This is a work of fiction. While the general outlines of history have been faithfully followed, certain details involving setting, characters, and events may have been simplified.

• THE HOLTS *

Whip (Michael) — Eulalia rr Leiand. Holt Woodling Blake

1808-1865 1818 [sec BUikcs)

Caroline n^

Brandon

1837-1865

I Toby ~ Clarissa

Holt 1841-

I

Sinclair 1841-1871

Otto

Sinclair

1836-1870

-1 Cindy Holt 1850-

Janessa

Holt

1861-

{hy Mary While Otvt)

Tim Holt 1867-

Stalking

Horse

18?-

(Jnreman of the Holt Ranch)

White Elk, his ward 186?-

THE BLAKES. MARTINS. AND BRENTWOODS

Eulalia

Woodling Holt {sec Holts)

m Leiand Blake 1804-

Tonie ~ Dr. Robert

Mell 1814-

Martin 1798-

Kale — Rob Salton Martin 1846 1841-

Beth

Blake

18411869

Henry Blake

(adopted)

1850-

Cathy

Martin

1869-

Cathy van Av! 1814-1865

Sam

Brentwood

1797-1871

Claudia

Humphries

1809-

Susanna

Fulton

1837-

Andrew Jackson

Brentwood

1839-

Samuel

Brentwood

1866-

Ted

Woods

1806-

Husband

Olga

Ruiikova

1808-

1

Bettina rr Frank Snow Woods

1841 1842-

Lucy 1861-

Tommie zz. Edward Harding Blackstone 1850 1840-

Danny ~ Heather

Taylor 1823-

MacGregor 1828-

Ted Woods

Taylor

AMSGOXSIX!

Ted Taylor held a stubby, sawed-off shotgun ready to fire as he moved slowly through the predawn darkness toward a small, ramshackle house on the outskirts of Harlan, Iowa. Weeds rustled off to his right as the town sheriff and his two deputies advanced with him, pistols in hand.

When the men were twenty yards from the house, Ted motioned for them to stop. As agreed upon, they knelt in the weeds and waited for full daylight. Behind them, smoke rose from chimneys in the town, and windows glowed with lamplight in houses where early risers were moving about. The crowing of a rooster carried through the early morning quiet from a farm a mile away.

The sheriff, a big, heavyset man of fifty named Lambert, leaned toward Ted. "Most of the drifters who pass through here use that house," he said softly. "How do you know that the men in it are the ones you're after?"

"I looked at their horses and saddles in the shed behind the house before I came to get you," Ted replied. "They're the Blount gang, no question about that."

"Well, as long as you're sure they re the same ones who held up the train outside of Council Bluffs two days ago."^

"I'm sure."

"There's four men in the Blount gang, ain't there? Are all four of them in that house? "

"Yes."

The sheriff was silent for a moment. Then he leaned closer to Ted and spoke softly, to keep his deputies from overhearing. "You've seen my deputies," he whispered. "Cass Whittaker is a good man, but he's getting old, and his eyes ain't too good. Ned Bodie has plenty of guts, but he's young and as green as a spring willow shoot. I'd better go back into the town and round up another dozen or so men."

"No, that would take too long and make too much noise. "

"I'd keep them quiet, and I could be back by sunrise."

"That's too long. Sheriff Lambert, and someone might make a noise. I'd rather take them by surprise than have a dozen more men."

"Well, you have the governor's authority," Lambert grumbled, "so it's up to you. But me and my men ain't here to get killed. We'll back vou up, but you'll go in first."

"That's what I had intended to do."

The quiet, nonchalant reply seemed to make the sheriff even more annoyed. Sleepy from being abruptly awakened when Ted had arrived at his house a short time before, Lambert resented the newcomer. Ted Taylor was a special law enforcement assistant to the state attorney general, in charge of investigating all train robberies in the state and pursuing those responsible, and he was authorized to conscript whatever help he needed from local law enforcement agencies.

Lambert also envied Ted. One of the heroes of the Great Chicago Fire the previous year, he was a friend of the famed Toby Holt. He was also one of those new breed of lawmen called detectives, and it was rum.ored the railroads were paying him a bounty of one thousand dollars for ever\' train robber he apprehended, in addition to what the state was paying him.

In his early twenties, Ted Taylor wore a typical western hat and boots. But instead of the casual garb of most

lawmen in the area, he had on a neat, brown wool suit, which the sheriff regarded as too citified. Still, Lambert grudgingly admitted to himself, train robberies in the state had become increasingly rare since Ted Taylor had arrived.

The stars overhead dimmed into the light spreading across the sky as Ted double-checked his shotgun and waited for full dawn to arrive. He was outwardly calm, but inwardly he was keenly aware that the next few minutes would bring dire peril. Taken by surprise, the train robbers would fire wildly and blindly—but a wild bullet could kill or seriously wound as easily as one that was carefully aimed.

He was also concerned about the young deputy, Ned Bodie, who might take foolish risks and get himself killed. Lambert and Whittaker were both seasoned, cautious men, but Bodie was young and rash. His bright, youthful face flushed with excitement, he was watching Ted intently and eagerly anticipating the gun battle.

Roosters at the farms all around the small town began crowing as the light flooded across the sky from the east. When the dilapidated, one-room house was clearly visible, Ted rose to a crouch and spoke to the sheriff. "I'll try to get them to surrender," he said. "If they start shooting, you and your men fire into the air so they won't run outside."

The sheriff nodded, his weathered face drav^n with tension. Ted cocked the hammers on his shotgun and loosened the Colt in his shoulder holster as he walked toward the house, the other men following. Bodie caught up with him, only to grimace in disappointment as Ted motioned him back.

Ten yards from the house, Ted hesitated and gathered himself Then he sprinted forward, the long weeds pulling at his boots. Bounding across the tiny porch, he hurled himself at the door. The early morning quiet dissolved into pandemonium as the door splintered around him and he fell into the house.

In the semidarkness of the cluttered, single room he rolled out of the light streaming through the doorway and quickly rose to one knee. He glimpsed movements in the four corners as the men woke and sat up on their pallets. "Put up your hands!" he shouted. "This house is surrounded!"

The man in a corner on Ted's left side reacted more quickly than the others, lifting a pistol that gleamed in the dim light. The enclosed room magnified the roar of Ted's shotgun as it thundered and bucked, red flame darting from a barrel. The hail of buckshot slapped the man off his pallet and ripped into the wall behind him.

The other man on the left fired a pistol, the bullet hissing past Ted's head. Swinging the shotgun toward him, Ted pulled the other trigger. The heavy lead pellets hit the man, lifting him from his pallet and killing him instantly.

Outside the house, Lambert and Whittaker were firing into the air and shouting at Bodie in warning. The younger deputy was silhouetted in the doorway behind Ted, firing his pistol at the men on the other side of the room. As Ted dropped his shotgun and drew out his Colt, Bodie reeled and stumbled backward, clutching a shoulder.

Both remaining outlaws turned their pistols toward Ted and fired rapidly. Ted's instincts clamored for him to respond in kind, panic screaming in the back of his mind. But he possessed the self-control of the professional gun-fighter, accepting the risk of being hit by the wild shooting of an opponent in order to shoot accurately instead of quickly.

Dust knocked from the rafters by the concussion of the gunfire was thick in the air as bullets whizzed past Ted, the loud reports erf the pistols battering his ears. He aimed his Colt at the dark shadow over the red flashes of one of the pistols and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet ripped into the man, its crushing impact knocking him backward against the wall. Loose boards tumbled down behind him, letting more light into the dim maelstrom of roaring guns and death. For an instant the

gunfire subsided, as Ted aimed his pistol toward the last man.

He appeared to be surrendering. His pistol was turning aside and his left hand starting to lift in a gesture of capitulation, his face twisted in terror. But it was too late. Reactions had taken control within Ted, and his finger was pulling the trigger back.

The Colt roared and the man jerked backward, a spreading spot of crimson on his forehead. As the echoes of the last shot faded, Ted bolstered his pistol and picked up his shotgun, then rose to his feet. Motes of dust glinted in the sunlight now streaming through the broken boards in the walls.

The gunfire had awakened the town, and people were shouting and hurrying along the street toward the abandoned house. The sheriff and the two deputies crossed the porch and peered inside as Ted stepped toward the door. "Are they the right ones?" the sheriff asked, still resentful. "Are they the Blount gang?"

The mail that the men had stolen from a train two days before was piled inside the door, an untidy heap of envelopes and torn canvas bags. Ted nodded and pointed to it as he went out. "There's the mail from their last robbery," he said. He turned to the young deputy, who had a dirty handkerchief tied around one shoulder. "Does it look serious, Ned?"

"No, sir," Bodie replied, grinning. "It's just a crease. It looks like one got pretty close to you, Mr. Taylor."

The young deputy pointed to a long tear in the sleeve of Ted's coat, where a bullet had ripped it. Ted nodded ruefully, reflecting that the bullet had ruined a good suit. By now the townspeople had gathered in front of the house in a noisy crowd, many of them rumpled and half-dressed. They began asking what had happened. One man's stentorian voice drowned the rest as he shouted, "Say, ain't you Ted Taylor, the one who's after the train robbers? Who'd you catch here, Mr. Taylor?"

Accustomed to dealing with local lawmen, and aware

of the need to make a special effort in this instance, Ted pointed to the sheriff. "I'm here working with Sheriff Lambert, " he said. "He's responsible for law and order in Harlan, and any questions you have should be directed to him. "

Immediately the people began to crowd around the surprised sheriff, to ask him what had happened. Mrs. Lambert, whom Ted had met when he had gone to the sheriff's house earlier, pushed through to her husband's side and asked him if he was all right. The big man looked embarrassed and annoyed by her concern.

"Yes, they were the ones who robbed the train up by Council Bluffs two days ago," Lambert said, replying to a question. "The Blount gang. There were four of them, but there were four of us, wasn't there?" He shook his head, waving off other questions. "That's enough for now. I have a lot to do here. You two there, go and bring a wagon for the bodies. Ned, go get those horses out of the shed behind the house and lead them down to our stable. Cass, pick out some men here to help you, and get that mail in there gathered up. "

When his wife began to question him again, he snapped at her, irritated. "Yes, I'm fine, Marcia. Now, will you go home and leave me alone?" He glanced at Ted, and his frown faded. "And take Mr. Taylor with you and fix him some breakfast. You've been up all night, and I expect you'd like some breakfast, wouldn't you, Mr. Taylor?"

Tired and hungry, and wanting to get away from the noisy crowd, Ted replied quickly, "Yes, I'd appreciate that very much."

"You go ahead, then, and I'll join you directly," the sheriff said genially. "I'll see to everything here."

Ted followed the sheriff's wife off the porch. A path opened for them through the crowd, children gazing up at Ted in awe and men and women expressing their appreciation as he passed.

Marcia Lambert, as cheerful and friendly as her husband was unpleasant, took a motherly attitude toward Ted

as they walked toward town. She commented on the tear in his coat sleeve and offered to mend it for him.

"I'd be very grateful if you would, " he said.

"I can't make it like new," Marcia went on, "but I can repair it good enough for it to hold together until you can get it to a tailor. I'm sure there are lots of good tailors in Chicago—isn't that where you come from? We read in the newspapers what you and Mr. Toby Holt did there during the fire."

"Actually, I'm from California," Ted rephed. "I was visiting with VIr. Holt in Chicago."

"And now you're in Iowa," Marcia sighed. "You detectives certainly do get around a lot. How did you know that the Blount gang was hiding out here? Did you track them all the way from where they robbed the train at Council Bluffs?"

Ted shook his head. He explained how, while examining the scene of the robbery, he had found the half-buried crowbars and sledgehammers the robbers had used to spread the rails so the train would have to stop. The name of the hardware dealer who had sold the tools was on the sledgehammer handles, and he had given Ted a description of the four strangers. A blacksmith in the same town had shod the same men's horses, and he had overheard them discussing Harlan.

"Times certainly are changing," Marcia said when Ted finished. "And everything else along with them. Detectivating isn't my man's way of keeping law and order. He either catches crooks in the act, or else he follows their trail and has it out with them."

"What I do isn't all that different," Ted said. "People leave other kinds of trails besides footprints or hoof tracks."

"Yes, that's certainly true," Marcia agreed. "Here's my place. I have a fresh pot of coffee on the stove."

It was a neat, modest house surrounded by a picket fence. They went inside and through a parlor to a large, spotlessly clean kitchen. Marcia seated Ted at the table and poured him a cup of coffee, put thick slices of home-

made bread and a crock of strawberry preserves in front of him, then took a flitch of bacon from the food safe and cut slabs from it.

When the bacon was frying slowly in a pan, filling the kitchen with an appetizing scent, Marcia went into another room and returned with her sewing basket. She took Ted's coat and sat down at the table, .\fter expertly threading a needle, she began sewing up the tear.

"So you're from CaHfomia," she commented, tugging on the needle and pulling a stitch tight. "Some of my relatives moved there a few years ago, and from what I hear they like it. And you're not married? A young, nice-looking fellow like you must have a sweetheart."

Ted smiled wryly as he slathered the strawberry jam on a piece of bread. "I do, but I'm not sure she would call herself that," he said. "She would probably say we're just friends. Her name is Marjorie White, and she's a traveling photographist. Right now she's in Boston."

"Boston!" Marcia clucked, shaking her head. "No wonder she wouldn't call herself your sweetheart. You'll never win her over as long as she's in Boston and you're in Iowa."

"No, I reckon I won't," Ted agreed. "But we may be together before long. She's mentioned going to Wisconsin to photograph the scenery and Mr. Holt's logging operations there. I'm almost finished here, so maybe I'll join her. The train robberies have just about stopped."

Marcia had put down his coat and got up to break some eggs into the pan and turn the bacon. "Yes, the train robberies here are nothing compared to what they were a few months ago," she said, the bacon hissing and popping as she flipped it over. "We used to have one every week, it seemed. " She sat back down, picked up the coat, and resumed sewing. "So Toby Holt has a logging camp in Wisconsin? Is that where he went after the fire in Chicago?"

"He has a logging camp in Wisconsin and a lumber mill in Chicago, and he divides his time between them. Right after the fire, though, he had to go to his home in

Portland, because his five-year-old son, Timmy, was seriously injured. The boy made a large kite and jumped out of a tree with it, tr>ing to fly."

"Trying to fly?" Marcia exclaimed. "My word, what will kids think of next? Is he all right?"

"Yes, but it was a near-miss thing for a while. The boy fell on rocks and seriously hurt himself. He's a strong, healthy child, fortunately."

"Boys will be boys," Marcia sighed. "I raised two, and I wouldn't want to go through that again. It's a wonder any of us survived."

