Valley of Decision
chapter seventeen
Two days had elapsed, and not a sign of Tosh, nor the others. Even the jungle suspected they were gone, and began to creep in. Draino now felt claustrophobic and began to think the jungle was conspiring against him. He felt danger at every leaf flutter. He was tough on any city street or ally, but here he had been reduced to a wimp. He was totally out of his element. He felt forced to up his plans to travel down river. On the second morning, although he felt relatively fine alone, he missed Tosh, and checked the main hut again for any signs of his returning.
But strangely, he also felt his dependence on them waning. He started to suspect that maybe they felt because he was almost healed, that he should leave now? And their leaving was a sign of that? He saw that the gun hadn’t been touched, and wondered if that wasn’t the reason for the lessening of his fears. Even a useless gun. It brought him the illusion of being closer to civilization. He made a closer inspection of the rifle and decided to take it apart and clean it. If only for something to do. Only then could he contemplate firing it. He had no choice but to use their lamp oil, for oiling the gun. He took it to a sunny spot in the clearing and removed the magazine. In front of the magazine well, he removed the only screw with the tip of the machete. This allowed him to separate the barrel assembly from the old wooden stock. He heard a small crashing sound in the forest and stood, then knelt quickly, making himself a smaller target. Satisfied it was only a natural sound, he continued to try to take out the pins that were holding the receiver and trigger assembly together. They should have slipped right out, but time seemed to have welded them in place. After checking for sounds from the jungle again, with his finger tip he dabbed oil onto the pins, hoping that would loosen them. He checked the barrel for any damage or signs of warping. Considering the elements that it had been exposed to over the years, it was relatively clean and straight. Although, you never know what they used if for. He ripped out parts of underwear free of mold, and using sections of Natty’s amazing cordage, he cleaned and oiled the breach free of any gunk. He used the cordage as a bore snake, and passed the cloth back and forth, until he was satisfied it was clean and oiled. The pins fell out with a little persuasion, and with the bolt, breach and assembly clean, he reassembled the weapon. He filled the bullet tube, and cocked a round into the chamber, then wiped his brow and looked up. A jet was flying high above him, and you wouldn't even know it was there except for its long chemtrail.Feeling proud of himself, but not taking any chances, he dropped the basic hunting rounds out onto a large leaf and inspected and tediously wiped each one. They seemed fine to the eye, but as far as their internal health, he could only speculate. With it cleaned and loaded, he sighted down the barrel. Now was the moment of decision. And after running this through his mind many times over the past few days, he jammed it firmly in between two large logs and tied it in with cordage. The muzzle pointing into the steaming jungle.
He sat there afraid to fire the gun, and afraid not to, seeing it exploding in his face a thousand times. An hour passed, he thought of another night alone there, and that was enough. He tied the, not very long for his liking cordage, to the trigger. He lay flat out on the ground, as far away from the gun as possible, turned his face away and pulled the trigger. The gun fired the small round, quietly, and it snapped off through leaves into the woods. “Yes!” he whispered to himself, from some deep cavern of relief. It seemed like a kid’s bb gun to him, but it fired. And in the right hands, it was a killing machine. And his were the right hands.
He fired another round, this time at a target, a leaf roughly 50 yards away. The rifle did what it was designed to do. From ten feet away, he fired a round into the stump sitting at the fire-pit. The bullet buried itself deep into the meat of the wood. He felt strong and revived.
He tied in a shoulder holster with left over cordage and with machete in hand, headed off down the path to the river, alone in the jungle for the first time. With the courage of a man with a gun, he searched for small game, while looking for suitable trees to cut, close to the river.
Draino was able to fall two likely trees that afternoon and left them where they fell. Although his ribs and lung seemed better, two was the best he could handle in a day. He did this every day until he accidentally spotted a native spying on him. It unnerved him, not having recognized the man, who was completely naked, then watched him disappear into the underbrush. So he decided to call it a day, ready for any surprise attacks on the path back.
A week passed, and still no sign of Tosh and his grand-parents. He hunted down cordage vines and secured them in the river for a day. He spent a tedious next day pounding them with Natty’s pounding rocks. The tool looked like it had been in Natty's family for generations. His woven ropes looked nothing like Natty’s, but seemed pliable and strong enough for the job at hand.
He cut the logs to length, and dragged them to the landing. He felt this was the hardest thing he ever remembered doing in his life. Finally, he was able to join the logs, and with a lot of grunting and muscle, managed to slip the crude craft into the river. Holding the raft with one hand, and his bathing vine in the other, he allowed it to drift into an eddy just down stream. Tying it off to a large out fall that reached out over the river, he climbed onto the rickety structure. It floated high even with him on it, but his weight would shift and sink the individual logs he was standing on. He was forced to kneel or lay flat. It floated high with his weight, as a strange looking duck flowed by on the rivers currents.
