if.themanwiththegoldengun-第23部分

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　stretched　out　its　iron　stride　towards　nowhere　they　had　ever　heard　of　before。　The　whistle　moaned。　The　sun　beat　down。　The　dreadful　stink　of　The　Great　Morass　assailed　their　nostrils。　This　was　abroad。　This　was　bad　news；　really　bad。　The　Tour　Director　had　left　them　to　fend　for　themselves。　Two　of　them　had　been　killed。　Even　their　guns　were　gone。　The　tough　faces；　as　white　moons；　gazed　in　supplication　up　at　Bond。　Louie　Paradise's　voice　was　cracked　and　dry　with　terror。　〃A　million　bucks；　mister；　if　you　get　us　out　of　this。　Swear　on　my　mother。　A　million。〃
　The　faces　of　Sam　Binion　and　Hal　Garfinkel　lit　up。　Here　was　hope！
　〃And　a　million。〃
　〃And　another！　On　my　baby　son's　head！〃
　The　voice　of　Felix　Leiter　bellowed　angrily。　There　was　a　note　of　panic　in　it。　〃Jump。　Damn　you；　James！　Jump！〃
　James　Bond　stood　up　in　the　cabin；　not　listening　to　the　voices　supplicating　from　under　the　yellow　surrey　roof。　These　men　had　wanted　to　watch　him　being　murdered。　They　had　been　prepared　to　murder　him　themselves。　How　many　dead　men　had　each　one　of　them　got　on　his　tally　sheet？　Bond　got　down　on　the　step　of　the　cabin；　chose　his　moment；　and　threw　himself　clear　of　the　clinker　track　and　into　the　soft　embraces　of　a　stinking　mangrove　pool。
　His　explosion　into　the　mud　released　the　stench　of　hell。　Great　bubbles　of　marsh　gas　wobbled　up　to　the　surface　and　burst　glutinously。　A　bird　screeched　and　clattered　off　through　the　foliage。　James　Bond　waded　out　onto　the　edge　of　the　embankment。　Now　his　shoulder　was　really　hurting。　He　knelt　down　and　was　as　sick　as　a　cat。
　When　he　raised　his　head；　it　was　to　see　Leiter　hurl　himself　off　the　brake　van；　now　a　good　two　hundred　yards　away。　He　seemed　to　land　clumsily。　He　didn't　get　up。　And　now；　within　yards　of　the　long　iron　bridge　over　the　sluggish　river；　another　figure　leaped　from　the　train　into　a　clump　o：　mangrove。　It　was　a　tall；　chocolate…clad　figure。　There　was　no　doubt　about　it！　It　was　Scaramanga！　Bond　cursed　feebly　Why　in　hell　hadn't　Leiter　put　a　finishing　bullet　through　the　man's　head？　Now　there　was　unfinished　business。　The　cards　had　only　been　reshuffled。　The　end　game　had　still　to　be　played！
　The　screaming　progress　of　the　driverless　train　changed　to　a　roar　as　the　track　took　to　the　trestles　of　the　long　bridge。　Bond　watched　it　vaguely；　wondering　when　it　would　run　out　of　steam。　What　would　tie　three　gangsters　do　now？　Take　to　the　hills？　Get　the　train　under　control　and　go　on　to　Green　Harbour　and　try　and　take　the　Thunder　Bird　across　to　Cuba？　Immediately　the　answer　came！　Halfway　across　the　bridge；　the　engine　suddenly　reared　up　like　a　bucking　stallion。　At　the　same　time　there　came　a　crash　of　thunder　and　a　vast　sheet　of　flame；　and　the　bridge　buckled　downwards　in　the　centre　like　a　bent　leg。　Chunks　of　torn　iron　sprayed　upwards　and　sideways；　and　there　was　a　splintering　crash　as　the　main　stanchions　gave　and　slowly　bowed　down　towards　the　water。　Through　the　jagged　gap；　the　beautiful　Belle；　a　smashed　toy；　folded　upon　itself　and；　with　a　giant　splintering　of　iron　and　woodwork　and　a　volcano　of　spray　and　steam；　thundered　into　the　river。
