Ma Hastings could not contain her excitement. **You mean he's here?" she demanded. "He's actually in this very region right now?"

"I have already related all that I know," Black Horse said, and sounded a trifle sulky, as though he suspected she was trying to back out of her agreement with him.

Ma Hastings understood what was going through the warrior s mind and promptly emptied the contents of her

hat into his waiting hands. "This is damn near too good to be true," she breathed. "The dirty swine who Idiled my son is nearby—right now—where my men and I can get at him. God, I ain't prayed in a long time, but I'm prayin* to ya now. Don't let my enemy hide from me. Let me find Toby Holt soon—real soon—so as he can be killed the same way he killed my own flesh and bloodl"

Gentle Doe worked in the fields with the other women of the village, harvesting the last of the carrots, beets, and other root crops before the ground froze solid. By the end of the day, she was tired, for the soil was rocky and hard and far less fertile than that found in other parts of Dakota. Vegetables and grains, particularly the com on which the diet of the Sioux depended, had to be coaxed from it.

After work she ate her evening meal with the other tmmarried women outside their lodge. Their meal was simple: fish that had been caught that day and a soup of boiled dried com.

Gentle Doe squatted by herself near the fire and ate rapidly. She had almost completed her meal when she looked up and saw the large, bulky figure of Tall Stone approaching her. She had no idea why he wanted to see her but wdshed he would go away. The intensity of his stare and his unchanging, unfathomable expression made her nervous. The other women by the fire moved away.

There were customs to be observed, so Gentle Doe

89

treated the village chieftain with friendliness and grace, inviting him to sit and offering him the uneaten portion of her meal. Tall Stone matched her politeness. Declining her hospitahty, he told her his business would wait; sitting, he folded his arms in silence as she finished eating.

Although he was not hurrying her, she nevertheless felt compelled to bolt what was left of her food. Then she smiled at him shyly.

"Gentle Doe looks as she always does," he said, "as though she is enjoying good health."

"I am well," she replied.

**In addition," he declared forcibly, "she is still the most handsome squaw in the village."

The compHment startled her, and not knowing what to reply, she remained silent.

"If the father of Gentle Doe were alive," Tall Stone said, "I would go to him, I would bargain with him, and I would strike a deal with him. I would learn from him the price he demanded for the hand of his daughter in marriage, and I would find out, also, what goods she would bring to me as my squaw."

She realized he was starting to propose to her, and panic swept over her. He was the last warrior in all the land of the Sioux she wanted to marry.

"Since the father of Gentle Doe has departed from this world and has joined his ancestors, I can force Gentle Doe to marry me, because I am her chief. But I would rather Gentle Doe came to me out of her own free will."

She had heard more than enough and hastened to stop him. "Gentle Doe will never come to Tall Stone to marry him."

Her reply stunned him, and he stared hard at her. **You prefer another warrior?'*

'There is no other man in my hfe,** Gentle Doe said. It did not occur to her that her candor might cause her trouble.

"Why do you reject me?" he demanded harshly. "It is my right to know.**

She had hoped he would back oflF gracefully, but his stubborn insistence annoyed her, and she became more blunt than she otherwise would have been. "I would prefer the life of a permanently unmarried maiden,** she said, "to the existence I would lead if I became the squaw of Tall Stone."

He clenched his fists, then leaned forward, and Gentle Doe thought he intended to strike her. She realized belatedly that she had gone too far. Her candor had transformed the village chieftain from a siiitor into her mortal enemy.

He did not strike her, however. Instead, he rose and stalked oflF, his head high and his back rigid.

Gentle Doe shuddered as she told herself that at least she was rid of an unwelcome suitor.

Glowering at villagers he encountered, Tall Stone marched without hesitation to the lodge where the unmarried warriors resided. He knew that he could still force Gentle Doe to marry him, but this he did not want to do. He had another way to deal with this haughty, recalcitrant woman.

Entering the lodge, he found several of the warriors sitting in a circle, finishing their meal.

TaU Stone approached a young brave at random and pointed a thick forefinger at him. "You,** he said accusingly, *liave lain with Gentle Doe and have spent entire ni^ts in her tepee.**

The young man was shocked. "I don't know who has slandered me, but I have never lain with^ Gentle Doe." He rose hastily to his feet.

