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Speaker 1: The Survivor by Edwin g Wood. As the two men

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lay on the sand that night, it seemed to John

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Binns that he could reach up over his head and

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pluck a handful of the coldly glittering stars. So near

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did they seem they were bright to night. They tortured him,

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seeming to mock his suffering. There was one star that

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fascinated him. It was larger and brighter than the rest,

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and he lay staring at it until his eyes smarted.

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He licked his dry lips, running his tongue between them,

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and cringing at the file like rasp. He stole a

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look at his companion lying near, and slyly drew the

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canteen with its fast diminishing precious contents to his mouth.

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He had no thought for his weaker companion, Dick Webb.

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When Dick could not suppress a groan, Bin's close set

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eyes narrowed and gleamed evilly, and he muttered imprecations against

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the frailer man. He was angry with Webb. The two

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had had an argument concerning the world old law of

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the survival of the fittest. He had contended that the

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law among men had held the same as it did

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among the brute creation. The strong survived, the weak perished.

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Didn't all the big animals prey on the smaller ones.

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Of course, Webb pointed out that brains were far superior

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to brute strength, and that brute strength frequently defeated its

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own purpose. His argument had been convincing enough to arouse

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the ire of Bins. He knew that Webb was his

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superior so far as intellect went, and it angered him. Well,

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he'd show the weakling that there was another way of

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taking care of yourself besides using physical strength. There was

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a fox like cunning that didn't require the brains that

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Web seemed to think he had either. If it were

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not for the puny Web, he Bins, the stronger of

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the two, and therefore the more fit to live, might

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have a chance, a fighting chance of getting out of

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the desert alive. They were lost. What food they had

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carried with them was gone, and the water was running low.

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Water was the worst problem. The moisture of the body

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dries up rapidly in these hot sands. Bin's tongue was rough,

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his throat began to echo, his lips to crack. The

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two men could not last much longer, one of them

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simply must be left there which one not beIN. He

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loved life too well to think of sacrificing it for

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a weakling, whom, in his opinion, the world would never miss,

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and Bins himself was normally a strong man. Bin's fear

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of death was a morbid one. It was this fear

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that had led him, from the beginning of their mishap,

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to take craftily more than his portion of water and

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give Dick less. It was all Dick's fault, anyway, for

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had he not gotten Bins into this fool's chase after gold.

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He cursed himself for having been so silly as to

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be led away from his former life, where he had

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lived fairly well on what he picked up by his wits.

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The man at his side stirred, mumbled something in a

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half delirious way, then asked for water. beIN sat up,

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his little eyes that were set almost into the sides

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of his nose, glared at Webb. You've had your share,

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he snarled water. The weaker man croaked, insistently, holding out

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a tin cup. Bins would not permit the others to

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drink from the canteen, the risk of his getting more

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than his share was too great. Bins had carried through

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the bluff of economizing by pointing out to Dick that

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it was better to measure his allowance. He was scrupulous

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in doling out his own portion when Dick was looking.

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Then later he always tapped the canteen on the sly.

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He carried the canteen containing what was left of the

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water himself under an apparently generous impulse. He was the

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stronger of the two, therefore the one to shoulder the

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most of the burden. Dick again held out his cup

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in a trembling hand and demanded a drink. Hell snarled Bins.

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He moved his hand impatiently toward the canteen, paused, why

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should he waste the precious life sustaining fluid on this

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half dead man. He couldn't last, that was evident. Every

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drop that Dick drank now lessened beIN's chance of getting out.

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It was a sinful waste to pour water down the

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throat of a man so nearly gone. It would be

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much better to let the poor devil die and be

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done with it. It would be really a mercy to

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put him out of his misery. Of course, it would

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nobody'd ever know the difference, and then Bins would have

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a chance, a small chance, of pulling through. He had

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never killed a man. The thought of murder made him creepy.

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But this feeling was not born of any value he

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placed on the life of a fellow human. It was

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rather of the dread of punishment and a superstitious fear.

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He had heard of men who had taken life, being

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ever after unable to sleep, the victim being always present

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in the slayer's imagination. All rot, of course, but the

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thought made his scalp prickle. But this would not be murder.

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It would simply be the old old law of self preservation.

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Dick was becoming impatient in his demand for water. You

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haven't been plagued, fair, you swindling thief, he finally cried out,

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in a weak voice, at the thought of his having

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been discovered. Bins's anger flared up, as though the accusation

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had been unjust. Hate filled him, and his hand moved

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back shot forward. A spurt of flame leaped out, and

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the pleading Dick slumped to the sand. Bin's deathly sick

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now mopped his face with a shaking hand and stood

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staring dazedly at the thing on the ground. Then he

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backed away. God, he muttered as he looked in fascination

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at the huddled form. At last, tearing his eyes from

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the horrible object, he turned and ran, frantically, stumbling over

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the uneven ground, fall again and again, up again, and

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on and on until he fell exhausted. He lay panting

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for some time he did not know how long, with

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eyes wide open. After a while he began to doze fitfully,

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only to awaken each time with a start. For the

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figure with the cup was always before him. He enacted

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the scene time and again, the pleading man, the flash

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of the gun, the slow sinking to the ground of

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his companion. At last he became calmer, got up and

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started on again. Hadn't any idea which way he'd been running.

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It might have been in a circle. That would never do.

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He must find something to go by. There was that

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bright star over there, the one that had fascinated him so,

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hanging above the horizon. If he kept toward that, he

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would at least keep a general course. Good old star.

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He'd follow it as long as it shone. He staggered on.

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If only he could get rid of that infernal thing

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before his eyes, that huddled thing on the ground. But

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wouldn't he have been a fool to give away the water,

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wouldn't he? He had as good a right to his

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life as any other fellow, Sure, a better right than

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that thing he had left back there. It would have

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died anyway. He stopped and stared, beginning to sweat the

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faint shadows cut by the sand dunes assumed grotesque shapes.

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One of the smaller sand heaps looked like that thing.

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He leaned forward, peering intently. He could have sworn it moved.

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He laughed aloud. He was a fool to get the

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jumps that way. Then he stumbled again. In his horror,

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he had forgotten to drink, although his throat was torturing him.

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He imagined another one of those damnable shapes moved. He

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went forward and kicked at it savagely. He went on again, staggering,

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half delirious and growing weak in the knees. Suddenly he

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again stopped and stared. Still another shape. Well, he wouldn't

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be fooled this time. He staggered forward to kick it.

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The thing sat up and held out that intolerable cup.

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Bins plunged forward and fell on his face. The shape

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crawled to his fell over him, searching for the canteen,

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finally found it, raised it to its lips and sucked

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at the contents, then tried feebly to turn the fallen

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bins over to pour the few remaining drops of water

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down his throat. At daylight, a party of men found

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two bodies lying on the sand. A man stooped over

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one of them. This here guy, he said, is breathing,

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yet looks like he's been burnt by a bullet side

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of his head. Ain't nothing much the matter but starvation, though, reckon,

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we can bring him round, all right. What about the

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other one, bill? Bill turned the other body over, face up.

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The two close set little eyes stared up at the sky,

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which they did not see. Couldn't be any debtor, announced Bill.

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Funny too, He went on, musingly that this guy should

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be the first to peter out. He's a whole lot

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huskier than the other one. The End of The Survivor

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by Edwin g. Wood