Jean was lost, now Billy was out in the jungle, searching for Cannon - possibly dead by Cannon's hand - and Cannon had slain Small. Wilson and Cannon, they had initiated all that had gone wrong.
Small. God bless him. Without his intervention, he and Billy would still be hostage. Dead perhaps. Cannon was certainly inclined to murder, and Wilson was only marginally better.
This marginalia was all that kept Hanson from putting a bullet in Wilson's heart and telling God he died.
So the night had crawled on, and out in the darkness, from time to time, Hanson heard movement, a few rifle shots. Even though Billy had the rifle, Hanson feared for him. He watched for Cannon to return, but Cannon did not appear. Once a leopard had come very near them.
Hanson could see its yellow eyes glowing in the dark like demon lamps. The eyes had observed them for a long time, and Hanson was so unnerved by their steady gaze, he considered putting a bullet between them, but could not bring himself to kill the animal, not if that was its greatest threat- the demon-yellow stare. He could more easily have killed Cannon and Wilson than an animal he did not intend to eat.
All night Hanson feared sleep would creep up on him and lay him down, but it was a useless worry. He was so charged with fear and hatred and disappointment he did not feel sleepy at all.
He thought of Jean often. He had little hope she was alive. If she had been captured, not killed right away, then her captors had a purpose for her, and Hanson found to his dismay that he could imagine a multitude of purposes, none of them comforting.
He should never have let her come. It was his fault. All of this. Small's death. Hunt's probable death. The bearers, dead by storm, or captured. Billy out there in the jungle, perhaps dead by Cannon's hand.
And Tarzan. Small said that Tarzan was alive, but perhaps he had said that to unnerve Cannon. To make him think things had not entirely gone his way.
It had been a mistake. Tarzan, dead or alive, was a sore spot with Cannon, and the possibility that he might be alive had driven Cannon to rage. A rage that resulted in Small having his throat cut.
Thinking about it now, Hanson's finger sweated on the trigger of the rifle. He wanted Wilson to pay. He wanted Cannon to pay. And Wilson, well, he was here now. It would be so easy. One small squeeze. One shot. And it was all over. The man was out of the gene pool.
It was tempting.
Hanson looked at poor Small. The early morning light was growing and he could see the savage wound in Small's throat. The wound was covered in flies, each jockeying for position. Ants were crawling on Small's face, onto his open eyes. He remembered Small's last words and suddenly he understood them.
He had not wanted to die, or be left here in the jungle, in his underwear. In one sense, it was a silly thing to be concerned about, but in another it was a last desire for dignity.
Hanson stood up and lorded over Wilson, the rifle pointed at his head. Wilson glared at him.
"All right," Wilson said. "Go on. You been wantin' to all night. Go on. Quit thinkin' about it and do it."
Hanson was quiet for a long moment. "That's too easy," he finally said. "It's what I want, but it's too easy. I'm going to cut you loose, and I want you to take off your pants for Small to wear."
Wilson studied Hanson carefully. "Say what?"
"You heard me," Hanson said. "I'm going to cut you loose. Remove your pants. If you try and escape, I will shoot you full of holes. I would enjoy that. Understand?"
"The man's dead. What's he need pants for?"
"Because he didn't want to die like that, and I don't want him to lie like that."
"He's already covered in ants. It ain't a thing to him." Hanson's voice was as sharp as a razor. "It matters to me. Roll on your belly."
Wilson rolled on his belly. Hanson used the knife he had taken from the pack and cut Wilson's hands and feet loose. He stood back and pointed the rifle. "Take them off, or don't," Hanson said. "One way or another, I'll get them onto Small."
"I got an extra in that pack you was carrying," Wilson said. "Let him have a pair of them. I think maybe they was his or that other fella's. anyway. What was it? Hunt?"
"No," Hanson said. "You take those off. Take off the shirt, too."
Wilson removed his pants and shirt, tossed them to Hanson.
"Good," Hanson said. "Now sit down."
Wilson, wearing only his underwear and shoes, did as he was instructed. Hanson gathered up the cut portions of rope. There was still enough there to retie Wilson. He tossed Wilson a long piece of rope. "Tie up your feet. I'll check to see you did it right. You didn't, I won't be happy."
"Well, if there's one thing I want," Wilson said between clenched teeth, "it's to make you happy. I live for it, the making you happy part."
"Good," Hanson said. "That's real good."
Wilson tied his feet together. Hanson told him to roll on his belly and he did. Hanson carefully tied Wilson's hands behind his back, then lifted Wilson's feet and tied them to his hands.
Hanson brushed the flies and ants off of Small very carefully, pulled the pants on the stiff body, and closed the eyes with considerable effort. He carried the body to a low tree and placed Small in it, having to bend his legs like pipe cleaners so that he would rest there.
Hanson stood back and looked at his work. Flies and ants would still get to Small, but this way it looked as if he were merely resting in a tree. It was kind of silly, but somehow Hanson felt better about it. It was certainly better than leaving Small's body on the ground and undressed. There just wasn't any dignity in that. None at all.
Hanson broke open one of the packs, found some canned meat, opened it, and ate it with his fingers. Wilson smelled it, said, "Am I gonna get any of that?"
"I'll think about it," Hanson said.
Before the day broke and Hanson dressed Small in Wilson's shirt and pants and put him in a tree, a unique scenario had unfolded in the jungle. Billy, weak from his wounds, had begun to wear down. He had followed Cannon at first by sound, then by instinct. But by midnight he had become exhausted. The wounds, lack of food, it was all coming home to roost.
Billy squatted down with his rifle and tried to listen for Cannon bursting wildly through brush and weeds, but Cannon had finally gotten wise and had either started to steal through the foliage or had found a place to hole up. Billy was considering his next plan when he heard something, then realized he had heard it too late.
Cannon leapt from the brush and came down on top of him brandishing the knife, but the impact of the attack was such that it sent them both rolling up against a tree. This hurt Billy, but Cannon took some of the impact, so the stronger man lost his grip, and Billy, scuttling on all fours, minus his rifle, darted into the shadowy brush just as Cannon recovered the rifle and popped a shot at Billy.
The shot singed the air above Billy's head, but Billy stayed low and kept scuttling. He dove into the brush an Cannon, hot for blood, came charging after him.
Lying low, Billy watched through the foliage as Cannon's feet thumped past him. Billy was angry with himself. He had let his wounds distract him, and instead of being the pursuer, he had become the prey. He had fallen into that trap like an idiot. He realized now that Cannon had been making noise all along, leading him into an ambush, and by the time he realized the big man's game plan, it was too late.
No, thought Billy, I am being too generous with myself. I did not know his game plan, or that he had one until after he played it out. I am an idiot. He not only outsmarted me, he has both the rifle and the knife now.
Feeling weak and stupid, rubbing a chicken-egg-sized knot on his head, Billy sat still and waited. The night crawled on, and after a while he heard Cannon pounding back his way. "Come out, you little punk. Come out and get your medicine. You're gonna get it anyhow, so come and get it. I got the cure for what ails you, boy. Come on out."