Speaker 1: 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