Ted smiled and took a drink of coffee. "He's got a scar across his forehead that he'll have all of his life, though. I sympathize with Toby's sister, who looks after the lad. She sure will have her hands full when he gets a little older."

Pausing in front of a general store on the main street of Portland, Oregon, Cindy Holt straightened her nephew Timmy's hair and coat before going inside. The hvid, four-inch scar on the boy's forehead served as a constant reminder of the chiUing terror that had gripped her on the day when the boy had been injured. She forced the memory out of her mind.

Satisfied with his appearance, Cindy turned to her niece, Janessa. "Dear, you've already been a great help," she said, "but you don't have to spend all morning with me. I know you'd like to go to Dr. Martin's house. '

Slender and tall for her eleven years, Janessa had the same blue eyes and determined features as her young aunt, and the two were often mistaken for sisters. Indeed, Janessa closely resembled her father's side of the family, even though her mother—who had died the previous year after bringing the girl to Portland—had been a full-blooded Cherokee. "I can't let you do all of the shopping and other things all by yourself," Janessa replied firmly. "And I can go to Dr. Martin's house later."

"Well, I certainly do appreciate it," Cindy said, glancing down the quiet street. The wagon from the ranch was

still parked by the hardware store, the driver, an old man named Josh Sellars, chatting with the boy who was loading Cindy's purchases there. Cindy took Timmy's hand and started up the steps to the general store. "This store usually has a good selection of cloth remnants, Janessa. If you would, see if you can find material for a new shirt for Timmy. "

The girl nodded as they went inside. The store was cluttered, kitchenware hanging from the ceiling, the narrow aisles hemmed in by shelves crowded with goods ranging from clothing to foodstuffs. While Janessa went to a table piled high with bolt ends of fabric, Cindy led Timmy down an aisle to the counter at the side of the store.

Before she got there, however, Timmy suddenly froze in his tracks, his eyes wide and staring at a bin of fireworks decorated with an advertising poster for the upcoming Multnomah County Fair.

On the poster was a large, colorful picture of a hot-air balloon, which was scheduled to be a featured attraction at the fair. The boy pointed to it. "Look, Aunt Cindy!" he exclaimed. "A balloon! What does the writing say?"

"That there will be a balloon at the fair this summer," Cindy explained patiently. "You'll enjoy that, won't you, Timmy?"

The boy grinned and nodded, almost speechless with delight. "And look at all the firecrackers! Can we buy some?"

"Of course not," Cindy replied, pulling him away from the display. "You know better than to even ask, Timmy. We can't have fireworks at the ranch."

Observing them from behind the counter, Horace Biddle, the portly proprietor, chuckled. He opened a candy jar and leaned forward to offer Timmy a piece. "You'd have every horse on the ranch jumping like a nervous flea, son," he commented. He smiled and nodded as the boy put his hand in the jar. "You want a green one

this time, do you? Well, I sort of prefer those myself, and that's a fact. '

The boy, starting to put the candy into his mouth, hesitated and glanced up at Cindy as she looked down at him narrowly. "Thank you, sir, " he said, then popped the piece into his mouth.

"You're quite welcome, young fellow," the storekeeper said, replacing the candy jar. "He's got good manners. Miss Holt, I must say. Your brother is mighty luckv^ to have you looking after his children. And how can I serve you today?"

"Let's begin with the bagged goods," Cindy said, unfolding her list. "Twenty pounds of flour, please, five of sugar, and a pound of salt. Then ten pounds each of dried beans and peas."

Smiling in satisfaction, the storekeeper began moving back and forth, filling bags from barrels and putting them on the counter. Janessa came down the aisle with pieces of cloth she had chosen from the table. Cindy inspected them and nodded in approval.

The girl put the cloth on the counter, then coughed discreetly. Cindy glanced at Janessa's large, pleading eyes, then looked back at her list, smothering a sigh. All that remained on it was a question mark that had meaning only to her. That same symbol had been on her list several times, but she had never done anything about it. She disliked encouraging something of which she strongly disapproved, but Janessa's pleading gaze disconcerted her.

"What else do you need today, Miss Holt?" Biddle asked.

Folding the list, Cindy weighed all the factors in her mind once again; then she decided. "You have boxes of ready-made cigarettes, don't you?" she asked.

Biddle blinked, the inquiry an unusual one from a woman. He reached under the counter. "Yes, we have Philip Morris, Liggett and Brother, and several other kinds. Some of them come in bo.xes and others in packages, and ten of those go into these bigger boxes that we

call cartons." Placing cartons on the counter one by one, he smiled politely. "Are you buying these to send to your brother?"

His smile faded as he glanced at Janessa, then back at Cindy in sudden understanding. The fact that the girl smoked was known throughout the city, with reactions ranging from outrage to amusement. A stiff silence fell as Biddle finished putting cigarettes on the counter.

Cindy looked at Janessa and nodded toward the cigarettes. The girl moved closer to the counter and examined each carton. After taking packages out to look at them and smell them, she pointed to the Philip Morris.

"Two of the large boxes of those, please," Cindy said.

"Yes, miss," Biddle responded, taking out another carton of Philip Morris and hurriedly putting the others away. "I'll put them in a paper poke for you so nobody will see you with them and think—" He broke off, cleared his throat, and began talking more rapidly. "I'll just throw those pieces of cloth into the bargain. Miss Holt, because we do appreciate your trade. And here—I'll put a few pieces of candy into a poke for the boy."

As the storekeeper bustled back and forth, Janessa took Cindy's hand and squeezed it in gratitude, smiling up at her. Cindy looked down at the girl, and the awkwardness of the moment was quickly forgotten. She tucked a stray wisp of Janessa's hair into place and touched her face affectionately, then looked back at Biddle as he continued talking.

As unobtrusively as she could, Janessa slipped a package of cigarettes out of one of the cartons on the counter and put it into her pocket. She wandered toward the front of the store, waiting for Cindy to finish. As she looked out the window, an unusual scene caught her eye.

Four horses were tethered at the hitching rail in front of the bank diagonally across the street. A grimy, unshaven man was standing on the boardwalk in front of the horses. He looked more likely to be a customer at a saloon

than at the bank, and it was still an hour before the bank would open.

Moving to a side window to get a better view, Janessa saw the other three men, all of them similar to the first in appearance. With them was the bank manager, a thin, dour man named Peabody, who always arrived at work early. The three were pushing him toward the side entrance of the bank.

Realizing that she was watching the beginning of a bank robbery, Janessa almost called out in alarm. Although panic swelled within her, she controlled herself and looked around, and her gaze fell on the bin of fireworks, where Timmy was standing. Thinking rapidly, she decided what to do.

The storekeeper and Cindy were still talking, and neither of them noticed as Janessa stepped in front of Timmy and slipped a string of firecrackers into her pocket. The boy, his eyes wide in astonishment, saw what she did. Taking his arm, Janessa called to Cindy that she would wait outside with Timmy. Cindy nodded absently, her lips pursed as she studied her list.

Pulling Timmy toward the door, Janessa whispered instructions. Puzzled, the boy began asking questions. Janessa gripped his arm tightly, cutting him off with a glare as they stepped outside onto the boardwalk. "If you say another word," she hissed, "or if you do anything except exactly what I tell you, I'll slap you so hard that your eyeballs will jump out and knock together. Do you understand?"

Nodding rapidly, the boy stared up at her, not daring to speak. "Most important of all," Janessa said softly, "don't look across the street. Now walk—and I mean walk —to the end of this block, then run as hard as you can to the sheriff's office. Tell Sheriff Loomis or one of his deputies that some men are robbing the bank. If they're not there, run across the street to the cafe. They might be having coffee. Go on, Timmy."

As Timmy walked dutifully away, Janessa glanced

across the street from the corner of her eye. The man on the boardwalk in front of the horses was watching the street in both directions and paying no attention to her. Timmy reached the end of the block and began running along the boardwalk. Down the street in the other direction, Josh Sellars and the boy from the hardware store were standing beside the wagon from the ranch, still talking.

As she waited, time passed very slowly for Janessa. She was keenly aware that at any moment the robbers could run out to their horses with bags of money. No one would be able to stop them.

Josh Sellars was still talking, but he had finally gotten into the wagon, and in a moment he would be driving down the street. Blocks away in the opposite direction, Timmy came into view again, darting across the street toward the cafe. The cafe was on the same side of the street as the bank, and Janessa knew she would have to distract the man waiting with the horses to keep him from seeing the sheriff and the deputies approaching.

Her hands clammy and shaking, Janessa opened the package of cigarettes and lit one as she stepped off the boardwalk and started across the street. It was a violation of her agreement with Cindy not to smoke in public, but she had no other choice. Puffing on the cigarette, she stepped onto the boardwalk on the other side of the street and walked toward the man.

The man looked at her, surprised by the cigarette. An instant later his thick, ugly features reflected another thought, one that Janessa could read in his eyes and that turned her apprehension into icy fear: If he had a girl on the saddle in front of him during the escape, no one would shoot at him for fear of hitting her. "How long have you been smoking?" he asked, attempting a friendly smile.

Janessa passed him, careful to stay far enough away to avoid being seized. He turned, keeping his eyes on her, and when his back was to the cafe, she stopped. "It's none of your business," she replied.

His weak smile started to turn to a scowl, but he

checked himself and smiled again. "Now, don't get sassy with me, girlie," he said. "That's a ready-made cigarette, ain't it? Give me one."

Janessa shook her head, refusing. The man attempted to keep his smile in place, and he took a step forward as he asked her where she had got the cigarettes.

Backing away, Janessa struggled to control her fear, for the crucial moment had arrived. Behind the man, tall, burly Sheriff Loomis and his two deputies, all of them hatless and in their shirtsleeves, were racing along the boardwalk, their pistols drawn. As the man started to turn his head and glance over his shoulder, Janessa snatched out the package of cigarettes. "They're Philip Morris," she said. "What will you give me for one?"

"A dollar, " the man replied, reaching into his pocket and stepping toward her. "I'll give you a dollar for one of them. '

Janessa waited until the man was very near, then quickly stepped away. "Why would you do that?" she asked. "You can buy several packages for a dollar."

"Because I want one of them!" the man barked, losing his temper. "Now, if you want a dollar for one of them, come here and get it!"

Glancing down the boardwalk, Janessa saw the sheriff motion to a wagon moving along the street. He and the deputies ran out and got behind it, using it for concealment as it approached the bank. Shaking her head, Janessa put the cigarettes into her pocket. "I don't want to sell any of my cigarettes."

"Then get out of here and stop pestering me!" the man bellowed, furious. "If you don't, I'll make you sorry you ever saw me!"

As soon as he turned away, Janessa stepped off the boardwalk beside the horses, took the string of firecrackers from her pocket, and touched the tip of her cigarette to the fuse. Just then the front door of the bank flew open, the other three men running out with bags. The fuse

flared, and Janessa flung the firecrackers under the horses and broke into a run, fleeing across the street.

Only seconds later the firecrackers began exploding with a staccato roar, and the horses immediately turned into a rearing, plunging mass. Shrill, fi-ightened neighs sounded over the explosions as the animals jerked the hitching rail clear off its support posts and broke their reins fi-ee. Bucking, rearing, and kicking, they began scattering in a cloud of dust.

The four men had whipped out their pistols in reaction to the firecrackers, but then they froze, looking in shock at the horses. The sheriff shouted from behind the wagon as it, too, took off down the street, the driver leaping from the seat. The lawmen spread out, and there was a thunderous roar of gunfire. Janessa, hearing a horse immediately behind her, darted a glance over her shoulder.

Its eyes wide and glaring, the huge animal was headed straight toward her. Too late, she tried to dodge it. The horse's powerful shoulder struck her with a solid, heavy impact that lifted her off her feet and sent her flying through the air. She slammed down onto the street on her back, the breath knocked from her. The street seemed to spin around her, the gunfire sounding as though it came from far away.

Meanwhile, Cindy had hurried to the front window of the store as soon as she heard the firecrackers. Seeing Janessa running from the plunging horses, she dashed out the door, only to be met by the roar of gunfire.

Cindy took in the pandemonium at a glance. Horses were storming about, the street was filled with dust and gun smoke from the blistering exchange of fire between the lawmen and the men in front of the bank, and Janessa lay sprawled on the street, old Josh Sellars running toward her as fast as he could, dodging horses along the way.

Terror raced through Cindy. To her left, she saw Timmy running along the boardwalk toward her. Wasting no time, she darted into the street, shouting to Joshua. "Josh, get Timmy into the store! I'll get Janessa!"

The old man hesitated, then shouted a needless warning for her to be careful as he made for Timmy in a shambling run. A panic-stricken horse charged out of the dust straight at Cindy, but she dodged it. A stray bullet whizzed within inches of her head, while another raised a spout of dirt at her feet. She reached Janessa, scooped up the girl in her arms, and hurried back toward the store.

Joshua ran into the store with Timmy in his arms, Biddle waving him on. A pane in the door exploded into a shower of glass splinters as a stray bullet struck it. Biddle ducked, holding the door open for Cindy as she ran inside with Janessa.

Cindy gently placed the girl on the floor and bent over her. Relief flooded through her when she saw that Janessa was only stunned. The gunfire outside died away, and Cindy helped Janessa into a chair as Biddle brought a small glass of brandy. The girl took a sip of the strong spirit as they listened to Timmy breathlessly relate what had happened.

A minute later the sheriff came in to inquire about Janessa, and he smiled broadly when he saw that she was not injured. "Everybody is mighty indebted to you, young lady," he said. "If it hadn't been for you and this boy here, those men would have cleaned out the bank."

"Did you get all of them, SherifP" Biddle asked.

"Yes, every one of them," the sheriff replied. "One is dead, and the other three are wounded." He turned to Cindy and courteously took off his hat. "If these children were anyone else's, Miss Cindy, I guess I'd have plenty to say about what they did. But they're Holts, and no more needs to be said."

He nodded to Timmy and Janessa as he turned to the door and went back out. The color had returned to the girl's face, but she still looked weak and shaken.

"Josh, take the things out to the wagon, if you would," Cindy said. "I want to get Janessa home so she can rest."

"I'll give you a hand," Biddle volunteered. He followed Josh to the counter, but a moment later he was

back, holding out an open package of Philip Morris cigarettes. "Everv^ dime I've worked for for the past twenty years is in that bank. Miss Janessa, so I can't tell you how grateful I am for what you did. I have six more cartons of these, and I'll put them with your aunt's things. When you run out, just let me know, and I'll fix you up with another supply."

The girl smiled weakly and took the offered cigarettes. She pulled one out, put it in her mouth, and fished a match from her pockets, then suddenly looked up at Cindy, as it occurred to her that she was about to smoke in a public place. Cindy smiled, taking the match from the girl. She struck it on the floor and held it up for Janessa to light her cigarette.

