An hour later, when Curtin had not moved for a long time, Dobbs rose and started to crawl over to him. Curtin, however, had seen Dobbs’s move and at once drew his gun and yelled across the flickering fire: “Not another foot toward me or I pull the trigger.”
Dobbs laughed. “Excellent night-watchman. I have to hand it to you. You should try a bank for a job.”
Shortly after midnight Dobbs was wakened by the braying of one of the burros that seemed to smell a tiger around the camp. Dobbs again began to crawl, but again Curtin had the gun up and shouted his warning.
Dobbs knew now that he could not win this night, and so he enjoyed a good sleep. These two little tricks he had played on Curtin were not meant to overpower him. He had used them only to keep Curtin awake, so that the next night he would be asleep the moment he lay down.
The following day Curtin ordered Dobbs to lead the train so that he could have him in sight most of the time.
Late in the afternoon camp. Evening. And then night once more.
Shortly after ten Dobbs rose, went over to where Curtin slept like a bear in winter, and relieved him of his gun.
After he got the gun, he kicked Curtin hard in the ribs. “Up with you, you lousy rat. Cards are dealt once more in another way. This time for the last time. No more shuffling.”
“What cards do you mean? Oh hell, I am so tired!” Curtin tried to rise.
“Keep seated,” Dobbs said, and sat near him. “Let’s have a last talk before I ship you to hell. Your funeral has come. Because I can’t stand living in constant fear of you. It gets on my nerves, and on my stomach too. So it must be finished up now between you and me. No other way. I won’t be your watchman as you were mine for the last twenty-four hours. No more orders from you such as I had to swallow today. Get me?”
“In other words: murder. Is that what it means?” Curtin asked drowsily. He was far too sleepy to comprehend the full meaning of what was going on about him. All he wanted was sleep.
Dobbs kicked him again to arouse him. “No, brother, no murder. Your mistake. I don’t mean murder. I only want to free myself from you and from your intention to kill me whenever I may not be looking.”
Curtin tried to shake off his drowsiness. “Oh yes, I know you mean to bump me off right here and now. But don’t think it will be that easy. The old man will look after this. Just wait and see.”
“Yeah? Will he? And who else? I’ve had the answer for that ready for a long time. You want to know what I’ll tell him? You tied me to a tree and made your get-away with all the goods, yours, mine, and the old man’s. Then he’ll be looking for you, never for me. You are the criminal, not me.” Dobbs laughed as if at the best joke he had heard.
Curtin fought hard to keep awake and get a clear understanding of what Dobbs said. He moved his shoulders jerkily to shake his sleepiness out of his system. In this he failed.
Dobbs pushed him violently in the chest and yelled: “Up now, and march where I tell you. Today I had to march to your music, now you have to march to mine. Go on!”
“Where to?” Curtin asked, his eyes now wide open. “Where to?”
“To your funeral. Or did you think I’d take you to a wild party with booze and hussies undressing to please ye? Want to say your prayers? I might let you. It won’t help you much anyhow. You are going to hell.” Dobbs paused, watching his victim’s movements.
In his mind Curtin had the sensation that he was dreaming. And it came to him that once somebody had said to him, or that he had read somewhere, that in a dream one might see revealed the true character of a person more clearly than when awake. And he decided, in what he thought to be a dream, to be more careful against Dobbs in the future and to warn Howard against Dobbs also.
While he was trying harder and harder to get out of this haze and drowsiness, Dobbs lost patience, grabbed him brutally by the collar, and yelled: “Now stand on your feet, goddamn it, and have it over!”
“Oh, why can’t you let me sit here for a while and have just another hour of sleep? I’m all in. I can’t march now. Let the poor beasts have an hour more rest too. They are all overworked, and their backs are sore.”
“Get up, damn it! You’ll have time enough to sleep in a minute. Come, come, and I don’t mean maybe!”
Curtin felt Dobbs’s harsh commands in his brain like piercing stabs, and he thought he would go mad if he could not stop his yelling. It hurt him all over. He stood up heavily and staggered off in the direction Dobbs indicated as if acting in a dream. He obeyed merely in the hope that Dobbs’s yelling would cease if he did as ordered.
Dobbs kept close behind him, pushing and kicking him forward. He drove him some hundred and fifty feet into the bush, then shot him down without saying another word.
Curtin dropped like a felled tree. Once on the ground, he made no other move.
Dobbs bent down and listened for a few seconds. When he heard no breath, no moan, no sigh, he rose with a satisfied gesture, put the gun back into its holster, and returned to the glowing fire.
There he sat for half an hour, thinking what to do next. But no thoughts would form in his mind and take definite shape. He stared into the flames, shoved more sticks in, and watched them catch fire. He thought for a moment that he saw a huge red face in the fire that ate and swallowed the flames. Then he filled his pipe and lighted it with a burning twig.
He puffed for a few moments.
“Maybe,” he was thinking, “I didn’t bump him off at all. Perhaps he only staggered and dropped to the ground without being hit. Let’s figure that out. How was it?”
He turned his face around toward the woods where Curtin lay. For a good while he stared into the darkness as though he expected Curtin to appear at any moment.
He felt that he sat uncomfortably, so he rose, walked several times around the fire, and looked again toward the dense bush which hid Curtin. He stood for a while staring into the fire, pushed with his feet more sticks into the flames, and then squatted down.
After a quarter of an hour he knocked out his pipe, rolled himself in his blanket, and stretched himself full length near the fire. He hoped to fall asleep instantly by taking a long, deep breath. But in the middle of this long breath he stopped. He was sure that he had not hit Curtin, and that Curtin would appear before him the next minute, gun in hand. This idea kept him from falling asleep.
He now became restless. Throwing off his blanket, he crawled close to the fire and scratched his arms, his legs, his back, his chest. He felt chilly. Again he turned his face toward the bush.
With a nervous gesture he pulled a thick piece of burning wood out of the fire to use as a torch. He blew it into bright flames and hurried into the bush.
Curtin was lying motionless in the same spot where Dobbs had left him. Dobbs wanted to kneel down and press his hand against the breast of his victim. But, feeling uneasy, he jerked up, and then bent down, carefully listening for any sign of breath.
There was no sigh, no moan, not even the slightest movement of the fingers. Dobbs held the burning stick close to Curtin’s face, almost scorching his nose, and moved the stick back and forth close to the eyes. There was not even a flicker of the eyelashes. The shirt on Curtin’s breast was wet with blood.
Satisfied with his investigation, Dobbs straightened up and started to return to the fire. Before he had gone ten feet he pulled out the gun, turned around, and let Curtin have another shot, to make absolutely sure. He dropped the torch, which by now had died down. For a moment he hesitated. Then he pulled out the gun once more and threw it toward where Curtin lay. “It’s his, anyhow,” Dobbs muttered, “and it looks better this way.”