Drawing a tomahawk from his belt, Tall Stone hurled himself at the warrior and held the sharp-edged blade close to his throat. "Admit the truthi" he roared. "Lie to me again, and your blood will flow from your throat!**

The young Sioux looked into the eyes of a madman.

No single warrior present was the equal of Tall Stone, but the group together could have subdued him. All of them knew, however, what problems they would face if they became embroiled with the village chieftain. They would have been required to submit to interrogation from Sioux of the highest rank, and if they failed to satisfy their superiors, they would be liable to extreme, brutal pmiishment.

"Speak!" Tall Stone cried. "Admit the charge while you still have a voice!"

"I—I admit it," the young brave whispered. *1 have lain with Gentle Doe."

Hurling the brave from him. Tall Stone caught another warrior by the ear, which he twisted viciously. *Tfou will admit to the same guilt," he said, "or you wiU sufi^er the same fate that he would have met!"

It was better to admit an untruth than to be maimed or killed. "I admit it," the brave muttered. "I have also lain with Gentle Doe."

So great was the chieftain's anger that he was not yet satisfied. "Who else will make such an admission?" he demanded, glaring at each of the remaining braves in turn.

By now he had cowed them so thoroughly that two of the warriors spoke out simultaneously, both confessing to nonexistent affairs with Gentle Doe.

Tall Stone laughed maniacally and shouted, *T,et the drums be sounded, and let all the people of the village be assembledl*'

Soon the throbbing of a tom-tom summoned the braves and squaws of the village to a meeting on a slope w^here such infrequent sessions w^ere held. Tall Stone paused briefly at his ovim tepee to don the feathered headgear that was the symbol of his rank.

Gentle Dee had no idea what was in store for her when she took her place with the other unmarried maidens.

Tall Stone launched into a long diatribe on the immorality of Gentle Doe. Not once as he spoke did he glance in her direction. Gentle Doe was so stunned that she stared at her accuser in openmouthed disbelief.

Tall Stone called on the four young warriors to repeat their misdemeanors in public. They compHed, one by one, standing before the assembled throng and admitting that they had made love to the woman.

The bewildered, astonished Gentle Doe wanted to scream that she was innocent, but she was incapable of speech. As she looked around her at the disgusted expressions on the faces of those she had regarded as her friends, it dawned on her that her cause was hopeless. She had made an enemy out of Tall Stone by refusing his oflFer of marriage, and now he was getting even with her in the most vicious of all possible ways.

At last the village chieftain turned to Gentle Doe. Demented hatred was etched in every Ime of his face. "Let her who has erred pay the penalty,'* he said bitterly. *T,et her be cleansed of her mistakes so she may once again be fit company for the people of the Sioux. Let the women of this village form a gauntlet, and let her run itl**

All at once Gentle Doe found her voice, but it was too late. The women of the village, arming themselves with clubs, lengths of rawhide, and tomahawks—which they turned so the sharp edge would not cut their victim-formed in two rows and faced each other, several feet apart. Meanwhile, some of the women, brawny from years of labor, seized the struggling, terrified Gentle Doe and dragged her toward the double Hne.

Weeping and screaming, she protested her innocence. The women paid no attention, however, and when she tried to pull away, they lifted her off the ground and carried her toward her fate.

As frightened as she was incensed by the injustice, Gentle Doe could not think clearly. One of her last memories was that of Tall Stone's face, his demon grin maniacal as he watched her being carried to her unjust punishment

The women who were carrying her halted, placed her | on her feet, and shoved her forward so violently that she stumbled and fell to one knee. Before she could regain her feet, hard blows rained on her head, shoulders, and back. The pain was excruciating, and she reaUzed it was useless to protest her innocence. The longer she remained within reach of the weapons, the more she would suffer. She would escape only by running the gauntlet

Dragging herself step by tortured step. Gentle Doe inched through the double line. The women, enjoying their cruel sport, beat her unmercifully, and whenever she managed to move somewhat more rapidly, one of them reached out with a club and tripped her. Women vied with each other to see who could strike the hardest blows.