In the wooded hills of eastern Wisconsin, the pristine beauty of a burbling creek held Ursula Oberg's attention as she stood waiting for her grown daughter, Maida, to taste the water.

Giant evergreens along the creek were mixed with tall oaks, birches, and aspens in an endless variety of shades of green. The briglit sunshine beaming down through the trees dappled the sparkling water, and the morning breeze had a cool, fresh feel.

The scene was not unlike some places in Ursula's native Germany, but the atmosphere was different. There, the ownership of every inch of land was documented on records that dated back through generations, and property rights were jealously guarded. But in this country there were vast stretches of virgin land that were scarcely explored. The attitude toward proprietorship was casual, giving Ursula a sense of freedom to enjoy the beauty of the creek completely, to walk along it if she wished.

Ursula and Maida were newly arrived immigrants, having left Germany because of a government policy called Kulturhampf, a return to supposedly traditional Teutonic culture. Ursula's family was Catholic, a rehgion being suppressed in Germany. Yet in the United States, she had

found, in addition to enjoying freedom of religion, the people had a broad range of personal freedoms unknown in the old country. Already there was a large German community in Milwaukee, and for that reason Ursula had chosen to come to Wisconsin.

Maida dipped up water from the creek and tasted it, then spat it out with a grimace of disgust. "Swamp water," she said, speaking in German. Her mother could speak English, but Maida could not. "It is full of decaying vegetation and other filth."

Ursula had already quenched her thirst with water from the creek and had found it delicious and refreshing. But she made no comment as she and Maida walked back to their rented horse and buggy parked at the side of the road. They climbed in, and Ursula took the reins, while Maida slumped on the seat dejectedly.

The buggy moved along the narrow road, following the stream, swaying as the wheels bumped over ruts. Glancing at her daughter, Ursula reflected that while she had been unable to give her deceased husband a son, she had given him a daughter who was his image in every respect, except that she was a woman. Small and dark-haired, Maida had large, melancholy brown eyes that saw a rainstorm in everv' bright, fleecy cloud.

Maida also followed her father's profession. A master brewer without sons, he had passed along his skills to his daughter. He had done well, guiding the natural gift that Maida had possessed as a small child, and she had taken his place when he died.

The owners of the brewery back in Saarbriicken had been eager to hire her. Even in Germany, where beer had been a national beverage for centuries, her skill was legend. The rich premium beer that she brewed had been in demand in nearly ever\' capital in Europe.

Sighing despondently, Maida sat up on the seat. "There are breweries in Milwaukee," she said. "I could work there."

Hesitating, Ursula searched for a reply. She knew

that the owners of the breweries in Milwaukee would refuse to hire a woman as a master brewer, but Maida would have difficulty understanding that. Like her father, she was unable to comprehend many of the complexities of life. Ursula decided to discourage the idea.

"Maida, you tasted the beer in Milwaukee," she said. "Would you buy such beer?"

"Of course not!" Maida snapped impatiently. "Do you think I would make such swill? I would make good beer."

"How could you?" Ursula countered. "They use lake water to make beer. How could anyone make good beer with lake water?"

The point was well taken, as Ursula knew it would be. Maida had no reply.

"We have been searching for a good stream for weeks," Maida commented morosely, after a long silence. "We have searched and searched, and we have found nothing but swamp water. Perhaps there is no good water here."

"Be patient, Maida," Ursula advised. "The money we have will last for a few months if we are thrifty, so we have plenty of time. We will find good water."

"Mavbe we should return to Germany," Maida grumbled.

"Then we would only have to leave again," Ursula replied. "The government's poHcy will not change."

Maida was silent for a moment, thinking. "You could tell everyone that you have decided to become a Protestant," she said.

Ursula controlled her urge to smile. Like her father before her, Maida was naive and childishly impractical. Her extremely narrow focus on a single aspect of life, her profession, often made her act and even look like a young girl, though she was twenty-five years old. "That would be a he," Ursula replied, "which would be immoral and sinful."

Unimpressed by her mother's scruples, Maida sighed gloomily and fell silent. Ursula reflected that, strangely, her relationship with her daughter was in many respects identical to that she had had with Maida's father. Her role

in life was also substantially the same as it had been when her husband was alive. She prepared meals that were completely bland to avoid injuring the master brewer's sensitive taste buds; she maintained a comfortable household for the master brewer; and, most important of all, she provided moral support and cheerful companionship to uplift the spirits of the pessimistic, temperamental master brewer.

And now she was also lifting the master brewer to a well-deserved status of independence. Kulturkaynpf had been only an excuse; Ursula could have found a way to remain in Germany. The need to emigrate had been a handy pretext—accepted as fact by the naive master brewer—to break out of the rigid Old World strictures that had kept generations of Oberg brewers in anonymous bondage. In the future, the delicious, full-bodied premium beer brewed by the master brewer would be called Oberg beer.

As the buggy rounded a curve, Ursula stood up and looked at a log bridge ahead. "There is another creek, Maida," she said.

"Another among hundreds," Maida replied glumly. "And all of them nothing but swamp water."

Ursula was more optimistic, because this creek appeared to come from higher ground. It flowed down a hill on the left and under the bridge to join the wide stream they had been following. A dim road near the bridge led up the hill. Knowing that the best water always came from high ground, Ursula turned the horse onto the side road.

The way was overgrown, little more than two wheel tracks hemmed in by brush and trees. It passed through a glade of ferns, and then the trees closed in again. In some places saplings were sprouting in the ashes of underbrush that had burned the preceding autumn. Ursula had heard frequent mention of the fires here last year; they had been started by hot embers borne on the wind from Chicago and later had been extinguished by rain.

The horse puffed and strained as the road curved on

up the hill. Over the noisy scraping of the brush against the buggy, Ursula could hear the creek babbling nearby. For the first time she began to sense that their weeks of prowling the forest roads of Wisconsin would soon be at an end. She was about to comment encouragingly to her daughter when she saw that there was no need for her to say anything. Maida was sitting bolt upright, craning her neck and trying to see through the trees ahead.

The road came to an end, the trees opening into a wide clearing that not long ago had been a farm. Lush grass was growing up from the ashes of a cornfield that had burned the previous autumn. The house itself was a heap of charred timbers, but a large, well-built bam still stood, protected from the fire by the wide, bare expanse around it.

When the buggy stopped, Maida leaped from it and began running up the hill in the direction of the creek. Shouting a warning about dangerous snakes, Ursula ran after her, pausing to snatch up a stick with which to beat the brush and drive away any creatures that might be lurking. She tried to catch up with Maida, but the younger woman could run like a deer. With the brush tugging at her long, heavy dress, Ursula slowed to a trot, panting heavily. Then abruptly the foliage opened out and she found Maida standing at the head of the creek.

The trees and brush were set back around an expanse of rock that a geological cataclysm of eons before had thrust upward from the bowels of the earth. It was ancient granite, split with fissures that reached downward to some deep reservoir and provided egress for the water, which burbled up in a dozen or more large springs that together were the fountainhead of the creek.

It appeared to Ursula that she and Maida had found one of those rare, most precious sources of pure, untainted water—a large, free-flowing artesian spring. "Have you tasted it, Maida?" she asked.

Gazing at the water as though unable to believe what

she was seeing, Maida slowly shook her head. "No," she replied.

"Then taste it. Why are you waiting?"

Maida hesitated a moment longer, in either reverence or fear of abject disappointment—Ursula was unsure which. Finally she knelt at the edge of the water and washed her hands in it, to remove any traces of sweat and grime. She dipped up a handful of water and filled her mouth.

After a moment, she spat it out. She drew in a deep, quick breath through her mouth and nose to exercise the full sensitivity of taste buds that would never sample spices, citrus, vinegar, onions, or any other strong flavor. Then she turned to Ursula with an ecstatic smile. "It is good water," she said softly, in awe. "Pure, clean artesian water."

"Then we have finally found what you need, little one," Ursula said triumphantly. "And it is on land that is not being used. Come, we must find out who owns this property and see if we can buy it."

"You go and find out," Maida replied, dipping a hand in the water and watching it trickle from her palm. "1 will wait here."

"No, no," Ursula said, stepping to her daughter and putting an arm around her small waist. "I cannot leave you here alone in the wilderness, Maida. Come, we will return soon enough."

Maida remained reluctant to leave, but Ursula was four inches taller and sixty pounds heavier than her daughter. She gently turned Maida away from the stream and led her back down the hill toward the clearing.

By the time they reached the barn, Maida's pleasure over finding the artesian spring had been replaced by her usual defeatism. With eager pessimism, she was searching for insurmountable problems. "I have no cooperage," she said despondently. "You refused to allow me to bring casks and my tuns. How can I make beer without casks and tuns made of good German oak?"

"The oak here is as good as in Germany," Ursula

replied, pulling open one of the large doors at the front of the barn. "And we will hire the most skilled cooper we can find." Looking into the vast, dim interior, she nodded in satisfaction. "Maida, this barn was built with more care than most houses, and it has a metal roof"

"And so?" Maida said, puzzled. "We have no horses or cattle."

"No, but we need a place to live, and a place for you to make beer," Ursula said. "For the present, this barn could serve both purposes. We could live on one side and use the other side as your brewery. There is more than enough room."

"I am to make beer in this shed?" Maida exclaimed in despair. "I must have a brewery to make beer, not a shed!"

"Maida, this is not a shed. It is a bam, and it is built—"

"It is a shed, with drafts that will blow across my tuns and make the fermentation uneven! How can I brew beer in such a place?"

"We can have partitions built and cover all of the cracks in the walls, so there will be no drafts," Ursula said patiently. She lifted a hand to cut oif further protest. "Listen to me, Maida. The owner of the land apparently has no use for it, so we can probably buy it. But at this very moment someone else could be bartering with him for it."

Maida hesitated, her brov^ni eyes wide with alarm. The next moment she was walking rapidly toward the buggy. Ursula smiled at her daughter fondly, then closed the barn door and followed.

The nearest house was at a small, isolated farmstead several miles back down the road. Ursula stopped to talk to a man hoeing in a field, and he told her that the deserted barn and the surrounding land belonged to a man named Fred Guthrie, the proprietor of a tavern in Colmer.

Colmer was ten miles from the farmstead, and the shadows of midafternoon were stretching across the road when Ursula and Maida reached the town. It was small, with a main street little more than a hundred yards long, but it bustled with activity. Serving as a supply depot for logging camps in the area, the town had more warehouses than homes.

Ursula stopped in front of the only tavern in town. Having heard stories concerning the bad reputation of such establishments, she told Maida to remain in the buggy while she went inside.

The door of the tavern was standing open, and three men were seated at a table just inside. Ursula stepped onto the small porch and peered in, trying to decide whether or not to enter. One of the men at the table noticed and grinned lewdly.

"Come on in, sweetie," he called, pointing to his crotch. "I have something I'll give you."

The other men at the table laughed raucously, and Ursula stepped back off the porch, deciding to find another way to talk with the man named Guthrie. The laughter suddenly broke off, however, as the large, aproned figure of the proprietor swiftly crossed the tavern. The three at the table were hefty lumberjacks, but the man approaching was even bigger. He had a peg leg, and it slammed against the floor as he planted himself and grabbed the worst offender by the front of the shirt, dragging him up from his chair. "I won't have ladies insulted on my premises!" he bellowed furiously. "Now you and you other two swine get out of here fast, and don't come back!"

He released the collared lumberjack, who glanced in disbelief at his friends. "What's a gimp Hke you doing calling me a swine?" he snarled at the proprietor. "At least I'm a whole man, and I'll give you plenty of reason to remember it!"

As he lunged toward the one-legged man, he seemed to run into an invisible wall. In a movement so quick Ursula barely saw it, the tavern owner lashed out with a

hamlike fist. It struck the other man full in the face with a meaty thud, reeling him backward over a chair.

The other two at the table rushed the tavern owner. One of them, a swarthy, beefy man, pulled out a knife. Ursula started to shout in warning, but the tavern owner had already reacted. Balancing himself lightly on his good leg, he lashed out with his peg leg. The blunt, hardwood tip rammed deep into the lumberjack's corpulent belly, then flicked sideways, knocking the knife harmlessly to the floor. The man's face twisted in agony as he doubled over, clutching his stomach and retching.

The third man skidded to a stop and wheeled toward the door, but the tavern owner took a quick step toward him and slapped at his ankles with the peg leg. Stumbling, the man fell heavily against a table. The burly tavern owner immediately pounced on him, spinning him around and slamming a hard fist into his face.

The brawl, as it was, had ended before the others in the tavern could come to the owner's assistance. They sat back down, chuckling and commenting in satisfaction as the big man seized the three and heaved them out the door. Dazed and staggering, the troublemakers stumbled off down the street.

The tavern owner stepped outside onto the porch. "I'm Fred Guthrie, ma'am, " he said to Ursula, pohtely touching his forehead. "This is my tavern, and I apologize for what was said to you. If you and your friend would like to come inside for a glass of beer or something to eat, you have my word that you 11 be treated with due respect. "

"Thank you, Mr. Guthrie, but we do not wish to come inside, and there is no need for you to apologize. I would like to talk with you, though. I am Ursula Oberg, and my companion is my daughter, Maida."

A momentary silence fell. Fred Guthrie was surprised that the two women—obviously recent immigrants—were mother and daughter. Ursula was tall, regal, and buxom, with a touch of gray in her light brown hair, and she had the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen. Even her

German accent was pleasing to his ears. The younger woman was small, with dark hair and eyes, and she looked ill-tempered.

Liking the tall, attractive woman immensely, Fred sought for words, his self-assurance suddenly evaporating. He had never found it easy to deal with women who appealed to him. "I'm very pleased to meet both of you," he said, looking away. "Uh . . . your daughter doesn't look like you very much, does she?"

Ursula smiled, shaking her head. "No. Like her late father, she is an Oberg in every respect. "

The man silently nodded, gazing down the street. He seemed to be purposely ignoring her.

Puzzled by his sudden reticence, Ursula stared at him. His features were strong and handsome. Gray peppered his beard and his short, neat hair. She wondered why his attitude toward her had changed so abruptly.

Maida, unable to understand English, called out in German, "Mother, is he the man who owns the land?"

"Yes, he is," Ursula rephed. She turned back to Fred, to explain the exchange. "Maida was asking about some land we looked at today," she said. "I believe it belongs to you. It has a bam on it, and there is a creek on the hill behind the barn. We would like to buy it."

Fred glanced at her, nodded, then looked away again. "Yes, it's mine," he mumbled. "You can have it for a hundred dollars."

The price was absurdly low. Ursula smiled and shook her head. "Please name a reasonable price, Mr. Guthrie."

