the　strongest。　Of　course。　He　was　fighting　for　his　life。　The　other　man　was　just　amusing　himself…providing　sport　for　his　friends；　displaying　his　potency；　showing　off。　That　was　good！　That　might　be　decisive！　Bond　said　to　himself　that　he　must　increase　the　other　man's　unawareness；　his　casual　certitude；　his　lack　of　caution。　He　must　be　the　P。　G。　Wodehouse　Englishman；　the　limey　of　the　cartoons。　He　must　play　easy　to　take。　The　adrenalin　coursed　into　James　Bond's　bloodstream。　His　pulse　rate　began　to　run　a　fraction　high。　He　felt　it　on　his　wrist。　He　breathed　deeply　and　slowly　to　bring　it　down。　He　found　that　he　was　sitting　forward；　tensed。　He　sat　back　and　tried　to　relax。　All　of　his　body　relaxed　except　his　right　hand。　This　was　in　the　control　of　someone　else。　Resting　on　his　right　thigh；　it　still　twitched　slightly　from　time　to　time　like　the　paw　of　a　sleeping　dog　chasing　rabbits。
　He　put　it　into　his　coat　pocket　and　watched　a　turkey　buzzard　a　thousand　feet　up；　circling。　He　put　himself　into　the　mind　of　the　John　Crow；　watching　out　for　a　squashed　toad　or　a　dead　bush　rat。　The　circling　buzzard　had　found　its　offal。　It　came　lower　and　lower。　Bond　wished　it　bon　appetit。　The　predator　in　him　wished　the　scavenger　a　good　meal。　He　smiled　at　the　parison　between　them。　They　were　both　following　a　scent。　The　main　difference　was　that　the　John　Crow　was　a　protected　bird。　No　one　would　shoot　back　at　it　when　it　made　its　final　dive。　Amused　by　his　thoughts；　Bond's　right　hand　came　out　of　his　pocket　and　lit　a　cigarette　for　him；　quietly　and　obediently。　It　had　stopped　going　off　chasing　rabbits　on　its　own。
　The　station　was　a　brilliant　mockup　from　the　Colorado　narrow…gauge　era…a　low　building　in　faded　clapboard　ornamented　with　gingerbread　along　its　eaves。　Its　name；　Thunderbird　Halt；　was　in　old…style　ornamental　type；　heavily　seriffed。　Advertisements　proclaimed　
　
　CHEW　ROSELEAF
　FINE　　　CUT　　　WARRANTED　　　
　FINEST　　　VIRGINIA　　　LEAF；　　　
　TRAINS　STOP　FOR　ALL　MEALS；　
　NO　CHECKS　ACCEPTED。　
　
　The　engine；　gleaming　in　black　and　yellow　varnish　and　polished　brass；　was　a　gem。　It　stood；　panting　quietly　in　the　sunshine；　a　wisp　of　black　smoke　curling　up　from　the　tall　stack　behind　the　big　brass　headlight。　The　engine's　name；　The　Belle；　was　on　a　proud　brass　plate　on　the　gleaming　black　barrel；　and　its　number；　No。　1；　on　a　similar　plate　below　the　headlight。　There　was　one　carriage；　an　open　affair　with　padded　foam…rubber　seats　and　a　surrey　roof　of　daffodil…yellow　fringed　canvas　to　keep　off　the　sun；　and　then　the　brake　van；　also　in　black　and　yellow；　with　a　resplendent　gilt…armed　chair　behind　the　conventional　wheel　of　the　brake。　It　was　a　wonderful　toy；　even　down　to　the　old…fashioned　whistle　which　now　gave　a　sharp　admonitory　blast。
　Scaramanga　was　in　ebullient　form。　〃Hear　the　train　blow；　folks！　All　aboard！〃　There　was　an　anticlimax。　To　Bond's　dismay　he　took　out　his　golden　pistol；　pointed　it　at　the　sky；　and　pressed　the　trigger。　He　hesitated　only　momentarily　and　fired　again。　The　deep　boom　echoed　back　from　the　wall　of　the　station；　and　the　stationmaster；　resplendent　in　old…fashioned　uniform；　looked　nervous。　He　pocketed　the　big　silver　turnip　watch　he　had　been　holding　and　stood　back　obsequiously；　the　green　flag　now　drooping　at　his　side。　Scaramanga　checked　his　gun。　He　looked　thoughtfully　at　Bond　and　said；　〃All　right；　my　friend。　Now　then；　you　get　up　front　with　the　driver。〃
　Bond　smiled　happily。　〃Thanks。　I've　always　wanted　to　do　that　since　I　was　a　child。　What　fun！〃
　〃You　said　it；〃　said　Scaramanga。　He　turned　to　the　others。　〃And　you；　Mr。　Hendriks。　In　the　first　seat　behind　the　coal…tender；　please。　Then　Sam　and　Leroy。　Then　Hal　and　Louie。　I'll　be　up　back　in　the　brake　van。　Good　place　to　watch　out　for　game。　Okay？〃
　Everybody　took　their　seats。　The　stationmaster　had　recovered　his　nerve　and　went　through　his　ploy　with　the　watch　and　the　flag。　The　engine　gave　a　triumphant　hoot　and　with　a　series　of　diminishing　puffs　got　under　way；　and　they　bowled　off　along　the　three…foot　gauge　line　that　disappeared；　as　straight　as　an　arrow；　into　a　dancing　shimmer　of　silver。
　Bond　read　the　speed　gauge。　It　said　twenty。　For　the　first　tune　he　paid　attention　to　the　driver。　He　was　a　villainous…looking　Rastafari　in　dirty　khaki　overalls　with　a　sweat　rag　round　his　forehead。　A　cigarette　drooped　from　between　the　thin　moustache　and　the　straggling　beard。　He　smelled　quite　horrible。　Bond　said；　〃My　name's　Mark　Hazard。　What's　yours？〃
　〃Rass；　man！　Ah　doan　talk　wid　buckra。〃
　The　expression　〃rass〃　is　Jamaican　for　〃shove　it。〃　〃Buckra〃　is　a　tough　colloquialism　for　〃white　man。〃
　Bond　said　equably；　〃I　thought　part　of　your　religion　was　to　love　thy　neighbour。〃
　The　Rasta　gave　the　whistle　lanyard　a　long　pull。　When　the　shriek　had　died　away；　he　simply　said　〃Sheeit；〃　kicked　the　furnace　door　open；　and　began　shovelling　coal。
　Bond　looked　surreptitiously　round　the　cabin。　Yes。　There　it　was！　The　long　Jamaican　cutlass；　this　one　filed　to　an　inch　blade　with　a　deadly　point。　It　was　on　a　rack　by　the　man's　hand。　Was　this　the　way　he　was　supposed　to　go？　Bond　doubted　it。　Scaramanga　would　do　the　deed　in　a　suitably　dramatic　fashion　and　one　that　could　give　him　an　alibi。　Second　executioner　would　be　Hendriks。　Bond　looked　back　over　the　low　coal…tender。　Hendriks'　eyes；　bland　and　indifferent；　met　his。　Bond　shouted　above　the　iron　clang　of　the　engine；　〃Great　fun；　what？〃　Hendriks'　eyes　looked　away　and　back　again。　Bond　stooped　so　that　he　could　see　under　the　surrey　r