Her head aching and throbbing, her body aflame with

bruises, cuts, and welts, Gentle Doe struggled forward. The knowledge that she was innocent, that she was being made to suflFer unfairly because she had injured a man's pride and vanity, gave Gentle Doe the strength to keep moving.

The actual running of tiie gauntlet took only a few minutes, but they seemed like an eternity to the battered, bruised young woman. The other women showed no mercy, and Gentle Doe could not blame them for their lack of compassion. She would have felt exactly the same way toward someone guilty of breaking the moral code of the Sioux.

Gentle Doe reached the end of the gauntlet by crawHng the final yards on her hands and knees. Then, suddenly, the torture stopped.

Sobbing involuntarily, her whole body enveloped in pain so intense that it robbed her of the ability to think. Gentle Doe stretched out on the ground, her bleeding hands clawing at the rocky soil.

The villagers did not linger. The squaws, their work done, departed quickly for their own tepees. They were soon followed by the sober, silent warriors, including the fovir young braves whose false testimony had been responsible for the unjust punishment.

Soon only one person remained in the field with Gentle Doe. Tall Stone stood directly above her, looking down at the welts and cuts on her body, and he smiled, his eyes glittering with triumph. He knew what Gentle Doe was too far gone to realize, that he could not run the risk of allowing her to remain in the village. If she remained she would be a constant reminder of his treachery, and one or all of the braves he had intimidated into lying about her might be compelled to tell the truth. Thus, he had to get rid of her.

"Can you hear me, woman?" he demanded harshly, his voice like the sting of a whip. "Can you hear what I say to your

She was unable to speak but managed to nod. I

**If you had married me," he said, "you would have stood first among the squaws of this village. Now, instead, you are an outcast. You have only yom-self to blame. Now, get out! Leave this place and never return to it. I give you warning—if I see you here again, I will kill you on sight." He emphasized his words by kicking her in the ribs and then spitting at her.

So numbed by pain and terror that she scarcely felt his lack and was unaware of the spittle that ran down the side of her battered face. Gentle Doe summoned her final reserves of strength. She hauled herself to her feet, and staggering and stumbling, she fled from the village into the wilderness of the Dakota Badlands.

The half-troop of Eleventh Cavalry members forming a guard for Colonel Andrew Brentwood made their camp high on a slope among pines and spruce trees about five hundred feet away from the spot where a tent had been erected for the coloneFs use. Their horses had been left at the bottom of the mountain slope, in the care of three of their men.

Now, following Toby Holt's arrival in the rugged Black Hills, a second tent was erected. A casual observer, stumbling on the clearing and seeing the two men dressed in frontiersmen's garb, would have assimied that the men were enjoying a hunting and fishing vacation.

Indeed, feeling invigorated to be at this moimtain rendezvous, Andy and Toby took time out from their discussions to hunt and fish for themselves, leaving the men

of the Eleventh to acquire their own game. Andy caught enough trout to enable them to eat their jBll of fish at breakfast, and Toby brought down a fat buck, which gave them ample meat. The rest of the time they engaged in serious talk, sitting in the open, looking across the rugged, low-lying peaks of the Black Hills, mountains that had gotten their name because the trees and lesser foliage that covered them took on a black hue from a distance.

'The way I see it,** Toby said, cleaning his rifle as he sat cross-legged on the ground, "we're headed for serious trouble, Andy."

Colonel Brentwood nodded slowly and pushed his beaver hat onto the back of his head. "I'm afraid you re right," he replied. "We're going to have our hands full."

"The Sioux are influenced by Thunder Cloud," Toby said, "and he's opposed one hundred percent to an amicable understanding with us. He's prepared to fight a full-scale war."

"Then he's a bigger damn fool than I realized," Andy replied harshly. "He can't possibly win."

Toby Holt shrugged. "Obviously Thunder Cloud doesn't agree. He feels that since the Sioux will be supported by the Blackfoot and the Cheyenne, the Indians are going to be blame near invincible, and between you and me, Andy, he may not be far off the mark."

