Gary grinned at his predicament.
Harry hesitated for long seconds puzzling over the situation and finally made up his mind who to trust. He crooked a finger at the silent partner standing on the bank.
“C'mere.”
The other came down to him.
“Take the gun" — Harry handed it over—”and keep it on that smart-aleck kid. If he makes one move, plug him.”
The partner nervously pointed the barrel at Gary.
Both hands free, Harry quickly pulled the mask over his face and wriggled into the short and tightened shoulder straps. He buckled the belt about his waist and held himself still a moment to check his breathing and make certain the thing was working. Then, regaining his earlier air of bravado, he stoutly clapped the shoulder of the man holding the shotgun and turned to plunge into the water.
Sully took a few steps after him. “Harry…”
Harry met his second problem squarely and lost.
He swam for a few yards beneath the water and paused for breath, unused to the exertion. Harry promptly bobbed to the surface and discovered himself slowly floating downstream. He faced himself upstream, unconsciously took a deep breath and went down again. This time he gained a few more yards before coming up, but this time he came up voluntarily because he couldn't see where he was going while underwater. As his head broke the surface he found himself staring at the three waiting on the bank. Burning with an impotent rage, he ceased swimming and promptly sank.
Gary laughed aloud. “Hell of a poor swimmer, that Harry!”
Sully glanced at him in nervous fear while the other toyed uncertainly with the gun.
Harry finally bobbed up once more, downstream. He thrashed his way back to the bank and climbed out, shaking mud and water off the shoes he had neglected to take off. With savage force he ripped off the mask and let it dangle about his neck, to discover Gary laughing at him.
“What's so damned funny, wise guy?”
“You are,” Gary said. “Might as well give it back to me — you'll never get across.”
“I'll be damned if I will! Maybe you think you could get across that damned river.”
“Yes — I could; I can swim it easy enough.”
“Well, you're not going to get a chance, not with this outfit, you ain't.” He walked closer and seized the shotgun again. “Come on, let's move away from here. Somebody's apt to find us.”
Gary turned about with relief and headed for the comparative security of the field; he had been afraid the old fool would never realize the danger they were in. They had been exposed on the river far too long for comfort, a tempting target to a curious sentry across the stream or a predatory prowler on this side. He knew the raging Harry could not be relied upon to think fast enough or shoot straight enough in the event they were surprised; if the man were startled by something or someone in the night he was likely to blast away in any direction, heedless of the safety of his companions. The four men moved back through the soggy ground.
That shotgun was a powerful and deadly weapon, whatever make it was. He wanted it. Stripped of his own arms, Gary felt a deep sense of unease and emptiness based on the sure knowledge that the three scavengers would not protect him in case of trouble. He had to get that shotgun.
Upon reaching the field again he sank quickly to the ground and burrowed in, making his body as small a silhouette as possible. Harry followed clumsily and flopped down near him, muttering. Gary knew without looking that the man was fussing over the gear, forgetting to keep him covered with the gun. He clasped his hands behind his head and regarded the darkened sky overhead with a bland smile.
If Harry didn't discover the proper way to cross the river soon, he'd have to do a little prodding.
Twice more that September night Harry attempted to reach the Minnesota shore. On the second try he was spectacularly successful.
The first renewed attempt was a similar failure to that earlier fiasco and the man only floundered wildly in the water, unable to remain beneath the surface and never sure of his bearings. Too, he was making a racket that was undoubtedly heard across the river, as well as along the banks of the contaminated side. Gary remained alert for any other movement in the night, wanting no unexpected interruption to his plans. The always silent third member of the band was holding the gun again but Gary was sure he could reach it in time if a prowler should discover their hiding place in the field. Both scavengers were staring anxiously into the night after their would-be-escaping leader.
After the better part of an hour Harry came stumbling back, searching for them in the darkness. Wet, shaking with exertion and angry frustration, he fell to the ground and cursed the swimming gear, cursed his own physical shortcomings and the vagaries of the current which defeated him. Remembering Gary, he turned on him a florid flow of profanity, blaming him for first dangling a paradise before his eyes and then denying him the ability to reach it. Ignoring the manner in which he had come by the gear, he blamed Gary for deliberately setting a trap, and then taunting him with the unreachable bait. It was all his fault, everything was his fault.
Gary waited until the man had exhausted his foul vocabulary and his breath.
“Still want to make a swap?” he asked quietly.
“Shut your damned mouth.”
“Harry — listen to me. You've been running around like a fool all day; you've made enough noise to arouse every soldier on the other side and attract the attention of every thief on this side. If you weren't such a stupid jerk you'd have realized hours ago that I can't swim that current underwater any more than you can. Now think about that for a minute.”
Harry was incapable of that much thought. “So what?” he asked instantly, weakly defiant.
“So I know how to get across without bucking the river and without making noise. If you had waited and watched me this afternoon, instead of jumping me, you'd have seen how I was going to do it. Now — do you want to swap?”
“Swap for what?” Harry muttered, half convinced.
“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.