He felt stupid not carrying his gun, and promised himself, he'd always carry it with him, from here on in, although he laughed at the thought of the dead duck floating away from him down river. He secured two cross pieces he'd floated over. One at each end, which stiffened it up sufficiently for his liking. All he needed now was some type of paddle and a long push pole. He ransacked the food cache for its piddly supply and prepared to wrap his meager possessions in the tired old sheet of plastic. He hoped to be drifting down river the following day.
In the receding twilight, as he was preparing to lock himself in, he caught a movement in his peripheral in the gloomy clearing. Naked men were silently running across the clearing, like ghost shadows. He’d seen at least two of them maybe three; the mind played tricks on him in this light. He even wondered if he saw them at all? They were heading in the direction of Natty’s hut, and it wasn’t Natty, or anyone he recognized because they were naked.
He knew perfectly well if they were real that they were acting in a suspicious manner. He quietly slid the bolt, and injected a round into the chamber, and readied his machete against the wall. I’ll get a few of them, he thought. He secured the door. And without a long and tedious digging through the mud walls, his entrance was the only way they were getting in or out.
It was the jungle he was afraid of, men not so much. Men, he knew how to deal with. He sat back and waited. When the jungle reached its full pitch, they came. He had started to nod off, when he heard the first quiet movements testing the door. He quietly moved the tip of the barrel, up in between his door lashings, and fired blindly. A yelp of someone in terrific pain came. Then rustling sounds, feet running off, then only him and the terrible jungle noises.
Morning came without any more trouble, and he cautiously opened the door, and peeked out. He saw every fluttering leaf. It took half an hour, and a bowel movement to get him to step out. There were small amounts of blood on the hard-packed soil. He knew that he’d nicked something, this just confirmed it.
Their skulking around, told him that they were afraid of him, and now they should be even more afraid. Maybe even afraid enough to stay away? But again, he knew the hearts of bad men. He had to get away now, or he would use up all his ammo on them. Gathering up all his stuff, he started for the raft. When he passed Natty’s hut, he jumped sideways, seeing a naked man, on his knees bowing or groveling to him.
“Who the fuck are you!” he yelled. Sending the poor soul scrambling back into a dark corner of the hut. “Come outta there now!” he snapped, waving with the gun barrel for the man to come out. It was obvious to Draino the man knew what a gun could do. The man acted in the most groveling manner he had ever seen. Eventually the native crawled his way out into the sun. “What’s in your hand, open it?” Obviously terrified and not understanding him, Draino softened is voice. “I’m not going to hurt you, look at me.”
The man looked up, but not because he understood what he was saying, but to face his death. Draino pointed to the man's clenched fist, then opened and closed his, and gestured for him to do the same. The man opened his fist and out sprinkled gold nuggets, and coins.
Draino motioned for him to move back and he picked up the biggest nugget. It was about half the size of an alley. The coins were Brazilian. “Where- you- get- this?” But the man just scrambled back a bit.
“Tosh, Tosh!” he said.
“What!” screamed Draino. ”Tosh. Where Tosh?” The frightened man pointed into the jungle, in the basic direction of up river. Draino half lifted, and dragged the man to his feet, and returned the nuggets and coins to him. While he tossed his possessions into the hut.
Hoping that, returning the mans coins, would assure him he meant him no harm. Then, pointed in the same direction, indicating he wanted to go and find Tosh. The man understood and began trotting away. Draino yelled at him and motioned for him to slow down. Draino could see that if this man lost him, he wouldn't be to unhappy. He realized that this was the man that had been spying on him.
They went off through the jungle, a direction he'd never taken before. A direction without a path. He hacked at trees, to lead him back. After about a two miles, the man began to slow and crouch. Within minutes Draino could hear a small motor running, maybe a generator? He thought. They came to a dirty polluted clearing, littered with white man's crap. Even Draino was disgusted with the sight of it.
Then he heard english being spoken for the first time and was struck by its harsh sounds and tones after hearing the forest people’s soft language for so long, but happy and relieved just the same. Draino motioned for the native to stay hidden, stepped out into the clearing, and yelled “Hello!” to the man swearing and struggling at a dumb length of hose. It felt even stranger speaking English, and for a brief second felt ashamed of his race. As he stepped forward, he heard the naked man scamper off into his jungle.
A white man, in a yellow miner’s hat, pulling on a hose, stopped and stared at him in disbelief. Draino called again in friendly tones. “Can you help me, I’m lost?”
The man started running yelling, “claim jumpers, claim jumpers!” Draino went running after him, “Yelling, “No. no.” Then saw another man pulling his pants up and trying to run over to a gun leaning nearby. Draino fired into the old rusty drum. The man stopped in his tracks. When they were together, Draino said out of breath, “No, no, I’m lost, that’s all!”