　A　deafening　silence　fell。　Somewhere　behind　Bond；　a　wakened　tree　frog　tinkled　uncertainly。　Four　white　egrets　flew　down　and　over　the　wreck；　their　necks　outstretched　inquisitively。　In　the　distance；　black　dots　materialized　high　up　in　the　sky　and　circled　lazily　closer。　The　sixth　sense　of　the　turkey　buzzards　had　told　them　that　the　distant　explosion　was　disaster…something　that　might　yield　a　meal。　The　sun　hammered　down　on　the　silver　rails；　and　a　few　yards　away　from　where　Bond　lay；　a　group　of　yellow　butterflies　danced　in　the　shimmer。　Bond　got　slowly　to　his　feet；　and　parting　the　butterflies；　began　walking　slowly　but　purposefully　up　the　line　towards　the　bridge。　First　Felix　Leiter；　and　then　after　the　big　one　that　had　got　away。
　Leiter　lay　in　the　stinking　mud。　His　left　leg　was　at　a　hideous　angle。　Bond　went　down　to　him；　his　finger　to　his　lips。　He　knelt　beside　him　and　said　softly；　〃Nothing　much　I　can　do　for　now；　pal。　I'll　give　you　a　bullet　to　bite　on　and　get　you　into　some　shade。　There'll　be　people　ing　before　long。　Got　to　get　on　after　that　bastard。　He's　somewhere　up　there　by　the　bridge。　What　made　you　think　he　was　dead？〃
　Leiter；　groaned；　more　in　anger　with　himself　than　from　the　pain。　〃There　was　blood　all　over　the　place。〃　The　voice　was　a　halting　whisper　between　clenched　teeth。　〃His　shirt　was　soaked　in　it。　Eyes　closed。　Thought　if　he　wasn't　cold　he'd　go　with　the　others　on　the　bridge。〃　He　smiled　faintly。　〃How　did　you　dig　the　River　Kwai　stunt？　Go　off　all　right？〃
　Bond　raised　a　thumb。　〃Fourth　of　July。　The　crocs'll　be　sitting　down　to　table　right　now。　But　that　damned　dummy！　Gave　me　a　nasty　turn。　Did　you　put　her　there？〃
　〃Sure。　Sorry；　boy。　Mr。　S。　told　me　to。　Made　an　excuse　to　spike　the　bridge　this　morning。　No　idea　your　girl　friend　was　a　blonde　or　that　you'd　fall　for　the　spiel。〃
　〃Bloody　silly　of　me；　I　suppose。　Thought　he'd　got　hold　of　her　last　night。　Anyway；　e　on。　Here's　your　bullet。　Bite　the　lead。　The　story…books　say　it　helps。　This　is　going　to　hurt；　but　I　must　haul　you　under　cover　and　out　of　the　sun。〃　Bond　got　his　hands　under　Leiter's　armpits　and；　as　gently　as　he　could；　dragged　him　to　a　dry　patch　under　a　big　mangrove　bush　above　swamp　level。　The　sweat　of　pain　poured　down　Leiter's　face。　Bond　propped　him　up　against　the　roots。　Leiter　gave　a　groan　and　his　head　fell　back。　Bond　looked　thoughtfully　down　at　him。　A　faint　was　probably　the　best　thing　that　could　have　happened。　He　took　Leiter's　gun　out　of　his　waistband　and　put　it　beside　his　left；　and　only；　hand。　Bond　still　might　get　into　much　trouble。　If　he　did；　Scaramanga　would　e　after　Felix。
　Bond　crept　off　along　the　line　of　mangroves　towards　the　bridge。　For　the　time　being；　he　would　have　to　keep　more　or　less　in　the　open。　He　prayed　that；　nearer　the　river；　the　swamp　would　yield　to　drier　land　so　that　he　could　work　down　towards　the　sea　and　then　cut　back　towards　the　river　and　hope　to　pick　up　the　man's　tracks。
　It　was　one　o'clock　and　the　sun　was　high。　James　Bond　was　tired　and　very　thirsty；　and　his　shoulder　wound　throbbed　with　his　pulse。　The　wound　was　beginning　to　give　him　a　fever。　One　dreams　all　day　as　well　as　all　night；　and　now；　as　he　stalked　his　prey；　he　found；　quizzically；　that　much　of　his　mind　was　taken　up　with　visualizing　the　champagne　buffet　waiting　for　them　all；　the　living　and　the　dead；　at　Green　Island。　For　the　moment；　he　indulged　himself。　The　buffet　would　be　laid　out　under　the　trees；　as　he　saw　it；　adjoining　the　terminal　station；　which　would　probably　be　on　the　same　lines　as　Thunderbird　Halt。　There　would　be　long　trestle　tables；　spotless　tablecloths；　rows　of　glasses　and　plates　and　cutlery；　and　great　dishes　of　cold　lobster　salad；　cold　meat　cuts。　And　mounds　of　fruit…pineapple　and　such　…to　make　the　decor　look　Jamaican　and　exotic。　There　might　be　a　hot　dish；　he　thought。　