I came back and sat down calmly, but all my senses were on the alert. The back of my neck told me there were two pairs of eyes drilling into it.

Jojo rolled the dice, and I let other people cover his stakes. And now he began to have a fair-sized pile in front of him-something he hated.

The temperature was rising, rising; I felt that for sure, and in a very natural voice, not as if I were taking precautions, I said to Jojo in French, "I'm dead certain there's trouble in the air, man; I can smell it. Get up at the same time as me and let's cover the lot with our guns."

Jojo smiled as though I were saying something pleasant: he no more bothered about me than about someone else understanding French, and he said, "My good friend, what's the sense of this damn-fool attitude? And just who's to be covered in particular?"

True enough. Cover who? And what reason could you give? But the situation was explosive, that was certain. The guy with the everlasting cigarette had two full cups of rum and he tossed them straight off one after the other.

It would be no good going out alone in the inky darkness, even holding a gun. The men outside would see me and I wouldn't see them. Go into the next-door room? Worse still. Nine chances out of ten there was already a guy there; someone could easily have got in by lifting one of the planks in the wail.

There was only one thing to do, and that was to openly put all my winnings into my canvas bag, leave the bag there where I was sitting and go Out and have a piss. They wouldn't signal, because I wouldn't have the dough on me. There were more than five thousand bolos in my pile. Better lose them than my life.

Anyhow, there was no choice. It was the only way to get out of this trap, which might snap shut any minute.

I'd worked all this out very quickly, of course: it was now seven minutes to five. I gathered everything together, notes, diamonds, the aspirin tubes and all: everyone saw me. I deliberately stuffed this little fortune into the canvas bag. As naturally as could be I pulled the strings tight, put the bag down about a foot from me, and so that everybody should understand I said in Spanish, "Keep an eye on the bag, Jojo. I don't feel so good. I'm going to take a breath of air."

Jojo had been watching all my movements; he held out his hand and said, "Give it to me. It'll be better off here than anywhere else."

Unwillingly I held it out, because I knew he was putting himself in danger, immediate danger. But what could I do? Refuse? Impossible: it would sound very strange.

I walked out, my hand on my gun. I could see no one in the darkness, but I didn't have to see them to know they were there. Quickly, almost running, I made for Miguel's place. There was just a chance that if I came back with him and a big carbide lamp we might avoid the crunch. Unfortunately Miguel's was more than two hundred yards from our shack. I began to run.

"Miguel! Miguel!"

"What's the matter?"

"Get up quick! Bring your gun and your lamp. There's trouble."

Bang! Bang! Two shots in the pitch-black night.

I ran. First I got the wrong shack-insults from inside and at the same time they asked me what the shooting was about. I ran on. This was our shack-all lights out. I flicked my lighter. People came running with lamps. There was nobody left in the room. Jojo was lying on the ground, blood pouring from the back of his neck. He was not dead, but in a coma. A flashlight they'd left behind showed just what had happened. First they'd shot out the carbide lamp, at the same time knocking Jojo out. Using the flashlight, they'd swept up the pile lying in front of Jojo-my bag and his winnings. His shirt had been torn off, and the canvas belt he wore next to his skin had been ripped open with a knife or a machete.

All the gamblers had escaped, of course. The second shot had been fired to make them move faster. Anyhow, there had not been many of us left when I'd got up. Eight men sitting down, two standing, the four guys in the corners and the kid who poured out the rum.

Everybody offered to help. Jojo was carried to Miguel's hut, where there was a bed made of branches. He lay there in a coma all the morning. The blood had clotted; it no longer ran out, and according to an English miner that was a good sign but also a bad one, because if the skull was fractured, the bleeding would go on inside. I decided not to move him. A miner from El Callao, an old friend of Jojo's, set off for another mine to fetch a so-called doctor.

I was all in. I explained everything to Mustafa and Miguel, and they comforted me by saying that since the whole business had been, as you might say, signaled hours ahead, and since I had given Jojo a clear warning, he ought to have followed my lead.

About three in the afternoon, Jojo opened his eyes. We made him drink a few drops of rum, and then, the words coming hard, he whispered, "It's all up with me, buddy: I know it. Don't let me be moved. It wasn't your fault, Papi; it was mine." He paused for a while and then went on, "Miguel, there's a can buried behind your pigsty. Let the one-eyed guy take it to Lola, my wife." His mind was clear for a few minutes after that, and then he relapsed into coma. He died at sunset.

Doña Carmencita, the fat woman from the first joint, came to see him. She brought a few diamonds and three or four notes she had found on the floor at our place during the morning. God knows hundreds of people had been there, yet not one of them had touched either the money or the diamonds.

Almost the whole of the little community came to the funeral. The four Brazilians were there, still wearing their shirts outside their trousers. One of them came up to me and held out his hand; I pretended not to see it and gave him a friendly shove in the belly. Yes: I had been right. The gun was there, just where I had thought it would be.

I wondered whether I ought to deal with them. Do it now? Later? Do what? Nothing: it was too late.

I wanted to be alone, but after a burial it was the custom to go and have a drink at every joint whose owner had turned up at the graveyard. They always came, all of them.

When I was at Doña Carmencita's she came and sat by me, with her glass of anisette in her hand. When I put mine to my lips, she raised hers, too, but only to hide the fact that she was talking to me. "It was better him than you," she said. "Now you can go wherever you want in peace."

"What do you mean, in peace?"

"Because everybody knows you always sold your winnings to the Lebanese."

"Yes, but suppose the Lebanese is killed?"

"That's true. One more problem."

I told Doña Carmencita the drinks were on me and walked off by myself, leaving my friends sitting there. Without really knowing why, I took the path that led to what they called the graveyard, a piece of cleared ground of about fifty square yards.

Eight graves there in the cemetery: Jojo's was the latest. And there in front of it stood Mustafa. I went over to him. "What are you doing, Mustafa?"

"I've come to pray for an old friend-I was fond of him-and to bring him a cross. You forgot to make one."

Hell, so I had! I'd never thought of it. I shook the good old Arab's hand and thanked him.

"You're not a Christian?" he asked. "I didn't see you pray when they threw the earth on him."

"Well, I mean… there's certainly a God, Mustafa," I said, to please him. "And what's more, I thank Him for having looked after me instead of sending me away forever, along with Jojo. And I do more than say prayers for this old man; I forgive him: he was a poor little kid from the Belleville slums, and he was able to learn just one profession-shooting craps."

"What are you talking about, brother? I don't understand."

"It doesn't matter. But remember this: I'm really sorry he's dead. I did try to save him. But no one should ever think he's brighter than the rest, because one day he'll find a man who moves faster than him. Jojo is fine here. He'll sleep forever with what he loved, adventure and the wild landscape; and he'll sleep with God's forgiveness."