"The land is of no use to me, ma'am," he said. "My brother left it to me when he died, but I'm not a farmer." He pointed to his wooden leg. "I was a lumberjack until that happened. Now I have my tavern, and I find lumberjacks for camps that need men. Anyway, the land is worth less because there's no house. I suppose you noticed that."

"Yes, I did. Eventually I would like to have a house, but the barn will do for now. It is built as well as most houses."

"It certainly is," he agreed. "My brother Hked a good barn." He was still looking down the street as he spoke. "Like I said, you can have it and the land for a hundred dollars—unless you think that's too much."

"Of course it is not too much," Ursula said, reluctant to agree on such a low price; it would almost be like cheating him. She decided to try another approach, in order to make him realize that she was not poor. "If you know the lumberjacks and other workers around here, perhaps you know of a cooper. I would like to hire one, but he must be highly skilled."

Stroking his beard, Fred tried to shrug aside the confusion that the woman created in him and think of someone who could help her. Maida, becoming impatient, called out again in German. "Mother, will he sell the land to us, and do we have enough money to buy it?"

"Yes, we will buy the land from him," Ursula replied.

Fred shrugged when Ursula explained what Maida had asked. "The bargain's been made, as far as I'm concerned, " he said. "And I know a man who can make barrels. His name is Rafferty, and he lived in Chicago until his house burned in the fire. He's a cabinetmaker, but I'm sure he can make barrels and other things. I'll talk to him."

"I would appreciate that very much, Mr. Guthrie. And I would also appreciate it if you would name a reasonable price for your land. "

Someone inside the tavern knocked a glass impatiently against the bar for another drink. Fred looked around with a steely glare that stopped the knocking. But when he turned back to Ursula, his eyes still avoided hers. "If you want the land, you'll have it," he said. "Bring your things, and I'll help you get settled in the barn."

Ursula stared at him, musing. All at once she realized what was so plain to see—that the tall, brawny man was attracted to her but was shy about it. She chided herself for being so dense. Knowing now what had to be done, she decided to defer talk about price until later. When she

knew him better, she reflected, she could make him see sense. And she was determined to know this man better.

"Very well, Mr. Guthrie," she said, turning toward the buggy. "I will be back tomorrow, and I will bring my things with me."

Fred nodded and smiled happily. He followed her to the buggy. "When you get here, I'll close my tavern and go with you to help. In talking with you, ma'am, it's hard to believe that you've been here only a short time. You speak English better than many who have been here tor years. "

"I have been studying the language for years, Mr. Guthrie, because I have been planning for years to come here."

"Even so, you still speak English better than most. It'll take your daughter a good while to catch up with you, if she ever does."

"There is no need for her to try," Ursula said firmly. "I can always translate for her."

Noting Ursula's quick protectiveness toward Maida, Fred realized that the one way to alienate the woman was to make the slightest criticism about her daughter. "Of course you can, " he said, helping Ursula into the buggy. "As long as you understand each other, nothing else matters, does it?" He stepped back from the buggy as Ursula gathered up the reins and released the brake. "I'll see you tomorrow, ma'am."

"Good-bye, Mr. Guthrie. I am very grateful for all of your help."

"It was my pleasure, ma'am."

As the buggy moved off down the busy street, Ursula thought about Fred Guthrie and her unexpected feehngs toward him. His reaction to her, his painful shyness, was both amusing and pleasing. As she thought about the tall, handsome, and charming man, a warm glow was kindled within her. All of a sudden, a new and different phase of life seemed to be opening up before her.

Then she put the subject out of her mind, thinking

about what she had to do. Wagons would have to be hired to haul her belongings and Maida's equipment stored in Milwaukee, and she needed to buy food and other supplies to take to the barn. Selecting food was always a problem; Maida could eat only the blandest things, and she never had a good appetite.

As the bustle of the town faded behind, Ursula began talking about all the arrangements that had to be made. Then, glancing at her daughter, she fell silent and smiled. Maida was dozing off to sleep. Ursula put an arm around her and pulled her closer.

When Maida's purpose in life was at hand, Ursula reflected, she was always in a frenzy of anxiety. During the last, crucial hours of fermentation, the master brewer's judgment as to when to start drawing the beer down made the difference between good beer and premium beer. And during those long, tense hours, Maida was always harried, sleepless, and unapproachable.

Supremely skilled in making beer, she was interested in little else. Talk of food, furniture, a house, and other trifles merely bored the master brewer. Ursula smiled affectionately as her small, slender daughter nestled closer to her and went to sleep.

As she looked out the window of the hired carriage at a busy street in the new Back Bay district of Boston, Marjorie White noted with dread that she was near her destination. Within minutes, she would arrive at a photographic assignment of a nature that she viewed with extreme dislike.

To take her mind oif the assignment, she opened the large leather-and-brass cases on the floor of the carriage and checked her equipment. The cameras in the cases were the ones she had owned for years, but the cases themselves and other items of equipment were new, the best and most expensive available. Fate had placed her at the scene when the Great Chicago Fire had occurred, and the plates for stereopticon slides that she had made of the fire had brought in a large amount of money.

The demand for the slides had been so great that her business partner, Clayton Hemmings, had been unable to print them rapidly enough. During the months since the fire, instead of venturing off across the country to make plates for slides of other scenes, she had worked with Clayton and helped him print a large supply of slides of the fire.

Along with money had come a degree of fame—and that had led to the lucrative assignment to which the carriage was taking her. She didn't actually need the extra

31

work, but she remembered the lean years of sleeping on benches in railroad stations and skipping meals so she would have enough money to buy photographic supplies.

Her partner, with a family to support, remembered the lean years even more keenly. When the offer of the assignment had arrived in the mail, he had urged her to accept it, and she had reluctantly agreed, despite her strong misgivings.

Marjorie closed the cases as the carriage turned onto a side street. It stopped, and the driver climbed down from his seat. Marjorie straightened her hat, flicked a bit of Hnt off the shoulder of her short, dark cape, and adjusted the waist of her dark dress.

The driver opened the door and lifted out the cases, then helped Marjorie out. She paid him, giving him an extra twenty-five cents. "Could you wait for me?" she asked. "I'll be here about a half hour."

The man nodded, doffing his tall hat in thanks for the tip. Marjorie picked up her cases and climbed the steps in front of the building. Two men were waiting on the landing at the entrance, both of them dressed in black.

The heavier man, whose impeccably tailored suit testified to his wealth, stared at Marjorie in perplexity, but bowed when she reached the top of the steps. "I'm Milton Farnsworth," he said. "I'm in charge of the arrangements, and I presume you're the photographist. I was expecting M. White, the famous photographist who made the slides of the Great Chicago Fire."

"I'm M. White, " Marjorie replied, putting down the cases.

Farnsworth blinked in surprise. "But you're a woman," he blurted.

"Yes, I am a woman," Marjorie admitted gravely. She pointed to her name on the side of the cases. "But I am also M. White."

The man hesitated, then smiled apologetically and bowed again. "Please forgive me if I've offended you," he

said. "I was taken aback for a moment, and I meant no offense."

Marjorie was unfazed. "I'm not offended in the least. Is all the family here?"

"Yes," Farnsworth replied. "We can begin immediately, if you wish. I'll be glad to assist you, if I may."

"I would appreciate that very much."

He picked up Marjorie's cases. The other man, thf^ director of the funeral home, opened the door and held it. Farnsworth carried the cases inside, Marjorie following him.

A soft drone of somber organ music drifted into the dimly liglited entrance foyer, which was thickly carpeted and heavily draped in deep blue and purple. The air was thick with the sweet, cloying scent of embalming fluid and an almost overpowering smell of flowers. Marjorie suppressed a shiver as she followed Farnsworth across the foyer.

Glancing around, she concluded that the assignment would be more profitable than she and Cla\i:on had thought. The establishment itself was a very expensive one, and Farnsworth was leading her toward the largest and most opulent of the viewing rooms.

Two attendants were at the door of the viewing room. One held a box of folding silk fans imprinted with the name of the funeral home, plus smelling salts to deal with the inevitable fainting spells. The other, a young man, presented Marjorie with the visitors' book to sign.

As she signed the book, the attendant surreptitiously took out a small box and placed it on the open page. It was one of the boxes in which her slides of the fire were sold. With the young man looking at her in a silent plea, Marjorie dipped the pen again and wrote her signature on the box. The attendant flashed her a quick smile, whisking the box back out of sight.

Marjorie followed Farnsworth into the viewing room and down the side aisle, her estimate of the potential profits of the assignment increasing even more. Not carats

but pounds of diamonds were on display, and expensive black brocade dresses were trimmed with costly silk and lace. This was a very large, extremely wealthy family bidding their patriarch farewell.

Several senior members of the gathering shifted in their chairs to stare at Marjorie in puzzled dissatisfaction. After putting down one of the cases, Farnsworth stepped to them and whispered, pointing to her name on the side of the other case. The frowns faded, and he returned to Marjorie, attentively eager to assist her.

While everything had to be done in an appropriate atmosphere of respect and decorum, it was understood by all present that grief now had to take second place to the necessity of recording the event for posterity. The funeral director silently moved along the side aisles and opened the thick, tasseled drapes to let light in, as Marjorie set up her tripod and put her view camera in place.

Looking at the ground glass surface at the rear of the camera, Marjorie framed a view of the mourners and focused the camera. She took a plate holder from her case and quietly slipped it into place in front of the glass, then pulled out the dark slide that protected the plate, exposing it to the rear of the lens. When she held up the dark slide—the signal that she was ready to take a photograph— the fans stopped moving. Everyone froze, gazing toward the coffin.

Marjorie removed the cover from the lens and counted off the seconds for the exposure. When she replaced the cover on the lens and lowered the dark slide, the mourners relaxed with an audible sigh, fans working busily again. With Farnsworth assisting her, Marjorie moved the camera to another position as quietly as possible.

From any angle, some of the forty or so members of the clan were hidden behind others. Moving the camera several times, Marjorie made certain that every family group in the room was prominent in at least one photograph. At the fifty dollars or more that Clayton would charge for each album of prints, it would be a substantial

loss if one of the families were piqued and refused to buy an album.

Her mind occupied by what she was doing, Marjorie momentarily forgot her dislike for the assignment. After completing the photographs of the mourners, she took several views of the flower displays and the coffin on its dais. Next came the scene of the principal mourners at the coffin, a conventional pose, and Marjorie whispered instructions to Farnsworth. He sent the funeral director for a velvet-covered kneeling stool, then gathered the widow and her grown children by the coffin. With the aged widow kneeling in place, Marjorie arranged the family members behind the woman.

Marjorie posed the men with their right hands tucked inside their coats and their left feet a half-pace forward. Then she posed the daughter and the widow with their handkerchiefs near but not concealing their faces. As a reward for Farnsworth's efforts—and whether or not the others wished it—she placed him in the immediate background.

When she was done and the principal mourners had returned to their seats, it was time for the final photograph, the centerpiece of the album. Marjories disHke of the assignment returned with renewed intensity. She moved the camera close to the coffin and extended the tripod to its full height.

Standing on the stool beside the camera, Marjorie carefully avoided looking into the coffin as she loosened the thumbscrews on the tripod pan and tilted the camera downward. She peered at the ground glass to focus the camera and frame the photograph, all the while trying to maintain a sense of detachment. The light was poor, she noted, and the exposure would have to be a long one—but this was one subject who would not fidget.

Using the judgment she had developed over the years, Marjorie decided to give the plate a three-minute exposure. She removed the cover from the lens and looked at her watch, avoiding the coffin with her eyes. With grow-

ing nervousness she waited, the rows of mourners all looking at her and the only sound in the room the soft rustle of fans working busily.

At last it was finished. Marjorie replaced the cover on the lens and stepped down from the stool. Farnsworth helped her disassemble her tripod and pack it away; then he picked up the cases to carry them out. Marjorie followed him along the side aisle, the mourners nodding to her solemnly in farewell.

Farnsworth carried the cases down the steps to the street. As he was putting them into the carriage, he mentioned a close friend of his who had an aged, seriously ill aunt. "If worst comes to worst," he said, "I would be glad to refer him to you for—"

"I'll be leaving the city very shortly," Marjorie interrupted him quickly. "I rarely do anything other than ste-reopticon slides, and I'm away most of the time. But I do appreciate your offer."

"Not at all. And I'm more than grateful that you accepted us as clients. Your name will be on the albums, won't it?"

"Yes, it will. My partner will develop the plates and send you a sample album within the next few days. You can show it to the rest of the family, and they can place their orders with him."

Farnsworth smiled, helping her into the carriage. "I'll look forward to receiving it. Meeting you has certainly made this a day that I'll long remember."

"I will as well. Good-bye."

Farnsworth bowed as the carriage moved away. Marjorie waited until he was out of sight, then leaned over and opened the windows. The sweet odor of embalming fluid seemed to have permeated her clothes. As fresh air wafted into the carriage, she heaved a sigh of relief and sat back on the seat.

When the carriage drew up in front of her partner's house, Marjorie waved to Clayton's three children, who were playing in the front yard. Since the slides of the

Great Chicago Fire had gone on sale, the children had been wearing new clothes, the house had been repainted and completely refurnished, and a new carriage stood in the drive.

Clara Hemmings met Marjorie at the door and took one of the cases as they walked along the hall to the office and studio at the rear of the house. Clayton and his wife were some fifteen years older than Marjorie, but they were close friends of hers. Clayton had helped Marjorie perfect her skills in photography, and in the past months he and Clara had come to view the younger woman as a family benefactor.

Several years before, while Clayton had been mixing chemicals to prepare wet collodion plates, a spark from some unknown source had ignited the volatile solution. He had almost died from his burns, which had left him disfigured and crippled. During the years after his accident and before his partnership with Marjorie, the Hemmings family had been very poor.

Clayton had once been an extremely handsome man, but now the left side of his face was a mass of red, wrinkled scar tissue, and his left arm and leg were almost useless. A recluse who left his house rarely and only after dark, he was sensitive about his appearance, even with those who were close to him. He was at the desk when Clara and Marjorie came into the office, and he turned the left side of his face away from them.

"I'll make coffee, ' Clara said, putting down the case she was carrying. "You would probably Hke some, wouldn't you, Marjorie?"

"I certainly would," Marjorie replied with a warm smile. "You always think of the right things, Clara." She put down her other case and sat in the chair beside the desk as Clara went out. "Clay, no more jobs at funeral parlors, " she said firmly.

Clayton smiled, looking straight ahead and keeping his right profile to her; only when they were working

together in the dim red Hght of a darkroom would he face her. "Was it all that bad, Marjorie?" he chuckled.

"Worse, " she replied. "When we were first getting started, and before the mail order company began selling our stereo slides, we had to take anything we could get. We don't have to now."