"I've been assured," the colonel told him, "of the complete support of the War Department, and General Grant has a reputation for meaning what he says."

"I explained all that to Thunder Cloud," Toby said. "I told him that Washington will give us as many men and as much munitions as we need to enable white settlers to come here in safety. He didn't beHeve me, and I must admit I can't blame him. Dakota and Montana are enor-

mous territories, comprising hundreds of thousands of square miles. If s diflBcult for me, much less for a savage, to envision troops being sent out here in sufficient numbers to guarantee the peace."

"Fm not vmderestimating the enormity of the job," Andy said. "It's sure going to be diflBcult."

**A11 I can do," Toby said, "is to visit as many Indian villages as I can. This is primarily the war of the Sioux, so if I manage to win the approval of even a few Sioux chiefs or their medicine men, the eflFect will snowball. Once some of the Sioux chiefs are on our side, leaders of the Blackfoot and the Cheyenne wiU start having second thoughts about allying with Thunder Cloud."

Andy nodded. "You really think you re going to get anywhere with these visits, Toby?"

"All I can tell you is that 111 be following the request of General Grant to the letter. I think it's possible for me to get results. If I didn't feel this way, I wouldn't be wasting my time."

Andy pondered the matter. "Neither the Sioux nor the Blackfoot are monolithic nations," he said slowly. **True, aU the Sioux are related to each other, as aU the Blackfoot are related, and that means that they usually act in concert. But they have no rigid laws that require them to stand together. If you can persuade some of them to show enough good sense to make a separate peace with us, I suppose it's always possible that the better part of the Sioux nation will repudiate the stand taken by Thunder Cloud."

Toby nodded. "At least Tve got to act as though I believe it can be done."

"In the meantime, however, would you agree that I should also be ready in case things work out for the worst?" the colonel asked.

"Absolutely! To do anything else would not only be foolhardy but would also expose the settlers to unnecessary risks. We have to keep our powder dry and be prepared for the worst at any given moment/*

"General Grant sent me a formal communication," Andy said, "in which he assured me that he'd take care of my wants, whatever they might be. He also assured me that I'll have the support of General Blake and the Army of the West/*

Toby knew his stepfather would move mountains, if necessary, in order to keep his word.

"As soon as I return to Fort Shaw,*' Andy said, "I'll send a telegram to General Blake asking him to augment my force with as many troops as he can spare, preferably cavalry."

"Good," Toby said.

"Such a request, then, will have your support?*

"You can count on me all the way," Toby told him.

They planned to break camp early the following morning, with Andy Brentwood heading back to Fort Shaw, while Toby began to make his rounds of Sioux villages. The Heutenant in charge of Andy's escort was notified of their itinerary and was instructed to break camp at sunrise.

They were up early and had their last breakfast of fried trout beside their campfire. As the pair ate in the hght of the predawn campfire, they heard rusthng noises in the woods beyond their clearing but assumed that the soldiers had finished striking their own camp and had now come to dismande and pack their tents. They were mistaken.

A shot sounded, and a rifle bullet whined overhead.

Toby and Andy reacted instantly. Toby dove behind a pine trunk, while Andy crawled several paces on his

hands and knees to a large boulder. Both carried rifles, and both knew how to play the wilderness game of waiting for a foe to advertise his location. They did not have long to wait

Fire erupted in the woods to their right and then to their left. They identified the location of the shots and instinctively divided the responsibilities, with Toby taking the foe on the left, while Andy engaged the one on the right.

Toby raised his rifle to his shoulder, made out a murky, indistinct form half-hidden in the fohage, and squee^d the trigger. A high-pitched scream of pain told him his bullet had found its mark.

At the same time, Andy Brentwood aimed his rifle and fired. His bullet struck home, and the body of a man tumbled forward onto the groimd past the edge of the clearing.

The rifle fire alerted the men of the cavalry escort, and they raced toward the clearing, with the Ueutenant who commanded the unit in the lead. He was the first to realize that a number of intruders were responsible, and he shouted loudly, "Spread out, menl Grab every stranger you seel**

He gave the orders too late for them to be effective, however. The enemy eluded capture and fled.

