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ACE IN THE HOLE283Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡToz1rvS60B
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Meanwhile, in his tent, Bronco had looked again at the telegram. The telegram from the Korean emissary seemed to countermand what had been sent before. That was typical of all Orientals. They were maddening, inscrutable people. A THOUSAND THANKS, the telegram said. MR. KYUNG HAD DISPATCHED A SPECIAL REPRESENTATIVE TO RECEIVE THE PRISONER AND TO BESTOW UPON YOU THE GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE GOVERNMENT. Now what the hell did that mean? Did they or did they not intend to take Robinson back and if so precisely what in hell did they have in mind?"
It didn't bear contemplation. He tossed the telegram on his desk with a gesture of absolute disgust and stood, and began to pace the tent.
Eucher's death had shaken him more than he had thought possible. If it hadn't been for Yoshihiro held hostage, Bronco would have been dispatched in the same way that Eucher was. Gun or not. He did not doubt this man's capacity. He shuddered, thinking of this, went to a place behind a flap of canvas and, taking out a bottle of whiskey, drank from it quickly in a series of gasping swallows, not even measuring the impact that the whiskey would have upon his stomach until it was down and he could begin to feel its touches of humor spread underneath, envelop him like a blanket.
It was just too much. It was too much for him. He would be glad to have this job done and to get out of here because frankly, he couldn't take it anymore. He had no use for the Japanese and more and more he had the conviction, dealing with them, that there was something about these people that was simply beyond him. Cunning, of course, and their ancient duplicity....but he couldn't deal with them any longer. Deliver this Robinson to the authorities, get the ten thousand dollars, finish the job, and be done, he thought. If he were lucky, he would never get into anything like this again. This made him feel a little better and as a pact with himself, Bronco had another drink of whiskey.
As he set the bottle down, he heard a gunshot from the direction of the prisoners' tent.
Robinson froze in momentary panic, the burble of reassurance with which he had paced this evening running out of him as if a hole had been cut in his body, and then, instantly, he was at his pistol hanging from a belt to the side, had that in his hand, was moving toward the tent flap. It's impossible, he thought. There's no way that the man could have escaped. The guards had been ordered to shoot the priest and the old man if either moved.....but why had there been only one shot then?
Bronco held his pistol tightly, went to the tent flap, pushed it aside to look out into the darkness---and a form hurtled toward him.
Bronco reacted instinctively. The pistol was firing, firing away before he even needed to think and something was screaming near him, then the form had fallen out of his line of sight and was somewhere on the ground in front of him. With the falling of the form came the silence.
Robinson? It couldn't be Robinson. It'd be too easy if it were; it'd end all of his problems. Suddenly Bronco realized that five thousand as against ten thousand dollars meant nothing; he should've killed the Korean when he had the chance. He had been a fool. Greed had operated once more but his peace of mind surely was worth five thousand dollars. The Korean priest was intolerably dangerous. He should have killed him. If he had the chance again, he would shoot him down just as he had sent those men into the blasting area---because it had to be done. He was not a man without compassion. The necessary hurt. It was necessary to blast that tunnel quickly and it was necessary to kill Robinson.
Enough of that!
He walked towards the figure that he had killed, extended a foot, delicately poked, and prodded at it the way one might turn over a beast shot. The night lay heavy on him but there was enough light in the camp to see as he turned the figure over whom he'd killed. He peered at the face with shock.
It wasn't Robinson.
It was Kazuo, the informer.
Kazuo, whom he'd sequestered in a special tent near the guard compound, had been walking through the night and had been killed by him. Lower back wound, spinal break, Bronco thought absently, looking at the Japanese. That'll always get them. He tried to keep his thoughts objective. He began to tremble. Looking at the informer, standing there with the pistol, Bronco felt less like a murderer than a victim. He had done everything possible to protect the man. He had put the man in special quarters; no one but Eucher had known what Kazuo had told them last night. How had he been sent to his death?
Bronco turned and ran towards the custody tent. There was a streak of light showing through the tent flap, and he noticed; something wrong with that. A few steps further and he realized why it'd looked wrong----the lantern light was falling through a jagged tear in the tent. Then he could see all at a glance---the broken post where Robinson had been chained, Kazuo's body, the three guards lying unconscious. As other guards came running up to the tent Bronco called, "Find him!"