"Yes, that's true," he agreed, looking through the papers on the desk. "Very well, Marjorie—no more funerals. By the way, the mail arrived about an hour ago, and we received some good news and bad news. Here's the good news. "

He handed her a letter with a check attached to it, and Marjorie sat back in her chair and glanced over them. The letter, from the mail order company that sold their stereopticon slides, was a request for more slides of the Great Chicago Fire. The check was their share of the revenues from the slides that had been sold during the past weeks.

"This is good news," Marjorie commented. "It appears that those slides will continue selling for years."

"It does, and I wish you'd reconsider what you're doing with your share of the money," Clayton said. "Money is like seed that will multiply, but you lose that benefit when you keep it in a bank safety deposit box. I've almost doubled my money on some of my investments."

"No, you haven't," Marjorie replied bluntly. "The papers for which you paid good money are simply selling for twice as much as they were when you bought them. But if you try to buy a loaf of bread with them, you'll find out how much they're worth. I'll keep my money where it is."

"But you could at least place it on deposit at the bank," Clayton said patiently. "Then you'd get interest on it, which is little enough."

Marjorie shook her head, putting the letter and check on the desk. "No, I don't trust banks. Clay. I've read that some people are predicting a financial crisis that could result in bank failures."

"There are always doomsday prophets," Clayton scoffed. "All of the progressive financiers are predicting continued growth well into the future. That's advice worth heeding, Marjorie."

"Or wishful thinking. What's the bad news, Clay?"

He handed her another letter. "It's a reply to the request I made last week concerning your taking a voyage on a whaler. Another polite refusal. "

Marjorie glanced over the letter. It was from a company in New Bedford that owned several whaling ships, and it stated that accommodations for a female photographist would not be available on any company ships in the foreseeable future. It was the latest in a series of similar refusals.

As they were discussing what to do next, Clara came in with a coffeepot and cups on a tray. As she set a cup on the desk in front of Clayton, he turned away. Marjorie noted the fleeting expression of hurt on the older woman's face. Clara's deep love for her husband was unaffected by his appearance, yet Clayton's behavior indicated a complete lack of trust and faith in her.

The state of affairs had existed for as long as Marjorie had known Clayton and Clara. It gave her a sense of helpless frustration, because she was extremely fond of both of them, yet she knew that the subject was too sensitive for her to broach with either one. Smiling in thanks as Clara handed her a cup of coffee, Marjorie reflected on the needless complexities of human relationships.

As Clara left the room, Marjorie continued the conversation. "All the large whaling companies have turned us down. I don't believe we'll have any better luck with the small ones."

"I don't either," Clayton agreed, opening a desk drawer. He took out a well-thumbed copy of the catalog published by the company that sold their slides and began leafing through it. "The important thing is to get a new set or two of slides listed in the catalog as soon as possible.

The company intends to feature you as the photographist of the Great Chicago Fire, so everything you do will sell well."

Marjorie took a sip of her coffee. "We've talked about a set of slides on the plantations in Arkansas, and this might be a good time for me to go there. It won't be insufferably hot yet."

"Yes, or you could go to Wisconsin and do a set on the logging there," Clayton said. "That would probably be better, because there aren't any slides on Wisconsin listed in the catalog. They would sell well."

Marjorie hesitated. Her great fear was that something would come betw^een her and her profession. Toby Holt, who owned the logging operation in Wisconsin, had no feelings for her except friendship. But that could change, and she was drawn to him with an intensity that reached the depths of her being, an intensity that could threaten her commitment to her profession.

Then she thought about Ted Taylor. He was working as a law enforcement officer in Iowa, but if there was any possible way for him to do it, he would come to Wisconsin when he heard that she was there. His feelings for her were deeper than hers for him, but she was very fond of him nonetheless. When she had been in Chicago the previous year, Ted's friendship had helped her to put Toby Holt out of her mind.

"I'll go to Wisconsin," Marjorie decided. "I'll send a telegram to Toby Holt and ask if I may visit his logging camp. I'm sure he'll be cooperative. "

Clayton nodded in satisfaction. "While you're in that area, you could make a few plates of the rebuilding in Chicago."

"Yes, I'll do that," Marjorie rephed. "From what I've read, it's progressing quite rapidly."

Rather than rapidly, the rebuilding of Chicago was proceeding at a frenzied pace. The booming of steam-driven pile drivers pounding foundation supports into the

earth could be heard from all parts of the cit>' as Toby Holt left the boardinghouse where he roomed and rode his horse along the streets toward his lumber company.

It was a bright, cheerful early summer day, with a refreshing breeze blowing off the lake. And as always, the sights and sounds of construction gave him a deep sense of satisfaction. The noise of the pile drivers, working twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week, was the sound of Chicago rising from its ashes.

Where the rubble of five-story buildings had been cleared away, ten-story buildings were going up, all conforming to a strict fire code. And occupying its niche in the rebuilding was the North Chicago Lumber Company. Through the money he had invested, plus the value of the land presented to him in appreciation for what he did during the fire, Toby owned fifty-one percent of the company. His ftiends Rob Martin and Edward Blackstone shared thirt\'-nine percent, and Frank Woods, another friend, owned ten percent.

A tall wooden fence surrounded the large waterfront property, and the wide gate was standing open for the day's business when Toby arrived. Although it was still early in the morning, the steam engine that powered the saws had already been stoked, and the circular steel blades were whining through wood. The saw house was in the center of the enclosure, with immense stacks of finished lumber off to the left, awaiting shipment. The company offices were in a spacious building against the fence on the right.

A pier jutted out into the water on the lake side of the property. North of it was a breakwater, with a log basin formed by barrels chained together. Huge logs that had been towed from the camp in Wisconsin floated inside the basin, and a steam winch was dragging one out of the water and up an incline to the saw house. The log, some eight feet in diameter and well over forty feet long, would be turned into thousands of board feet of lumber.

In one comer of the property were a pen and stable

for the horses and oxen used with the dehvery wagons. Toby left his horse with the stable boy and crossed the yard toward the offices. He stopped as the yard foreman, James Henshaw, waved and called out. Henshaw was a burly Irishman of fifty, with decades of experience in the lumber business. A well-dressed man, apparently a customer, was with him.

"Good morning, Toby," Henshaw said. "This is Carl Roberts, who owns a furniture factory in the city. He wants to buy some hardwOod, but he wants to pick through it for boards with a good grain pattern. That hasn't come up before, so I thought Td better check with you on it."

Toby shook hands with Roberts, a small, wiry man of about forty. "I'm Toby Holt, and I'm pleased to meet you, ' he said. "If you want to select boards, how does an additional thirty percent of the set price sound?"

Roberts hesitated; then he smiled. "Maybe I shouldn't say this, Mr. Holt, but that's about seventy percent below what the mills in Wisconsin ask. I'm always happy to get materials at the best price I can, but I also like to have a fair bargain all the way around."

"You're not saying anything I don't already know," Toby chuckled. "I know what the mills in Wisconsin charge. I also like a fair bargain all around, and I'm making a profit at the price I quoted. "

"Then you've just got yourself a steady customer," Roberts said. "From now on, I won't buy a stick of wood from the mills in Wisconsin. I'll go get busy and pick out my lumber. "

"I hope you find what you want," Toby said. "If you ever receive less than full satisfaction, just let me know."

The foreman smiled as Roberts walked away. "There's another happy customer, and I must say that we rarely have any other kind," he commented. "We're down to our last three pine logs in the breakwater, but the launch is supposed to bring pine on its next two or three trips fi-om the logging camp. It should be here about noon, shouldn't it?"

Toby thought for a moment, recalHng the schedule that he had discussed with Albert Crowell, the captain and owner of the steam launch. "Yes—or before then if the lake is fairly calm. By the way, Jim, I intend to go to the camp on the launch day after tomorrow, and I'll stay there for a week or so. I'll get together with you either this afternoon or tomorrow to talk about the yard schedule and the work that we have on hand."

The foreman nodded and walked away toward the saw house as Toby went into the office building. It was still a short time before the beginning of the workday, but the office manager was at his desk early, as usual. A tall, thin man of forty named Harold Phinney, he had a pedantic, formal manner and always wore a dark suit and a high, stiff collar. He looked up from his desk and murmured a greeting as Toby went through the outer office and into his own office.

On his desk was a cumulative listing of the month's receipts and expenses, which he looked at each morning and compared with those of the previous months. Ever since the company had begun operating, the monthly receipts had grown rapidly, and the reason for the instant success was reflected in what Carl Roberts had said. The company was putting lumber on the market at prices that were substantially lower than those charged by the mills in Wisconsin.

At the same time, Toby reflected, the profits had hardly begun to earn back the large initial outlay for livestock, equipment, and supplies at the lumberyard and the logging camp in Wisconsin. However, all of the start-up problems had been resolved, and the company was operating smoothly. If the profits continued growing, the initial investment would be paid off within a year or less.

While Toby was studying the listing, the rest of the staff arrived in the outer office and the workday began. A rhythmic clacking sound from the outer office also began, one to which Toby had become accustomed. It was from a machine called a typewriter, and it sounded the death

knell of difficulties in communication caused by poor handwriting.

The office errand boy was the last to arrive, since he had to stop by the post office to pick up the daily mail. This morning he was accompanied by a Western Union delivery boy. Harold Phinney signed for the telegram and quickly sorted through the mail, then stepped into Toby's office.

"We have several orders and inquiries about prices this morning, Mr. Holt," he said. "I'll bring them in as soon as they're entered in the log. This personal letter for you was also in the mail, and this telegram just arrived."

The letter was from Toby's daughter, Janessa. He put it down and ripped open the telegram. It was from Marjo-rie White, stating that she would like to visit the logging camp in Wisconsin the following week, if it would be convenient.

"Send a reply to this, Harold, and tell her that she will be more than welcome, " Toby directed. "Also, send a telegram to Ted Taylor, in care of the attorney general's office in Des Moines. Tell him that Marjorie White intends to come here for a visit next week."

Phinney took the telegram and left, and Toby sat back in his chair and opened the letter from Janessa. In his desk drawer was a large stack of letters he had received from her.

In the past, when he had exchanged letters, even with loved ones, the principal purpose had been to communicate information. And although Janessa's letters contained bits of information that his ranch foreman in Oregon, Stalking Horse, had asked her to pass on, for the most part they were simply a reaching out of a girl who had found a father.

The letters had started arriving in the wake of a time of wrenching anxiety for him, after he had rushed home to Oregon because of Timmy's injuries. When it had become apparent that the boy would fully recover, and Toby had

returned to Chicago, Janessa had begun writing almost daily. The letters had hardly let up since.

Long and chatty, they related what his sister, Cindy, was doing from day to day, and reported with watchful thoroughness on Timmy's latest activities. There were occasional references to his mother, Eulalia, and to his stepfather, xMajor General Leland Blake, who commanded the Army of the West from his headquarters at Fort Vancouver, across the river from Portland. But in sum total, the letters were an expression of affection. Toby answered them whenever he could.

Toby smiled reflectively as he read, prouder of his daughter than words could express. Just the other day he had received a letter from Cindy, telling him in glowing terms of Janessa's bravery in foihng a bank robbery in Portland. Janessa's own version of the incident was much more restrained. Toby's smile faded, however, as he turned a page and read a paragraph about his sister.

Cindy apparently was concerned that the letters from the young man to whom she was engaged. First Lieutenant Henry Blake, were becoming infrequent and seemed more impersonal. In his last letter, he had mentioned that he would be going to England in the near future. Cindy had remarked—and Janessa had expressed emphatic agreement in an underlined sentence punctuated by exclamation points—that if Henr\' had leisure time to visit England, he could come to the United States and visit her.

Henry Blake, the adopted son of Toby's mother and stepfather, had been engaged to Cindy for more than two years. Their marriage had been deferred after his graduation from West Point, because he had been sent to Europe as a military observer with the German Army encircling Paris. There he had somehow learned in advance when Paris would surrender, an achievement that had resulted in his immediate promotion to first heutenant.

After Paris surrendered, it had appeared that he would return to the United States to marry Cindy. Instead, however, he had been stationed in Germany, and their

wedding had been postponed again. At present, Henry was at an armaments factor\', reportedly studying the procurement methods of the German Army.

Rereading the paragraph, Toby shook his head, disagreeing with what it imphed. His sister and Henry Blake had known each other for years, and he had never seen a couple more in love. Henry, he reflected, was undoubtedly going to England for some official purpose.

The young lieutenant's letters to Cindy might have become infrequent, but that could only be because of the pressures of his work. Nothing, Toby believed, could ever change the fact that Cindy was the only woman in Henry Blake's life.

Both of Toby Holt's conclusions were wrong. When First Lieutenant Henr\' Blake arrived at Victoria Station in London on a late night train from Dover, he was on a leave of absence—not on duty—and his traveling companion was the Baroness Gisela von Kirchberg, with whom he had been living during the past year.

The vast platform, illuminated by ornate gaslight fixtures, was almost deserted at the late hour. Henry glanced around as he helped Gisela down the step her senior business manager and a clerk following. As Henrv' had expected, he saw^ Comm.ander Stephen Wyndham walking toward them with long, quick strides.

The two officers had become friends when they had met in France the year before, and they exchanged salutes and greeted each other w^armly. Stephen, tall and debonair in his Royal Navy uniform, smiled happily as they shook hands. "I'm delighted that you're visiting England at last, Henry," he said, "even though it apparently won't be a very long stay."

"Regrettably, it won't," Henry replied. "But I'm pleased I had the opportunity to come at all. It was ver> good of you to meet us at this late hour."

The commander shrugged off the comment. He was the military attache at the British embassy in Berlin, and he had met Gisela several times when she and Henrv had

visited the capital. Turning to her and bowing as she offered her hand, he said in German, "It is a pleasure to see you again, Gisela. 1 trust the journey was not too tiring?"

Gisela, strikingly beautiful in a blue traveling cape and a matching hat, was drawing glances from the handful of other passengers who had stepped off the train. Sedately poised, always in control of the situation around her, she smiled serenely. "No, it was a pleasant journey, Stefan. I trust your wife is well?"

"Yes, she is," Stephen replied. "Unfortunately, I came to London on very short notice, so she remained behind in Berlin. I took the liberty of stopping at Dandridge House earlier this evening to make certain that your apartments are ready. Your business agents are waiting there now."

"That was very thoughtful of you," Gisela said. She turned and introduced the men who had accompanied her and Henry from Germany, and Stephen exchanged greetings with them, then beckoned to two porters who were waiting nearby.

"I have a friend who has expressed interest in meeting you, Henry," Stephen said as they walked to the immense, lofty waiting room. "He's Lord Randolph Churchill, one of the Duke of Marlborough's sons. I saw him at lunch the day I received your telegram, and when I told him about you, he asked me to invite you and Gisela to a reception he's hosting at his town house Saturday."