The man Toby had shot was still alive. As Toby approached, he was surprised to discover that his assailant was a white man wearing rough frontier clothes. Toby had assumed that he and Andy had been beset by Indians, for there were few white men who would have the stealth and ability to enter a large camp undetected.

Andy hastily joined him. **The man I killed was white, too," he said. "I don't understand this at all.'*

Toby dropped to one knee beside the fallen man and

saw there was nothing that could be done for him. He leaned close to him and spoke loudly and distinctly. "Who are youP' he demanded. "Why did you try to kill us? Who sent you?"

Perspiration streamed from the fallen man's face, and he tried hard to focus on the speaker. "You Toby Holt?" he asked hoarsely, his voice barely audible as he gasped for breath between each word. "Yes," he said, "I'm Toby Holt."

The man reached for a knife in his belt, but his strength was ebbing so fast that the blade fell from his grasp, and he grimaced in pain. "Ma Hastings," he whispered, "promised to pay one thousand dollars in gold—a whole one thousand bucksl—to the man who killed Toby Holt. But I guess I ain't got no need for money, not where I'm going." Exhausted by his speech, he was attacked by a paroxysm of coughing, and Toby waited grimly for the man to stop.

"Who else came with you?" Toby demanded. "Who else got into our camp?"

The man struggled to speak. "Indian, name Black Horse. Led us in here. Escaped when he saw soldiers." This time the man's coughing attack was even more violent, and before he could recover from it, he died, his sightless eyes staring up at the early morning sky.

Toby rose to his feet, and a concerned Andy Brentwood led him oflF to the far side of the clearing while the soldiers dug a shallow grave for the two bodies. "Ma Hastings," he said, "is a vicious enemy. She must want yoiu: hide something fierce if she's offered a thousand dollars for it."

"She hates me because I put a bullet into her son's head back in Montana," Toby said. "But never fear,

Andy. I can look after myself, especially now that IVe been warned.**

"Maybe you can take care of yourself, and maybe you can't. But you heed my words, Toby. Take no needless risks from now on. With Ma Hastings gunning for you, you can't be too carefull'*

Everyone in the audience at the fashionable San Francisco concert was aware of the handsome young couple sitting in the box at one side of the auditorium, the woman with a boa of ostrich feathers draped over her bare shoulders, her blond hair gleaming, and her escort impeccable in white tie and tailcoat Some of those present had known Beth Martin dining the years when her father had been commandant of the Presidio and had last seen her when she and her husband had honeymooned in the city. Others in the audience were acquainted with Leon Graham's uncle and aunt, Chet and Clara Lou Harris.

Watching Beth smiling up at her escort, her long lashes fluttering, her fingers reaching out to touch his arm as she chatted with him, they disapproved. She was a married woman, after all, and consequently had no right to be flirting so blatantly. But they said nothing, for she was the daughter of Major General Leland Blake. Some excused her conduct on the groimds that she was naive and unaware she was being provocative.

As it happened, that estimate was accurate. Beth, who had traveled to Europe and had acquired a modicum of sophistication, was still far from being a worldly woman. Right now all she knew was that for the first time in her life, she could afford to indulge her taste in clothes and had found a perfect escort who enjoyed her company but demanded nothing of her in return. She was enjoy-

ing herself immensely, making up for the dull years at army posts.

Certainly she had no idea of her effect on Leon Graham. She knew him only as a hardworking investment banker, in whom his uncle placed great trust, and as a charming companion who entertained her royally. Had she guessed that there was a darker side to his nature, that he had become infatuated with her and was finding it more and more diflScult to refrain from making advances to her, she would have been horrified.

Even though he was perilously close to losing control of himself, Leon managed to keep his emotions in check for the time being. He reminded himself incessantly that Beth was not only a married woman but that she was also the daughter of one of the most prominent men in the entire Pacific Coast area. Thus, he would have to make his moves with the utmost care.

After the concert Leon took Beth's arm and guided her through the crowd to his waiting carriage. He handed her in, then spoke a few words to the coachman before he joined her in the plush interior. "Instead of going on to a restaurant,** he said, *1 thought we might go back to my house for something to eat. YouVe never seen my home, and Fm rather proud of it. If you don t object, that is.**

She hesitated, then dismissed her fears. Leon's conduct had been impeccable. It would be insulting to refuse to accompany him to his house. Society had its rules, to be sure, but they had to be tempered with common sense.

