The Survivor by Edwin g Wood. As the two men lay on the sand
that night, it seemed to John Binns that he could reach up over his
head and pluck a handful of the coldly glittering stars. So near did they
seem they were bright to night. They tortured him, seeming to mock his
suffering. There was one star that fascinated him. It was larger and brighter
than the rest, and he lay staring at it until his eyes smarted.
He licked his dry lips, running his tongue between them, and cringing at
the file like rasp. He stole a look at his companion lying near,
and slyly drew the canteen with its fast diminishing precious contents to his mouth.
He had no thought for his weaker companion, Dick Webb. When Dick could
not suppress a groan, Bin's close set eyes narrowed and gleamed evilly, and
he muttered imprecations against the frailer man. He was angry with Webb. The
two had had an argument concerning the world old law of the survival of the
fittest. He had contended that the law among men had held the same as
it did among the brute creation. The strong survived, the weak perished.
Didn't all the big animals prey on the smaller ones. Of course, Webb
pointed out that brains were far superior to brute strength, and that brute strength
frequently defeated its own purpose. His argument had been convincing enough to arouse the
ire of Bins. He knew that Webb was his superior so far as intellect
went, and it angered him. Well, he'd show the weakling that there
was another way of taking care of yourself besides using physical strength. There was
a fox like cunning that didn't require the brains that Web seemed to think he
had either. If it were not for the puny Web, he Bins,
the stronger of the two, and therefore the more fit to live, might
have a chance, a fighting chance of getting out of the desert alive.
They were lost. What food they had carried with them was gone, and
the water was running low. Water was the worst problem. The moisture of
the body dries up rapidly in these hot sands. Bin's tongue was rough,
his throat began to echo, his lips to crack. The two men could
not last much longer, one of them simply must be left there which one
not beIN. He loved life too well to think of sacrificing it for a
weakling, whom, in his opinion, the world would never miss, and
Bins himself was normally a strong man. Bin's fear of death was a morbid
one. It was this fear that had led him, from the beginning of
their mishap, to take craftily more than his portion of water and give Dick
less. It was all Dick's fault, anyway, for had he not gotten
Bins into this fool's chase after gold. He cursed himself for having been so
silly as to be led away from his former life, where he had lived
fairly well on what he picked up by his wits. The man at his
side stirred, mumbled something in a half delirious way, then asked for water.
beIN sat up, his little eyes that were set almost into the sides
of his nose, glared at Webb. You've had your share, he snarled
water. The weaker man croaked, insistently, holding out a tin cup.
Bins would not permit the others to drink from the canteen, the risk of
his getting more than his share was too great. Bins had carried through the
bluff of economizing by pointing out to Dick that it was better to measure his
allowance. He was scrupulous in doling out his own portion when Dick was looking.
Then later he always tapped the canteen on the sly. He carried the
canteen containing what was left of the water himself under an apparently generous impulse.
He was the stronger of the two, therefore the one to shoulder the most
of the burden. Dick again held out his cup in a trembling hand and
demanded a drink. Hell snarled Bins. He moved his hand impatiently toward the
canteen, paused, why should he waste the precious life sustaining fluid on this
half dead man. He couldn't last, that was evident. Every drop that
Dick drank now lessened beIN's chance of getting out. It was a sinful waste
to pour water down the throat of a man so nearly gone. It would
be much better to let the poor devil die and be done with it.
It would be really a mercy to put him out of his misery. Of
course, it would nobody'd ever know the difference, and then Bins would have
a chance, a small chance, of pulling through. He had never killed
a man. The thought of murder made him creepy. But this feeling was
not born of any value he placed on the life of a fellow human.
It was rather of the dread of punishment and a superstitious fear. He had
heard of men who had taken life, being ever after unable to sleep,
the victim being always present in the slayer's imagination. All rot, of course,
but the thought made his scalp prickle. But this would not be murder.
It would simply be the old old law of self preservation. Dick was
becoming impatient in his demand for water. You haven't been plagued, fair,
you swindling thief, he finally cried out, in a weak voice, at
the thought of his having been discovered. Bins's anger flared up, as though
the accusation had been unjust. Hate filled him, and his hand moved back
shot forward. A spurt of flame leaped out, and the pleading Dick slumped
to the sand. Bin's deathly sick now mopped his face with a shaking hand
and stood staring dazedly at the thing on the ground. Then he backed away.
God, he muttered as he looked in fascination at the huddled form.
At last, tearing his eyes from the horrible object, he turned and ran,
frantically, stumbling over the uneven ground, fall again and again, up
again, and on and on until he fell exhausted. He lay panting for
some time he did not know how long, with eyes wide open. After
a while he began to doze fitfully, only to awaken each time with a
start. For the figure with the cup was always before him. He enacted
the scene time and again, the pleading man, the flash of the gun,
the slow sinking to the ground of his companion. At last he became
calmer, got up and started on again. Hadn't any idea which way he'd
been running. It might have been in a circle. That would never do.
He must find something to go by. There was that bright star over
there, the one that had fascinated him so, hanging above the horizon.
If he kept toward that, he would at least keep a general course.
Good old star. He'd follow it as long as it shone. He staggered
on. If only he could get rid of that infernal thing before his eyes,
that huddled thing on the ground. But wouldn't he have been a fool
to give away the water, wouldn't he? He had as good a right
to his life as any other fellow, Sure, a better right than that
thing he had left back there. It would have died anyway. He stopped
and stared, beginning to sweat the faint shadows cut by the sand dunes assumed
grotesque shapes. One of the smaller sand heaps looked like that thing. He
leaned forward, peering intently. He could have sworn it moved. He laughed
aloud. He was a fool to get the jumps that way. Then he
stumbled again. In his horror, he had forgotten to drink, although his
throat was torturing him. He imagined another one of those damnable shapes moved.
He went forward and kicked at it savagely. He went on again, staggering,
half delirious and growing weak in the knees. Suddenly he again stopped and
stared. Still another shape. Well, he wouldn't be fooled this time.
He staggered forward to kick it. The thing sat up and held out that
intolerable cup. Bins plunged forward and fell on his face. The shape crawled
to his fell over him, searching for the canteen, finally found it,
raised it to its lips and sucked at the contents, then tried feebly to
turn the fallen bins over to pour the few remaining drops of water down his
throat. At daylight, a party of men found two bodies lying on the
sand. A man stooped over one of them. This here guy, he
said, is breathing, yet looks like he's been burnt by a bullet side
of his head. Ain't nothing much the matter but starvation, though, reckon,
we can bring him round, all right. What about the other one,
bill? Bill turned the other body over, face up. The two
close set little eyes stared up at the sky, which they did not see.
Couldn't be any debtor, announced Bill. Funny too, He went on,
musingly that this guy should be the first to peter out. He's a
whole lot huskier than the other one. The End of The Survivor by Edwin
g. Wood