Stephen was speaking in German for Gisela's benefit, and as Henry glanced at her, she squeezed his arm and nodded. "We should not think only of work while we're here, and I'm sure we would enjoy it, Heinrich. "

Henry hesitated. Although he was not on duty, he did have some unofficial business he had been asked to look into. But it was unlikely that the reception would interfere with it.

"Vei-y well, ' he said. "We appreciate the invitation, and we're pleased to accept, Stephen. But what could you

possibly tell Lord Randolph that would make him want to meet me?"

"That youVe an American, for one," Stephen replied. "He's fond of Americans. He's much enamored of a young lady in New York named Jennie Jerome, and I believe he intends to ask her to marry him. "

Outside, carriages for hire were parked in a row along the street, and one moved forward when Stephen beckoned. Henry helped Gisela into the carriage, and then he and Stephen stood at the curb and talked as they waited for the porters to load the baggage.

"I was summoned here to discuss the work that the Germans are doing with submersible craft, ' Stephen said quietly. "There have been reports that they've developed a very effective torpedo that can be fired underwater—a subject that is of great interest to the Admiralty."

"Yes, I've heard about it," Henry replied. "I talked with Admiral Lutchens at a reception in Berhn, and he mentioned it. He said that an ironclad hulk was sunk off Bremerhaven with two of the torpedoes, and he believed that it might have taken as many as twenty rounds from twelve-inch guns to sink that hulk."

Stephen smiled wryly. "Henry, I do envy the access you have to social events in Berlin. If I had half your opportunities, I would be of twice the value to my government. What sort of business affairs bring Gisela to England?"

"Her agents here have been working on establishing a holding company through which she plans to invest in shipbuilding, woolen mills, and other factories. They've had difficulty getting the company licensed, and she decided to come here and discuss it with them. The agents have also been gathering information on country homes that are for sale here."

"Indeed? Is she considering moving here?"

Henry laughed and shook his head. "No, and I have no idea why she's suddenly become interested in investing in factories here."

"Whatever her reasons, we can be sure they're good

ones," Stephen commented. "Gisela certainly didn't become one of the wealthiest women in Europe by accident."

The baggage was loaded, and they set off. Wisps of fog drifting off the Thames made halos around passing streetlamps as Henry peered out the window, awed by the magnificence of London's buildings. As the carriage approached Dandridge House, only a short distance away, the street brightened. The apartment hotel catered to visiting diplomats, peers attending sessions of Parliament, and other well-off clients, and its portico was as bright as day under the gaslights.

As the carriage stopped in front of the building, the doorman summoned porters. Henry and the others went in and were quickly escorted across the wide lobby and along a corridor to the apartments that Gisela's London agents had reserved. The agents, three members of a prominent law firm in the city, were waiting in the spacious, luxuriously furnished sitting room. James Hollings-worth, a dapper, white-haired man of fifty, was a senior partner in the firm, and the other two were law clerks. Hollingsworth spoke fluent German, and he greeted Henry, Gisela, and her employees.

"You're undoubtedly weary after your long journey, Madam Baroness, " Hollingsworth continued, "so we will await your convenience to discuss the affairs you've entrusted to us. However, I would like to mention that the country home in which you expressed particular interest is available at what we consider a reasonable price. Also, we are still having difficulties in licensing a holding company, but we are hopeful about resolving them."

Gisela nodded, and when she indicated that she was ready to discuss business immediately and began asking questions, Henry slipped out with Stephen, to accompany him to the front door.

"It's too bad she's having trouble with the holding company," Stephen said. "The Gladstone government might simply be reluctant to have British industries under for-

eign control, but I'd hazard a guess that it's somewhat more complicated . . . bureaucratic iafighting and all that."

Henry nodded absently, his thoughts again turning to what he had been asked to do in secret while on leave in England. Although he and Stephen were friends, and although they often shared information on matters of interest to their respective governments, Henry had been ordered to talk with no one about what he was to do. Still, he needed some information that Stephen could probably supply him with.

Outside, while a carriage moved up to the curb, Henry decided to depend on his friend's discretion. "The military college at Sandhurst is your equivalent to West Point, isn't it?" he asked.

"More or less, " Stephen replied. "Why do you ask? Are you thinking of visiting there?"

"I'd like to," Henry said. "I might not have the opportunity again, and Friday afternoon is probably a good time to do it. If I take an early train, do you think I could get there and back in time to attend Lord Randolph's reception?"

"Yes, I'm sure you could," Stephen replied. "I just happen to know that the commandant there is a Brigadier Halloway. He's a friendly chap, and I'm sure he'd make you welcome."

"I'll go on Friday, then," Henry said. He hesitated a moment, his next question more revealing. "Do any foreign officers attend the training at Sandhurst?"

Stephen shrugged. "I'm a Royal Navy College man myself, of course, and I don't know all that much about Sandhurst. But you'll find out for yourself on Friday, won't you?"

Henry smiled and made his farewells with Stephen. The naval officer stepped into the carriage, and Henry went back inside. Crossing the wide, quiet lobby, he reflected that he knew very little himself about what he was supposed to be doing, and he knew nothing at all about the reasons behind it.

Shortly before he and Gisela had left Germany, the mihtary attache from the American embassy in BerHn had visited him. That in itself had been unusual, but the attache's request had been even more unusual: Henry had simply been asked to visit Sandhurst and find out if a Spanish officer was in attendance there. If one happened to be, Henry was to find out all he could about the man without drawing attention to himself

Above all, the attache had emphasized, Henry was to exercise the utmost discretion. Thinking about that, Henry smiled to himself It was just like the army to tell him next to nothing, then ask him to be discreet about it.

The nationality of the officer he was supposed to find out about was what first drew Henry's attention to the three men sitting a few seats in front of him in the railroad car.

In contrast to the other passengers, the three men had dark hair and olive skin, and all were wearing suits of a Continental rather than a British cut. His curiosity piqued, Henry studied them more closely. One was a man of about forty, with a scar on his left cheek, and the other two were somewhat younger. While it was clear they were traveling together, the three men sat in utter silence, simply waiting for the journey to end.

At Aldershot, the station nearest to the village of Sandhurst, the three men filed off the train. They disappeared among the other passengers on the platform, and Henry dismissed them from his mind as he went to the line of carriages for hire.

A few miles along the road fi-om Aldershot, the carriage passed through the village of Sandhurst and stopped at the entrance to the military college. A cadet was on guard duty at the entrance, and he pointed out the headquarters building to Henry.

At the headquarters, Henry was immediately shown into the commandant's office. Brigadier Halloway, as Stephen had said, was an amiable man. Portly and immacu-

52

latel\' neat in his uniform, he was about fifh^-five years old, with a ruddy complexion and snow-white hair and mustache. "So you thought you d come and have a look around, did you?" he commented affably. "Well, I'm delighted that you did, Lieutenant Blake. And you're on furlough, you say? Did you come all the way from America to England on furlough?"

"No, sir. I'm stationed in Germany."

The brigadier sat back in his chair behind his desk, his blue eyes reflecting interest. "Indeed? At the American embassy?"

"No, sir. I'm a militar\' obserx'er posted to the Mauser factor) in Frankfurt to study the procurement methods of the German Army."

"My word!" the brigadier exclaimed in amusement. "Now, there's choice duty that I would certainly enjoy. Or at least I would have when I was your age—I don't know if this old body could endure the rigors of such duty now." He chuckled. "Well, as I said, I'm most pleased that you came to have a look around. But you won't be able to see much on Friday afternoon, because we close down for the student officers to prepare for parade on Saturday. "

"The same practice is followed at West Point, sir. But I thought I might look around at the facilities, if it wouldn't be an>- trouble. "

"No, it'll be no trouble at all," the brigadier said quickly, standing up and walking toward the office door. "No trouble whatsoever. Lieutenant Blake. I'll assign a cadet to show you around."

Following the man to the door, Henry dismissed any thought of questioning him about foreign officers at the college. While Brigadier Halloway was heartily friendly, his blue eyes gleamed with keen intelligence. It would be safer, Henr\' decided, to question his escort.

The escort turned out to be a youth of seventeen, a cadet named Harrison. Rigidly military, he saluted smartly and led Henr\' outside.

They passed through a quadrangle, the cadet pointing

out the various buildings and telling Henry about them. After touring several classrooms, they went into a large building w^here huge tables were used to conduct war games, then crossed a yard to a barnlike structure where dismantled cannons were on display for instruction in artillery.

Although he was only going through the motions of looking around, Henry enjoyed the tour. In atmosphere and appearance, the college was much like West Point, and it reminded him of his cadet days. As Harrison took him from one building to another, they occasionally passed other cadets, who looked at Henry curiously as they saluted.

That gave Henry the conversational opening he needed. "You must not have any foreign officers here," he commented.

"No, sir," Harrison replied. "We have an occasional visitor who is a foreign officer, and foreign officers sometimes come here for war games. But we don't have any among the students." He hesitated, then shrugged. "I should say with the exception of Captain Ferdinand, I suppose."

"Captain Ferdinand?"

"Yes, sir. He wears a line army uniform, but he isn't an ordinary sort of officer, and he's Spanish. He attends classes with us, but he's excused from all duties and drills. He's undoubtedly at the firing range now."

"Does he spend a lot of time there?"

"Yes, sir. He has a great fondness for small arms, and he's constantly at the range when it isn't in use. He's always there on Fridays."

"A man after my own heart," Henry said. "I just happen to like small arms, too. Do you think I can have a look at the firing range?"

"Certainly, sir." The cadet led the way toward the drill field, which was set back from the buildings. At the far end of the field, the rifle range came into view. A section of a long hill had been cut away into sheer bluff to

make a safety backstop for a line of tu'enty firing positions. The captain was at a position in the center of the Hne.

As he and Harrison drew nearer, Henry saw that the captain was firing an Enfield rifle, the standard British infantry weapon. .After discharging several rounds, the captain put the gun on a table and walked down the firing range to change the targets on the wooden frame. Walking back, he studied the patterns of holes on the targets he had removed from the frame.

He seemed to be a very small, slender man. As he drew closer, Henry realized with some surprise that Captain Ferdinand was a mere boy—certainly no more than sixteen years old. He was handsome, though, with dark hair and eyes, and he carried himself with an air of authority that belied his youth. Henr>- thought that the captain insignia on his British uniform did not look entirely out of place on him.

Henr\' waited by the firing table, where the Enfield lay beside a stack of targets, Webley and Colt pistols, binoculars, and an ammunition box. The young captain, suddenly realizing he was being observed, looked at Hen-rv's uniform with boyish curiosity. As he approached and they exchanged salutes, he smiled. "You're an American, aren't you?" he said with a cultured Spanish accent.

"Yes, that's right. I'm Lieutenant Blake."

"I'm Captain Ferdinand. Why are you here?"

Henry smiled at the unabashedly blunt question. "I'm on furlough and had an opportunity to see Sandhurst, so I decided to visit. How is your marksmanship?'

Smiling. Ferdinand handed Henrv' the targets. "What do you think?"

Henry shuffled the targets and glanced at them. The youth was a far better marksman than the a\ erage soldier, but it was easy to distinguish between the targets that he had fired at from a prone, kneeling, and standing position. "You're very good. Captain Ferdinand, ' he said.

"Are you better?' Ferdinand asked.

Henry smiled and shrugged. "You asked me to judge

your marksmanship, so it's only fair that you should judge mine, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is," Ferdinand agreed. "There is the rifle, and there is the ammunition. Lieutenant Blake."

Henry took off his cap and tunic and put them on the table, then picked up the Enfield. After making certain that the weapon was unloaded, he tested the trigger pull. It was crisp and clean, with no slack. He took bullets out of the ammunition box and loaded the rifle.

Watching with interest, Harrison sat down beside the adjacent firing position. Ferdinand picked up the binoculars and focused on the targets. Shouldering the weapon, Henry sighted down the range. Relaxing, he let the bead at the end of the barrel swing back and forth across the bull's-eye from the natural movement of his body.

Then he began firing rapidly. Squeezing his entire hand together to pull the trigger back, he fired as the bead crossed the bull's-eye. As the rifle recoiled, he worked the bolt quickly to reload. When he had finished, he had no need to use the binoculars. He knew that the holes were grouped tightly in the center of the bull's-eye.

Ferdinand lowered the binoculars and gaped at Henry in astonishment. "A perfect round!" he exclaimed. "They're all bull's-eyes!"

"All bull's-eyes?" Harrison said in surprise.

"Yes, all of them," Ferdinand rephed. "How did you learn to fire a rifle like that?"

"Through practice," Henry replied. "During my lifetime I've probably put a ton of lead into the air. You're an excellent shot yourself, and you'll eventually be able to shoot like that. But we may be able to improve your marksmanship a bit now. Let's see how you hold the rifle."

The youth took the rifle, shouldered it, and sighted on a target. As Henry had anticipated, he was using the standard infantry stance; yet his muscles were more those of a boy than of a man. "In an army, everyone is taught to shoot the same way," Henry said. "There are good reasons

for that, but everyone isn't the same. Bring your left elbow in closer to your chest so you can support the weight of the rifle easier."

The end of the barrel innmediately stopped weaving as the youth slid his hand back along the stock of the rifle, his elbow near his chest. Nodding in satisfaction, Henry took bullets out of the ammunition box and handed them to Ferdinand. As the youth began firing, Henry observed that he had already mastered most of the essentials, with good breath control and a gentle, steady pressure on the trigger. A quick look through the binoculars determined that the holes in the target were grouped better than before.

Exuberant, Ferdinand reloaded the rifle and began firing again. Harrison, as pleased and excited as the young Spaniard, took the binoculars and called out where the bullets were striking the target. Henry began helping Ferdinand adjust his posture in the kneeling position so he could hold the heavy rifle with less effort.

After the better part of an hour, Henr\' had finished coaching Ferdinand in the standing, kneeling, and prone positions with the rifle, and the youth's marksmanship had improved substantially in each position. As Harrison went down the range to exchange the rifle targets on the wooden frame for the larger pistol targets, Henry inspected the Colt and Webley pistols on the table.

At the same time, he pursued a chance comment Ferdinand had made about a large collection of weapons he had at his house. "So you don't live in the barracks?" Henry asked.

"No, I have a house in the village," the youth replied. "When we're finished here, could you go there with me? I would like to show you my . . ." His voice fading, he hesitated a moment; then he shrugged. "I have a house-guest, but an American visitor shouldn't put him out. I would like to show you my collection of weapons. "

The offer was more than Henry could hope for. The reference to a houseguest puzzled him, but so did every-

thing about the youth. He could only assume that Ferdinand was some scion of the nobiHty in Spain, which was in an upheaval of civil war over the succession to the crown. Queen Victoria was noted for giving refuge to European nobility in difficulties.

Glancing at his watch, Henry nodded. "Yes, I have a few hours," he said.