His house fitted the station he had achieved in life. Located high on Nob Hill, with a view of San Francisco Bay, it was a sturdy, three-story dwelling of pale brick, staid and solid on the outside. But once they had en-

tered the place, Beth discovered that the interior was lovely.

The spacious living room had an Oriental decor, the bathroom—where she repaired her makeup—was glowing with poHshed marble, and the dining room, with its table and chairs of solid mahogany, its walls Hned with mahogany paneling, was sumptuous and sedate.

The supper was perfect, as was the service. Leon's chef produced an excellent shrimp bisque, followed by a slice of cold beef and an asparagus salad, which were just right for an after-concert meal. The food was served with aplomb by a uniformed butler, and a second butler served chilled French champagne that was as deUcious as it was head-turning.

Thanks to Leons attentiveness, suave manners, and ability to engage in light, amusing conversation, Beth had never enjoyed an evening more.

After eating a dessert of fresh peaches in brandy, Beth was euphoric, at least partly because of the champagne. She eagerly agreed when Leon offered to show her through the rest of the house, and she had no inkling that he was suffering from barely effective attempts to restrain himself.

The solarium, where tropical plants bloomed, among them orchids and gardenia bushes, afforded a splendid view of the ships in the harbor and of the lower slopes of the hills leading down to the waterfront. The kitchen was a large, airy chamber and featured two hooded stoves, one of them wood-burning and the other fueled by coal. Beth was entranced.

Then Leon conducted her up the marble stairs, pointing out that the stairwell was illuminated by gas. It was one of the first private dwellings in San Francisco to

have such lighting, and he intended, he said, to have it installed in the rest of the house soon.

Beth clung to Leon s arm as they mounted the stairs togetlier, and she flirted with him even more brazenly, the champagne speaking on her behalf.

**This is my bedchamber," Leon said as he opened the door and waved his guest inside.

Beth was impressed. There was a dressing alcove with an easy chair and a pair of crossed pistols on the wall. The larger room, which also overlooked the harbor, featured a huge, four-poster bed and several other large pieces of furniture, including a divan and a coffee table.

Seated high on a perch in the far comer of the room was a m3mah bird, an ugly creatxure with vivid metallic purple and green coloring. It had been idly pecking at some birdseed in a small container attached to its perch, but it looked up and brightened when the couple came into the chamber.

Everything seemed right for a seduction, and Leon planned his moves carefully. He would grasp Beth by the waist, turn her around to face him, and before she could protest, he would kiss her long, hard, and passionately. By the time he released her, she, too, would be aroused and would consent to his lovemaldng. He had shown great forbearance; now, perhaps, his patience finally would be rewarded.

Suddenly the mynah bird spoke, its harsh words and raucous tone cutting through Beth's alcohol-induced fog. ''Hello, wenchl Hello, wenchl" The bird's laugh was loud, shrill, and piercing.

Beth Martin reacted as though a bucket of ice water had been thrown over her head. The pleasant feeling, the sensation that all was right.with the world, vanished abruptly.

"Hello, wenchi*' The bird laughed again, loudly, insistently.

Beth stiffened.

Leon was quick to note the effect of his mynah bird on his guest. "Be quiet, bird," he said. "The lady isn't amused."

The mynah bird knew it was being addressed and continued to cackle.

Beth rubbed her bare arms to rid them of a sudden attack of gooseflesh. She had no idea why she felt as she did. All she knew was that she had to control an urge to pick up her gown and flee not only from the room but also from the house.

*1 m sorry, Leon," she said, her tone cool, her manner suddenly remote, 'Ibut Tm afraid I have a sudden and dreadful headache. Perhaps youU be good enough to take me home now."

So much for the seduction. He had no doubt that if he were to seize Beth now and try to kiss her, she would storm out of the house. "I'll order the carriage at once," he said, and withdrew.