They knew who he meant, and his tone told them it was no time for questions. They split up.
Bronco looked down at his dead hostage, turned him over to glance at the bullet wound in his back, and then walked over to one of the guards. Kneeling beside him, he slapped the man's cheeks two times until his eyes opened.
"Okay," Bronco said. "Out with it."283Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcUxFdppdmj
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Later, lying on his cot in his tent, Bronco awaited word. He'd heard no further shots, but in a way that didn't shock him. "Looked for, they cannot be seen," he muttered. Not that he believed that mystical garbage. But the man's strength was unearthly, and he was a lot smarter than he'd given himself credit for being, Bronco admitted to himself. Well, Robinson was probably miles away by now.
No good. He couldn't convince himself of it.
When he heard something outside his tent, he was sure it was Robinson. He thought about Kazuo, lying there where he'd shot him. He had an overpowering urge to get up, look around, and make sure that Robinson wasn't standing outside the tent. For a moment he fought it, lying there rigidly, his gun near his head, and then he gave in.
Cautiously, gun in hand, he stepped out of his tent.
The night was silent all around him as he listened for a long moment. Slowly, with his senses sharpened, he walked towards the custody tent. Although he moved carefully, his footsteps sounded noisy to him, and he stepped back to look around.
Something came out of the shadows towards him.
It was a laborer carrying a gun. Bronco half-raised his pistol but, standing beside him, suddenly, there was another coolie, then as he wheeled, three, four, five more came out of the darkness, each of them holding a gun. They held the guns on Bronco in a horrible silence, looking at him as if from a great distance.
Somehow the bastards had gotten into the arms cache.
He didn't know what to do. It was the first time that something like this had ever happened to him. He could bring one down, maybe three or two of the laborers if he wished bu there was no way, assuming that the guns were operative, in which it'd be possible for him to kill them all. They looked like figures in a wax museum. Bronco felt his lips begin to tremble. In another moment he would start to gibber like an ape. He couldn't believe it. He just couldn't believe that something like this was happening to him.
Another figure walked from behind the trees. Bronco started. It was Robinson. It was Robinson, exactly as he'd last seen him, some apparition again who didn't lie bound and hostaged in a tent but instead walked with easy, fluid grace towards Bronco, hands empty. Bronco raised his gun, pointing it towards the apparition, and then dropped it. He couldn't fire at Robinson. They'd kill him before the body hit the ground.
All right. If nothing else he was a practical man. He wasn't a fool; he could understand something when he saw it. There was only one way to get out of this alive, if he would get out of it at all, and Bronco took it. Butt first, he offered the gun to Robinson. As he took it, Robinson looked at Bronco with that strange, blank expression that Bronco had seen so many times before, and out of his eyes came a projection of such power and pain that Bronco, looking at the man in this way for the first time, stumbled, almost lost his balance. It was true. All that was rumored about the Hwrangdo priests of Korea must be true, then. For the man who looked at him now did indeed seem to have the power to walk through walls.
Another laborer came into view. Robinson did not know where this one had been until he saw the telegram flapping from the man's hand....and then all became clear.
With a feeling of absolute vulnerability, Bronco realized that he was lost. It had all been for nothing. Even Eucher's death was excessive if this was the case. He had staked everything on the issue of his competence, on his ability to bull things through at whatever cost....and if that failed him then all was lost. Bronco thought about Thatcher for the first time since the man's death. Maybe he'd been right. Maybe the assumptions on which, all or nothing, he had built his life were wrong.
The laborer handed the telegram to Robinson. "This was in his tent," the laborer said.
Robinson took the telegram and read it. He took a long time to do so but it was not, Bronco could see, for a lack of comprehension of English. He looked up at Bronco and said, "Return to your tent."
The laborers gave Robinson puzzled looks, and one of them brandished his gun. Robinson turned in their direction. "You would kill him?" he said. "That would make you no better than he is."
But Bronco was already walking. If this crazy Oriental was going to give him another chance at life he would not allow him another thought. He walked past Robinson unmolested and went towards his tent. His knees were trembling but he thought that he would be able to keep them under control. I'm alive! he thought, I'm alive! And with life, there was the chance of his ace in the hole......the representative of Mr.Kyung, the emissary.283Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgaf2cW1JFu