"Good, I'm sure you'll enjoy seeing my collection," Ferdinand replied happily. "Shall we practice with the pistols now?"

Ferdinand was also accustomed to firing a pistol from the standard military position, standing sideways to the target and holding the weapon at arm's length in his right hand. Henry had him use the Webley, which was lighter than the Colt, and hold it in both hands as he faced the target squarely.

The youth took aim in the new stance, and Henry picked up the binoculars to see where the bullets struck. As he focused down the range, however, a movement behind the target frames to the left caught his eye. At first he thought it might be an animal, but when he turned the binoculars, he stiffened in shock and disbelief

A man was lying behind the target frames, aiming a rifle at Henry and the two youths.

Reacting immediately, Henry lunged, shoving Ferdinand with his shoulder, and reached out to push Harrison aside, shouting at them to get down. Ferdinand staggered sideways, pulling the trigger on the revolver. Its loud crack blended with the distant report of a rifle. An impact like a heavy hammer blow struck the point of Henry's shoulder, which was where Ferdinand's heart had been an instant before Henry shoved the youth.

As the three of them fell to the ground, the table tumbled over, targets, ammunition, and weapons spilling off it, along with Henry's cap and coat. The numb feeling in Henry's left shoulder began fading into a sharp, stinging pain, blood soaking his shirt sleeve. The two youths, frightened but not panic-stricken, lay flat on each side of Henry

as rifle shots rang out rapidly and bullets struck the ground around them. Clearly there was more than one person shooting at them.

Ferdinand looked at Henry. "You re wounded. Lieutenant Blake!" he said in alarm.

"It's only a flesh wound," Henry said, taking out his handkerchief. "Tie this around it, if you would. But stay down."

As the young Spaniard took the handkerchief and tied it over the wound, Henry glanced around and analyzed the situation. The firing range was completely level, so he and the two youths were in an exposed position, unable to move. The holes that the rifle bullets had made through the overturned table dramatically illustrated that it was useless as protection. Henry detected two clouds of gun smoke at the far end of the range, which meant at least two men armed with rifles.

Keeping low to the ground, Henry reached out for the weapons that had fallen off the table. He pushed the Colt and a box of ammunition toward Harrison, then began loading the Enfield. Ferdinand finished tying the handkerchief around Henry's shoulder and reached for the Webley.

"Who could that be?" Harrison exclaimed, loading the Colt. "Why would someone try to shoot us?"

"For the moment," Henry said, "that isn't important. I think there are two of them, and they're behind the target frames to our left. Captain Ferdinand, I want you and Cadet Harrison to give me covering fire while I return the fire."

Ferdinand nodded, cocking the Webley. As Harrison finished loading the Colt, Henry lifted his head to take a quick look at the gun smoke and make certain the man he had seen had not moved. He had not, and as both rifles immediately fired, Henry ducked back down, the bullets hissing past only inches above his head. The two men were expert marksmen, with fast reactions. Henry worked the bolt on the Enfield to load the chamber.

"Both of those men know how to shoot," he said to Ferdinand and Harrison, "so keep your heads down. Just give me covering fire, and don't lift your heads to aim. Are you ready? Commence firing."

The two youths began firing rapidly and blindly toward the end of the range. The two riflemen stopped firing, the hail of bullets flying in their direction taking them by surprise. Henry lifted his head and shouldered the Enfield in one smooth motion.

As his sights lined up on the man who was partially exposed, he squeezed the trigger. Through the haze of gunpowder smoke, he saw the man lurch up to a sitting position and fall back.

The other man, completely concealed behind a target frame, fired his rifle. The bullet chpped hairs from Henry's head as he ducked back down. The two pistols empty, Ferdinand and Harrison began reloading.

The rifle fired again, knocking splinters from the overturned table. Ferdinand grinned as he pushed bullets into the Webley. "There's only one rifle firing now," he said in satisfaction. "You must have hit one of them, Lieutenant Blake."

"Yes, I did," Henry replied. "But we're not out of the woods yet. That other fellow's an expert rifleman, and he picked a better place to hide. I can't see him at all."

The rifle fired again, the bullet striking directly in front of Harrison and knocking dirt into his face. The youth brushed the dirt from his eyes and continued reloading the Colt. Henry waited for a lull in the rifle fire, but there was none. The man was replacing each spent bullet as he worked the bolt on his rifle, a tactic used by the most expert riflemen to keep a full magazine.

Reloading the Enfield, Henry reflected that the bullet holes in the overturned table illustrated a way to shoot at the man, whether or not he could be seen. When the youths had their pistols reloaded, Henry told them to begin firing. As they did so, gunpowder smoke boiling up, Henry lifted his head and aimed his rifle toward the lower

part of the target frame where the man was lying in concealment.

The paper target rippled slightly as the Enfield fired, and Henry worked the bolt quickly. The bullet missed the man, but his head and shoulders came into view as he scrambled for a safer position. Henry squeezed the trigger again.

The bullet knocked the man onto his back, and he dropped his rifle. As Henry swiftly worked the bolt to reload, the man rolled onto his stomach and picked up his rifle again. Then, across a distance of some one hundred yards, Henry and the man aimed at each other.

Henry pulled his trigger an instant sooner than the other man. The Enfield recoiled, and the bullet slammed through the man's chest. His rifle fired harmlessly into the air as he rolled onto his back.

After a few seconds, Henry stood up and told Harrison to go get the brigadier. The cadet raced away while Henry and Ferdinand crossed the rifle range to the two bodies. They were two of the three men Henry had noticed on the train, and the rifles beside them were new Mausers. When he asked Ferdinand if he knew who they were, the youth shrugged.

'T couldn't say, Lieutenant Blake," he replied quietly.

The reply was an evasion to avoid an outright lie, Henry realized, because he could see that Ferdinand knew far more than he was saying. Leaning over, Henry began to search the bodies and found that the pockets were empty, as he had expected. Obviously the men had been sent on a risky mission where identification could be embarrassing to their employers.

The incident deepened Henry's perplexity about the youth, but it was obvious that Captain Ferdinand, whoever he was, had some very determined enemies. Two expert riflemen, equipped with the best weapons available, had been sent to kill him. Knowing that he was always on the rifle range on Friday, a place where their

gunfire would pass unnoticed, they had expected to find him alone.

A few minutes later, Harrison returned with the brigadier and another, slightly younger man, who was in civilian clothes. Distinctly Spanish in appearance, the younger man was dark-haired, heavyset, and walked with an unmistakable military bearing. As the three approached, Ferdinand told Henry that the other man was the houseguest he had mentioned, a Mr. Moncaldo.

The name seemed remotely familiar to Henry, but he was unable to place it. In any case, he had no time to think about it as he saluted Brigadier Halloway, whose former hearty friendliness was now replaced by a brisk, businesslike manner. The man touched his quarterstaff to his cap to return Henry's and Ferdinand's salutes, his keen eyes taking in the scene. Then he dismissed Cadet Harrison and introduced Moncaldo to Henry. The brigadier nodded toward the blood-soaked handkerchief tied around Henry's upper arm. "I see that you were wounded, Lieutenant, " he said.

"It's only a flesh wound, sir," Henry said.

"Even so, our doctor had better have a look at it. Harrison told us what happened, and my gratitude for what you did exceeds my ability to properly express it. I will have to place myself further in your debt, however, by asking for your total discretion in this matter."

"I'm obliged to report the incident to the military attache at the American embassy upon my return to Germany, sir. But other than that, I can give you my assurance I will mention it to no one."

The brigadier pursed his lips and stroked his mustache. It was not the answer he wanted, but he nodded. "Very well. Lieutenant," he said. "If you will do that, I'll be grateful. That will amount to considerable restraint on your part, considering that your life was placed in peril and you had to kill two men here. '

"I'm more than willing to cooperate in any way I can, sir. It may be of benefit for you to know that these two

men were on the train that brought me from London. They were accompanied by a third man who was a few years older and somewhat taller than either of them. He had a scar on the left side of his face."

The brigadier looked at Moncaldo, who spoke in a quiet, assured voice: "That was Emilio Garcia," he said. "He is a Carlist agent."

Immediately after he spoke, the Spaniard looked regretful that he had made the comment in Henry's presence, as did the brigadier. Halloway nodded briskly. "Thank you for the information. Lieutenant," he said. "You'd best have the doctor look at that wound now. Captain Ferdinand, perhaps you'd like to show Lieutenant Blake to the hospital. I'll summon some of the stafi^and attend to things here."

After exchanging salutes with Halloway, Henry and Ferdinand walked away. They retrieved Henry's cap and tunic, then followed the path toward the headquarters quadrangle, discussing the incident as they went. Henry's thoughts, however, were no longer on the shooting, but on another matter entirely.

Moncaldo's remark had been vastly revealing: The Carlists were one of the factions involved in the civil war in Spain. Suddenly evervthing was becoming clear to Henry, including the identity' of Moncaldo and of Ferdinand himself.

For obvious reasons, all European nations took a keen interest in who ascend to the throne when a European monarch died or was deposed. One of the main causes of the recent war between Germany and France had been a dispute over who would rule Spain, ever since the former n.onarch. Queen Isabella II, had lost control over the country a few years before.

All the European governments would have continued to support Isabella, but through petty intrigues she had alienated even her own army. If a direct successor to the queen could be found and the support of the army secured, the matter might be resolved to the satisfaction o^ all European governments.

Apparently Great Britain was quietly attempting to do just that. Queen Isabella had a teenage son named Alphonse Ferdinand. Rafael Vincente Moncaldo was a senior general in the Spanish Army. Other European governments might be aware of what was being done, but only at the very highest levels. No doubt the entire matter was being kept secret until the moment arrived to act swiftly and decisively.

Through some means, however, Washington had heard rumors and had taken action to try to confirm them. Henry saw no point in beating around the bush. "Isn't Queen Isabella your mother?" he asked Ferdinand.

The youth, who had been smiling, looked at him in abject disappointment. "I didn't think you would know, ' he said sadly. "I hoped we could be friends."

"Of course we can be friends," Henry said. "Why can't we? I have nothing to do with the affairs of Spain."

Ferdinand thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, that's true. But how did you know who I was?"

"Through Mr. Moncaldo's slip of the tongue about the Carlists. And I've heard of General Moncaldo. The rest followed from that."

"The general is usually more careful about what he says," Ferdinand commented. He looked at Henry wistfully. "I do hope you will be my friend. I don't have very many friends here. Will you be able to visit me?"

Henry shook his head regretfully. "My duties keep me in Germany. Could you come there?"

"No, I can't leave England," Ferdinand replied dejectedly.,- "At least not at present." He sighed, shrugging. "But we can write to each other for now, can't we? And perhaps we can visit at a later time."

"That's true," Henry agreed. "I'll look forward to that." He smiled. "Maybe we can have some target practice again. I'll have to get used to addressing you more respectfully, though."

"No, absolutely not," Ferdinand replied firmly. "Whatever happens, I want always to be Captain Ferdinand to

you. That must never change. Americans are repubHcans, so that shouldn't make you feel ill at ease."

The already regal bearing that the youth displayed was evident to Henry, with Ferdinand's handsome, almost delicately featured face and large brown eyes reflecting warm regard. Henry liked the youth, but he also felt a twinge of pity for him. The boy had been born into opulence beyona what most people could even imagine, but his life was more rigidly restricted than that of someone raised in poverty.

"Very well, Captain Ferdinand," Henry said, smiling.

As they resumed talking, Henry reflected that his visit to Sandhurst had been infinitely more eventful than he had expected. In addition to being involved in a gun battle, he had befriended a youth who was destined to become a European monarch. And he had obtained a wealth of information that would more than fulfill the most optimistic expectations in Washington.

Upon his return to London, Henry explained his wound to Gisela as the result of an accident on the firing range at Sandhurst. More alarmed over the fact that he was hurt than over how it had happened, Gisela wanted to send for other doctors to examine his shoulder. Henry insisted that was not necessary.

He barely had time to prepare for the reception at Lord Randolph Churchill's town house, and he regretted having accepted the invitation. His shoulder had begun to throb painfully since he had left Sandhurst, and he would have preferred to remain in his room and rest. However, he knew Gisela wanted to go to the reception, and she would not go if he stayed at the hotel.

Some thirty people were already there when Henry and Gisela arrived with Stephen Wyndham. It was a small group for the large drawing room, which was furnished expensively but with emphasis on utility and durability rather than the current style.

A dozen musicians in an alcove provided soft back-

ground music to the laughter and conversation of the guests, most of whom were gathered around a buflPet at one side of the room. A few uniforms were scattered among the bright gowns worn by the women, but most of the men were businessmen or pohticians.

Lord Randolph Henrv Spencer Churchill, a well-built man of medium stature, was about Henry's age. His blue eyes and strong, handsome face revealed keen intelligence and a forceful personality, as well as a ready sense of humor. Henry liked him from the moment they were introduced.

One of the guests, an elderly insurance factor by the name of Sir Joseph Lowry, immediately claimed Gisela's attention, and Henr\ began talking to a group of military officers and their wives. .After a while Churchill rejoined him and offered him a drink as they stepped over to the buffet. "The punch is quite good," he said. "We also have hock and liquors."

"I'd like a glass of hock, please."

"I'll have the same, then," Churchill said, glancing at the waiter on the other side of the buffet and pointing to the hock, a white German wine. "I'm not fond of strong drink, particularly when I have interesting company."

The waiter poured glasses of wine and handed them to Churchill and Henry as they continued talking. At the other end of the buffet, Lowry had momentarily lost Gi-sela to other guests who were introducing themselves and talking to her.

In a green silk gown that was distinctly Continental in style, and with her long, gleaming black hair arranged on top of her head, she was captivatingly lovely. The high collar of her dress matched the modest Victorian styles worn by the other women, but a diamond-shaped opening in the bodice revealed her cleavage.

Charming and witty, she chatted with the other guests in French, as completely at ease in the London drawing room as she was at the Reichstag receptions in Berlin. In

both places, her exceptional beauty and the magnetic quality of her personality set her apart from others.

Churchill sipped his wine, looking at Gisela and those around her. "Sir Edward arrived here early," he said. "He told me he had heard that the baroness was coming this evening and that he's long wanted to meet her—in order to discuss business, I presume. I hope I haven't offended her by allowing someone to infringe upon her leisure time. '

"No, I'm sure not," Henry replied, laughing. "Her business affairs occupy her constantly, and she wouldn't enjoy leisure time away from them.'

Returning his gaze to Henry, Churchill said, "I must admit I was intrigued by what Stephen told me about you and the baroness. If I may be blunt, you're not at all what one would expect of a young man and a wealthy older woman. "

Henry took a sip of his wine. "I presume you mean I'm a soldier, not a gigolo. "

"That's plain to see," Churchill said good-humoredly. "It's also plain to see that the baroness would have no use for gigolos or flatterers. Stephen tells me that you met her through her nephew."