She was left to follow at a more leisurely pace, and she paused to glance back at the mynah bird over her shoulder. It was ridiculous to be afraid of a bird.

Again the bird cackled.

Never had Beth heard such an evil, depraved sound, and she left the bedchamber in such haste that she almost stumbled and fell. When she was in the corridor again and the door was closed behind her, the bird's laughter was muffled, and she breathed more easily. Her heart pounded against her rib cage so hard that she found it difficult to breathe, and she wondered again why the harmless pet should have influenced her so adversely.

Leon Graham called for his carriage and driver, then helped Beth into the carriage. His suave smile concealed his disappointment. The bird had spoiled everything, but having come so close to success, Leon was determined to try again. And next time, mynah bird or no mynah bird, he vowed that he would allow nothing to stand in his way.

In Fort Vancouver, the school attended by the children of military personnel and civilians was located in the town that had sprung up about a mile and a half from the fort itself. The well-traveled road between town and fort led through pine woods and birch trees, and it was familiar to Cindy Holt and Hank Purcell, who made their way back and forth daily. Now, school having ended for the day, they were homeward bound to Major General Blake's house on the grounds of the fort.

Cindy was out of sorts. She hated having Hank tagging along after her, even though she had to admit that since they were going to the same house, it was only natural that he would walk with her. She could not help wishing, all the same, that he would leave her alone. Nothing infuriated her more than the teasing she received from some of her friends who saw her arriving with Hank every morning and leaving with him every afternoon.

108

I'll carry your books for yon, if you like," Hank offered.

Cindy shook her head. "No, thank you,** she replied frostily.

**You haven't got any call to be unpleasant,** he said. **I was just trying to be poHte because you re supposed to be a lady. Carry your own books for all I care."

The teenage girl was miffed. "You re no gentleman!** she informed him.

"Well, if you ask me, miss high-and-mighty," he retorted, "you re no ladyl**

The two young people fell into a hostile silence, Cindy walking with her head held high. Hank ambling beside her, swinging his schoolbooks by the strap that held them together. There was nothing out of the ordinary about their exchange. They bickered constantly except when in the presence of General and Mrs. Blake and Clarissa. Adults somehow became terribly annoyed over the iQcessant squabbles of people in their teens.

Leading away from the main road, there was a path through the woods that Cindy and Hank took as a shortcut to the fort. It was narrow, so they were forced to walk single file. Hank allowing Cindy to take the lead.

They heard the deep rumble of male voices ahead and then saw five young men sitting to one side of the path, passing a jug of whiskey aroimd their circle. Hank recognized the group as new recruits who had been sworn into the army within the past ten days. All of them had short haircuts, and one carried a Colt six-shooter in his belt. It was a violation of army regulations for a service weapon to be carried when one was attired in civilian clothes.

Cindy had wandered almost into their midst when

they noticed her, and one of them called out something raucously unpleasant.

Before she could back away, the group surrounded her, grinning as they made comments about her face, her figure, and their intentions regarding her. Clearly they had no idea she was the stepdaughter of the general commanding the Army of the West, and had Cindy chosen to identify herself now, they would have been almost certain to conclude that she was fibbing in an attempt to extricate herself.

The men began to close in on her, and Cindy, terrified, reaHzed she was in a serious predicament. Hank took a protective step closer to the girl.

The largest of the recruits, taU and broad-shouldered, grinned at the boy and brandished a heavy club. "Be on your way, sonny," he said, "and don't look back, or I'll have to knock your teeth out of your head to teach you mannersi"

The threat was all Hank needed. Selecting the man who carried the pistol in his belt as his target, he spun the strap that held his schoolbooks, whirling it rapidly over his head, and then let fly with it.

The unorthodox weapon hit the man on the forehead and sent him staggering backward. Before he could recover. Hank leaped forward, pouncing like a mountain Hon. When the boy backed off, he was holding the Colt six-shooter in his hand. He quickly checked the chamber to see that the gun was fully loaded.

"Take it easy, sonny,'* one of the men called. *That there gun is no toyl"

With a firearm firmly in his grasp. Hank Purcell's whole character seemed to change. His youthfulness vanished, and he was secure and self-confident, a man rather than a boy. He did not bother to reply in words

but instead took quick, casual aim and fired the pistol twice.