As Draino slowed up to the men, they seemed to relax and smile at him. But Draino saw one glance toward the rifle leaning against the rusted out steel barrel. He knew their intentions were not good. He pointed his rifle at them when he got to within a few feet of them.
“Thought you were lost pal?” said one of them.
“Not now asshole,” replied Draino. He could sense something really wrong here.
“What you gonna do with that old pea shooter pal?” laughed the other.
“Move one inch and you’ll fucking find out.”
Draino stepped back toward the old iconic Winchester 94, lever rifle, while holding his gun on the miners. “Look pal, this is a legal mining claim. You're trespassing!”
“Ya well, I came in friendly, because I’m actually lost. Haven’t seen another white man in a month. It actually hadn't been a month but it felt like it to Draino. "And you treat me like shit. What the fuck am I supposed to do. Come on, you tell me?”
“You're American, ya? We're Canadians. Sorry, but we didn’t know, with you popping in outta the blue like that, and surprising the shit outta us?”
“I waved a friendly hello, remember?” snapped Draino. He looked around at the shitty clearing, and couldn’t see what they were possibly doing here?
“Got any real food” asked Draino?
“Ya sure, why don’t you relax, and lower that, and I’ll russel us up a mess of bacon and eggs," he said sarcastically.
“Any coffee?” asked Draino hopefully, in a squeaky high voice, still not used to speaking. It came out sounding weak and foolish.
“Ya sure,” said the miner, stupidly thinking Draino was some kind of dumb rookie prospector, stumbling about in the woods. Draino, picked up the rifle and checked to see if it was loaded. It was. Draino could see that these men were a lot more than just miners. He knew bullshit when he heard it. Telling Draino that you are Canadian was no different than saying you're from Mars.
He exchanged rifles and stepped forward, “Look what I found,” smirked Draino, “an old 3030!” He walked up to them and directed his words to the guy he figured was the boss, and asked him if there were more crew around? But he knew he was only going to get jerked around. Just as the man began to speak, Draino drove the butt of his gun into the jaw of the man's partner. The man's legs went limp under him, and he dropped to the ground.
“No, no, we are the only ones," said the shocked man. "A supply boat comes every two weeks," he continued, now realizing he was dealing with a dangerous man. “It's due here in two days, before the floods come. We won't see another for months.”
“Oh ya, the midget!” replied Draino.
“Huh?” said the man, astonished that he knew that. His face starting to look pale, glancing down at his partner every few seconds.
"What'd ya doing in this pig sty anyway?" yelled Draino, looking around him.
Draino could hear muffled sounds, coming from somewhere? “I thought you told me no one else was around?”
“Don’t shoot Mister, its only the jungle bunnies. I though you was talking about us see? You know, white folk?”
“Where?”
The man pointed to a very rusted steel shipping container. “In there!”
“Get on your knees, lay over fuck nuts, there.
“What?”
Draino fired a round into the air. Birds and animals shrieked all around them. Then re-levered another round into the chamber, feeling the tremendous power and kick of the weapon. “Not gonna say it again!”
“K, k!” whimpered the man, scrambling over his partner, whimpering, and quickly doing as he was told. Draino walked over to the locked container, and un-bolted it. Opening the creaking door and stepping back, leveling the barrel into the dank container, there stood Tosh, the old man, and the woman.
Tosh yelled, “Cane, Cane,” and ran forward into Draino’s waist.
Draino felt his hand tenderly rubbing the boys head, then caught himself. He stood stiff, and erect. Then. he loosened Tosh from his grip, and broke free from the crying boy, walked over and drove the butt end of his gun into the back of the man's skull. The whimpering ceased! Then, Draino waved for them to come out, for the stench of their excrement was unbearable in the heat.
They peered around, blinded by the sun, milling about confused, holding out their arms like zombies. Like him, they felt like they had been in darkness for years. Draino didn't miss the irony. He wonder if they had been in there all this time? He began surveying their workings, or whatever it was. The container must have once been their storage and bunkhouse, before it was used as a jail. They must be making a little on the side, as slavers he thought? He looked around for string or rope but couldn’t find anything. Natty, clued in and disappeared, returning with his cordage vines. Draino bound the jailers back to back, arm to arm. Holding out little hope for the foreman’s survival, whose neck and head rolled about like a chicken with a broken neck.
The other man began coming around and struggled at his bindings when he remembered what had just happened. “What the?” he cried. “Kill them, you fool, their bloodthirsty savages!
“Might let them sell you to their enemies!" laughed Draino. “How does it feel, being bound up like a fucking pig?”
“Come on man, I’m on your side.”
“What? Cuz our skins are white? The only side I’m on PAL, is the side with the gun. Oh look, you don’t have one! Shut up, or your going back to sleep.”
The man looked around absolutely horrified. Nudging his limp partner. He knew what lurked all around them besides wild animals. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he'd end up like this. Then he thought about his stupid decision not to carry his side arm this morning.
Dan Ger