Henry nodded, then told Churchill about his friend and Gisela's nephew, Captain Richard Koehler, whom he had met the previous year while stationed as a military observer with the German armies surrounding Paris. Encouraged by his host's questions, Henry told the story of how he had met Gisela, which delighted Churchill, who was similarly candid as he talked about the young woman in New York whom he loved deeply, Jennie Jerome. He added that his parents viewed the match with disapproval—a fact that was known only within the family and to close friends.

"That makes it very difficult," Henry commented.

"Indeed it does, " Churchill said with a deep sigh. "What does your family think of the baroness?"

"They don't know about her," Henry replied. "I'm

adopted, and Vm engaged to be married to my stepmother's daughter. "

"My word!" Churchill exclaimed. "The problems I have are absolutely dwarfed by yours, old chap. I do hope things work out for you. Let's have another glass of hock and sit on a couch to talk. I'm pleased that you accepted my invitation to come here tonight."

Gisela had finished chatting with the other guests, and she and Lowry were sitting on a couch, talking quietly. Churchill and Henry sat down on a couch facing theirs and resumed their conversation. They moved from one subject to another, and time passed swiftly for Henry. Churchill was an observant, well-traveled man, with a seemingly inexhaustible store of amusing anecdotes; he was also extremely intelligent, and Henry found the conversation fascinating.

Eventually Churchill was drawn away by some other guests, and Stephen Wyndham joined Henry and Gisela. Lowry had left for a few minutes to send a message summoning one of his clerks, and by the time the man arrived with a folder of papers, the remainder of the other guests and the musicians had left, and the gathering had turned into a private party.

Gisela scrutinized the papers through her pince-nez and talked quietly with Lowry, while Henry, Stephen, and Churchill continued their conversation. At one point, Henry asked Gisela how she felt. During the past few months, she had suffered occasional attacks of stomach pain and nausea, and he was concerned that she might become too tired. But she looked at him over her pince-nez and smiled as she reassured him.

The conversation among the men turned to country homes, Churchill talking about the one his family owned. Henry mentioned that Gisela was contemplating buying a place called Fenton Hall, and Churchill frowned in concern. "I know it well, Henry, and she should think twice about that. It hasn't been occupied for a generation or more, and it must be in an awful state—" He stopped in

midsentence as he saw his butler leading a man across the wide drawing room. "Good evening, Sir Charles," he said, standing up, a note of suq^rise in his voice.

Of medium height and thin, the newcomer had a pale, sharp face and eyes that were light, ic\ blue. He was unsmiling and perfunctory as he apologized for intruding. "Im sorry for interrupting you and your guests at such a late hour. Lord Randolph," he said.

"You're welcome here at any time," Churchill replied courteously. "You ve met Commander W'yndham and Sir Edward Lx)wr\', haven't you? This is Lieutenant Henry Blake, and this is the Baroness Gisela von Kirchberg. Henr\^ Gisela, this is Sir Charles W'illoughby of the Foreign Office."

Willoughby bowed as Henr\' and Gisela greeted him. "I had intended to meet with you at your apartment. Lieutenant Blake," he said. "When the hour grew late, I decided to come here. If I could have a moment of your time, I should like to speak with you in the entrance hall."

Silence fell as Henry nodded and stepped around the couch to accompany Willoughby. Churchill and Wyndham looked puzzled. Gisela frowned in concern, insecure about her relationship with Henry and always worried that something would come between them. He smiled back at her reassuringly.

As he followed the man across the room, Henrv wondered if Willoughby was an official of the Foreign Office in name only. It seemed likely that he was a member of the British secret intelligence service, a shadow\' organization about which there was little public knowledge.

In the entrance hall, Willoughby glanced around to make certain they were alone, then turned to Henry. "I have talked to Brigadier Halloway and General Moncaldo," he said, "who informed me of the substance of your conversations with Captain Ferdinand. When you make your report to the military attache in Berlin, you may inform him that complete details of the matter are being communicated to Washington by the Foreign Off^ice."

Before Henry could reply, Willoughby went on: "With regard to your arrangement to correspond with Captain Ferdinand, however, I regret to say that it is out of the question. Security requirements simply won't permit it."

"I regret it as well," Henry said. 'The boy seems very lonely."

"He is, but his personal safety is involved, and perhaps such a correspondence will be possible in the future. Needless to say, my colleagues and I are very grateful for what you did at Sandhurst, and we would be more than pleased to render any service to you that we can."

"I did only what I thought best under the circumstances," Henry replied. "I'm glad I could help the young man, and I don't expect a reward."

"All the same,' Willoughby insisted, "we would like to demonstrate our gratitude in some small way. I believe your friend, the Baroness Kirchberg, is having difficulty securing a license for a holding company. You may inform her that the license will be granted by Monday."

Henry hesitated, surprised. Then he grinned. "I appreciate that very much, and so will the baroness. You are well informed, aren't you?"

"Having met you," Willoughby said dryly, "I believe I am far more well informed than before. When my colleagues and I were told that a visitor at Sandhurst had come into possession of the full details concerning Captain Ferdinand, it appeared to us that we had a loose cannon aboard. Now I believe that cannon was very firmly fixed, but we were simply unaware of the direction in which it pointed."

"I'm not sure I understand your meaning."

"Last year,'Willoughby said, "Washington took actions prior to the surrender of Paris that indicated a very lucky guess as to when it would happen. Now I believe that it wasn't a guess at all, because I recall there was a certain Lieutenant Blake among the American military observers with the German armies. You have a talent for being in the right place at the right time, it seems, and

perhaps your presence at Sandhurst today wasn't as fortuitous as it appeared. I see that I shall have to keep my eye on you, young Henry Blake. Perhaps we shall meet again."

"I'll look forward to it," Henry said. "And I hope it will be as amicable as this time."

"I do as well," Willoughby replied, revealing a hint of a smile as he turned and walked toward the door.

Able to read only a little English, Gisela for some reason still enjoyed looking through the sheaf of papers that was the company charter. The pages rustled as she turned them, the carriage bumping along the rutted road. Glancing at her, Henry smiled. His smile faded, however, as he thought about the unanswered questions surrounding the purpose of their trip to England.

During the weeks before they had left Germany, she had been evasive each time he had broached the subject. She had always been more than willing to discuss her business affairs wdth him—even though some of them were so complex that he had difficulty understanding her explanations—but her reluctance to talk about the apparent urgency of this trip aroused his suspicions that it might be a part of some maneuver to make him stay with her.

The previous year, he had said that he would remain with her for one year. The months were passing, the time drav^ng to a close. His assignment at the Mauser Arms Works in Frankfurt was not finished, but that would not prevent him from returning on leave to the United States and marrying Cindy Holt, the woman he loved. That would fulfill a dream he had cherished for years, and it would end the confusion of having two women in his life.

It would also end his feeling of duphcity, but it would not be easy. The previous year, he had known he was

72

deferring a break that seemed impossible at the time. Even if Gisela did nothing to make him stay, he wondered how he could ever pull himself away from her. The strange, indefinable bond that held him was not love, but it was as powerful and enduring as the most ardent love.

Gisela folded the papers and put them into the bulging briefcase on the seat beside her. "I'm pleased that you allowed me to use your name for the company, Heinrich," she said. "Yours is better than mine for the name of an English company. Also, it is appropriate for the company to be called Blake Enterprises, because you persuaded that man Willoughby to assist me."

"If you're pleased, then I am," Henry said. "How did your conversations with Sir Edward Lowry turn out?"

"They were promising," Gisela replied. "He is an underwriter at Lloyd's, you know, and I will probably form a financial partnership with him. But the company charter was the most important thing."

"No, your health is most important. How do you feel?"

Her large blue eyes sparkling suggestively, Gisela put her warm, soft hand on his. "When we get there, I'll show you how I feel, loved one. We're almost there, aren't we?"

"Yes. Perhaps, when we have time this week, you could see an English doctor. The doctors here are very good, and they might—"

"The doctors in Germany are equally good," Gisela interrupted, dismissing the subject of her illness, as she always did. She took his hand and held it on her lap as she pointed to the window. "There is the village. We must be very close now."

Henry looked out the window. It was a dark, windy day, and the carriage windows were flecked with rain. The landscape, near the western coast of England at the Bristol Channel, was rugged and austere. Solitary trees were twisted and gnarled by the force of the offshore winds that had scoured the earth away from expanses of black, rocky ridges.

Sheep pastures lay on the windward sides of the hills, crop fields on the leeward. The village, clustered in a shallow valley, consisted of a score of wattle-and-daub cottages with thatched roofs. As the carriage rumbled along the narrow main street, people looked out of doorways and windows in curiosity.

On the other side of the village, the road passed through a dark, thick woods. As the trees opened out, the road curved left and led up a rise overlooking the woods and the village. At the crest of the rise was Fenton Hall. It was an enormous stone structure, its outbuildings like foothills around the mountainous main building, from which a square tower rose at one side.

The caretaker's cottage, where they would be staying, was adjacent to the lower courtyard, and Henry could see smoke rising from its chimney. A youth who was sitting under a tree and watching the road leaped up and ran toward the cottage, shouting. A tall, thin man came out of the cottage as two more youths stepped out of a shed. Standing in a row, the four of them took oflF their caps as the carriage drew up.

The thin man opened the door tor Henry, who stepped out and helped Gisela down. "I'm Silas Wilkerson, sir," he said. "I was hired to prepare the cottage for you."

"I'm Lieutenant Blake, and this is the Baroness von Kirchberg. " As Henry exchanged a few pleasantries with Wilkerson, the youths scrambled for the baggage, which the driver handed down to them. Gisela walked a few paces toward the house. It loomed over the cottage like a stone cliff, the dark, scudding clouds almost brushing the spires and angles of its slate roof Narrowing her eyes against the wind, she stared up at it with something approaching awe.

Wilkerson, who looked to be about forty, smiled, clearly pleased. "She likes it, doesn't she, sir?" he commented.

"It would appear so," Henry agreed.

"I hope she likes it," Wilkerson said, "as does every-

one in the village. We would all like to see Fenton open again, because the village would be a much happier place."

"If the baroness buys it, her visits here will be infrequent."

"Yes, of course, sir," Wilkerson replied. "It's often that way with country homes. But simply to have it open again is the important thing, with the windows lighted up and all. It's the village manor, sir. Its being closed makes the village very dreary now, particularly at Christmas and such."

He turned to shout directions to the youths, telling them to be careful with the bags. The driver resumed his seat, then called down to Henry, "I'm to come back Friday morning, sir?'

"Yes, as early as possible," Henry replied. "We would like to reach Bristol in time to take the evening train back to London."

The driver tipped his hat and gathered up the reins. The horses turned, and the carriage rumbled back along the road. Scattered drops of rain began falling.

"Let's go inside, " Henry said to Gisela. "It's late, and we've had a long journey. We can see the house tomorrow. "

She smiled at him and took his arm. "I m looking forward to seeing every part of it."

The youths, who had already carried the baggage inside, listened to the exchange in German with intense curiosity, grinning at each other. Wilkerson glared at them, then turned and led Henry and Gisela inside.

The cottage was small but spotlessly clean and cozy. Fires blazed in the bedroom, front room, and kitchen fireplaces. The bathroom had a coal-fired water heater that was fed by a spring on the hill. The cupboards were stocked with food, and a small pork roast was sizzling on a spit in the kitchen fireplace.

Gisela began opening the bags as Henry went back outside with Wilkerson. The man looked up at the huge house, again commenting wistfully that he hoped Gisela liked it.

"I had one of my daughters put on the dinner to cook, ' he said. "If you wish, 111 have her come up and cook all the meals."

"No, thank you. The baroness planned to cook." "As you wish, sir. A storm is on the way, and itll make landfall tonight. But this cottage and Fenton have weathered storms for generations, so there's no cause for worry. If you need anything, I live in the third cottage on the left as you enter the village."

"Very well. Thank you for all your help." "It was my pleasure, sir, a pleasure and an honor." The man tipped his cap, then walked away. The rain was pattering down more heavily, and the dark woods were a mass of movement as the trees tossed in the wind. Henry looked up at the house, wondering what had attracted Gisela to it. Then he went back into the cottage.

The bathroom was fragrant with the cologne that Gisela had put in the bath she had drawn. After they had both bathed and changed, they sat sipping cofFee in the kitchen, where a delicious scent rose from the pork roasting on the spit. Potatoes were baking in the fire, and Gisela had put up a pot of peas seasoned with drippings from the pork.

Darkness fell and the rain became heavy while they were eating, the stormy night outside making the cottage even cozier. After hngering over glasses of sweet, heady port, they went to bed, Gisela as always eager for variety in lovemaking. As the storm raged outside, the bed that had provided country folk with rest from their labors was the stage for her uninhibited quest to fulfill the range of urges that her inventive mind created. Perfumed and alluring'in the glow from the fireplace, she plunged them into a frenzy that left both of them emotionally and physically spent.

The next morning, the last of the storm had passed. A few fleecy clouds floated in the sky, the sun beaming down on the landscape that had been washed to a verdant green by the rain. The chattering of birds came through

the kitchen windows with the fresh breeze as Gisela toasted muffins over the fire and fried eggs and shces of the pork.

After breakfast, they crossed the wide, sloped courtyard to the huge house. From the upper yard, the village came into view. Villagers who were watching the house called to each other and pointed at Henry and Gisela.

The lock was rusty, and it took Henry several minutes to work it open with the long iron key. Finally unlatched, the tall, heavy door groaned ponderously as he pushed against it. As he and Gisela stepped inside, she gasped in delight, putting her hands to her face. The entry hall was immense, its vast stone walls braced with towering piers that soared upward four stories to support a side-lighted dome. Sunshine spilled down through the dome onto the broad staircase that rose to the mezzanine floor. To Henry, the entire effect was one of grace and solidity.

The owner and the architect of generations before who had collaborated on this building had reached back to Anglo-Saxon roots for its design. Instead of being used as a surface for decoration, the masonry walls had been left simple and plain. Everything had been built to look and be ageless, enduring.

As they began looking through the ground-floor rooms, Gisela commented on the surprisingly good condition of the house. Birds that had gained access through a broken window chattered in a side stairwell, but otherwise it was evident that the villagers had jealously guarded the manor. The thick dust of decades lay on the canvas covers over the solid, heavy furniture. Everything had remained untouched.

Long, heavy drapes for the towering windows were stored in wooden boxes, and thick carpets were rolled and wrapped in old sail canvas. The tall bookshelves in the hbrary were filled with thick tomes bound in leather. In the vast kitchen, the pans on the walls and the pewter placed in neat rows on shelves had tarnished through the years.