Something　like　roast　stuffed　sucking…pig　with　rice　and　peas…too　hot　for　the　day；　decided　Bond；　but　a　feast　for　most　of　Green　Island　when　the　rich　〃tourists〃　had　departed。　And　there　would　be　drink！　Champagne　in　frosted　silver　coolers；　rum　punches；　Tom　Collinses；　whisky　sours；　and；　of　course；　great　beakers　of　iced　water　that　would　only　have　been　poured　when　the　train　whistled　its　approach　to　the　gay　little　station。　Bond　could　see　it　all。　Every　detail　of　it　under　the　shade　of　the　great　ficus　trees。　The　white…gloved；　uniformed　coloured　waiters　enticing　him　to　take　more　and　more；　beyond；　the　dancing　waters　of　the　harbour；　in　the　background　the　hypnotic　throb　of　the　calypso　band；　the　soft；　enticing　eyes　of　the　girls。　And；　ruling；　ordering　all；　the　tall；　fine　figure　of　the　gracious　host；　a　thin　cigar　between　his　teeth；　the　wide　white　Stetson　tilted　low　over　his　brow；　offering　Bond　just　one　more　goblet　of　iced　champagne。
　James　Bond　stumbled　over　a　mangrove　root；　threw　out　his　right　hand　for　support　from　the　bush；　missed；　tripped　again；　and　fell　heavily。　He　lay　for　a　moment　measuring　the　noise　he　must　have　made。　It　wouldn't　have　been　much。　The　inshore　wind　from　the　sea　was　feathering　the　swamp。　A　hundred　yards　away　the　river　added　its　undertone　of　sluggish　turbulence。　There　were　cricket　and　bird　noises。　Bond　got　to　his　knees　and　then　to　his　feet。　What　in　hell　had　he　been　thinking　of？　e　on；　you　bloody　fool！　There's　work　to　be　done！　He　shook　his　head　to　clear　it。　Gracious　host！　Goddamn　it！　He　was　on　his　way　to　kill　the　gracious　host！　Goblets　of　iced　champagne？　That'd　be　the　day！　He　shook　his　head　angrily。　He　took　several　very　deep　slow　breaths。　He　knew　the　symptoms。　This　was　nothing　worse　than　acute　nervous　exhaustion　with…he　gave　himself　that　amount　of　grace…a　small　fever　added。　All　he　had　to　do　was　to　keep　his　mind　and　his　eyes　in　focus。　For　God's　sake；　no　more　daydreaming！　With　a　new；　sharpened　resolve　he　kicked　the　mirages　out　of　his　mind　and　looked　to　his　geography。
　There　were　perhaps　a　hundred　yards　to　go　to　the　bridge。　On　Bond's　left；　the　mangroves　were　sparser　and　the　black　mud　was　dry　and　cracked。　But　there　were　still　soft　patches。　Bond　put　up　the　collar　of　his　coat　to　hide　the　white　shirt。　He　covered　another　twenty　yards　beside　the　rail　and　then　struck　off　left　into　the　mangroves。　He　found　that　if　he　kept　close　to　the　roots　of　the　mangroves　the　going　wasn't　too　bad。　At　least　there　were　no　dry　twigs　or　leaves　to　crack　and　rustle。　He　tried　to　keep　as　nearly　as　possible　parallel　with　the　river；　but　thick　patches　of　bushes　made　him　make　small　detours　and　he　had　to　estimate　his　direction　by　the　dryness　of　the　mud　and　the　slight　rise　of　the　land　towards　the　riverbank。　His　ears　weie　pricked　like　an　animal's　for　the　smallest　sound。　His　eyes　strained　into　the　greenery　ahead。　Now　the　mud　was　pitted　with　burrows　of　land　crabs；　and　there　were　occasional　remnants　of　their　shells；　victims　of　big　birds　or　mongoose。　For　the　first　time；　mosquitoes　and　sandflies　began　to　attack　him。　Fearing　the　noise；　he　dared　only　to　dab　at　them　softly　with　his　handkerchief　that　was　soon　soaked　with　the　blood　they　had　sucked　from　him　and　wringing　with　the　white　man's　sweat　that　attracted　them。
　Bond　estimated　that　he　had　penetrated　two　hundred　yards　into　the　swamp　when　he　heard　the　single；　controlled　cough。
　
　15
　Crab…meat
　
　The　cough　sounded　about　twenty　yards　away；　towards　the　river。　Bond　dropped　to　one　knee；　his　senses　questing　like　the　antennae　of　an