One shot went through the crown of the hat worn by the man who had last spoken, knocking it to the ground, and the other shot splintered the club held by the biggest of the recruits.

The men stared at Hank in astonishment.

**There are four bullets left in this pistol,** he said, "and there are five of you, which means only one of you is going to live, unless you do exactly as I teU you, when I tell you to do it. Beginning now. Reach for the treetops!"

The dazed recruits lifted their hands above their heads.

"Higherr Hank commanded sharply.

The five men stretched their hands higher above their heads. The boy's tone of voice, as well as the two shots he had already fired, convinced them that he would make good his threat unless they obeyed.

"Cindy," he said, 'TU be much obliged if you*U bring my schoolbooks, and while you're about it, you had better bring that jug of whiskey, too. We'll want it for evidence."

ReHeved now that the danger was ended, Cindy was imcertain whether to laugh or cry. She did neither, however, but obeyed Hank, picking up his books by the leather strap and fetching the jug of whiskey.

"Line up in single file, you no-good scum," Hank commanded, "and start marching back to Fort Vancouver. I'm only going to warn you once. If anyone steps out of fine or tries any tricks, I'll split your heart with a bulletl Now, march I"

The strange procession started off on the path through

the woods, the five prisoners holding their hands high above their heads.

Cindy, bringing up the rear, began to see Hank in a new light. This was not the bumbling, inexperienced schoolboy she had known but a self-reliant man.

At last they came to the main northern entrance of Fort Vancouver, and the familiar challenge of the corporal of the guard rang out. "Advance and be recog-nizedl"

The procession moved forward.

The corporal saw Cindy and Hank, whom he knew, and the five recruits with their hands high in the air. He summoned Sergeant McNamara, the senior noncoromis-sioned oflBcer in charge of the guard.

"What in the name of all that's holy is goin' on here, Miss Holt?** the bewildered McNamara demanded.

After Cindy explained the situation, McNamara turned to the recruits. "Is that what happened?" he demanded. "Is the story Miss Holt just told me accurate?"

Too late, the recruits realized that the girl they had threatened occupied a special place at the post. Two of them nodded wearily, unable to deny Cindy's charges.

Sergeant McNamara leaped into action. Members of the guard detail were summoned and promptly marched the recruits oflF to the prisoners' stockade. Then, barely able to keep a straight face, McNamara turned back to the young couple. "Til relieve you of that six-shooter now, young fellow," he said, "and I reckon you can part with the jug of whiskey, miss. We'U need both of them as evidence.**

Cindy was glad to be rid of the whiskey, but Hank seemed reluctant to part with the gun.

"I've heard teU you can do all kinds of magic with

firearms,** McNamara said. **Maybe you'll give me a demonstration one of these days."

Hank was somewhat mollified. "Sure/* he said. "Be glad to."

"You youngsters run along home now, so Mrs. Blake ain't going to be worried about you bein' late," the sergeant said, "ril take care of notifyin* the general about the goin s-on.**

Cindy and Hank started in silence across the parade ground, the most direct route to the commanding general's house. Suddenly the girl stopped and, reaching out, put her hand on the boy's arm.

"Thank you for stepping in when you did and saving me, Hank," she said. "I—I didn't treat you very nicely, but you sure didn't let that stop you. When I was in danger, you came to my rescue without hesitating, and I'm not going to forget it."

The boy flushed scarlet. "Shucks," he muttered, "I didn't do anything so special."

They exchanged no further words, but a new warmth surrounded them, and they walked close enough so that their shoulders almost brushed.

Clarissa and Eulalia had spent the day in a typical, hardworking fashion, doing housework and getting dinner ready, preparing for a short journey they planned to make together the next day to the Holt ranch in Oregon. Though Whip Holt's old Cherokee friend Stalking Horse was doing a splendid job overseeing the operation of the ranch, Eulalia wanted to pay a visit to review the account books and pick up a few things she needed.

They were sitting now in the comfortable parlor of the commandant's house. Eulalia had insisted that Clarissa, who was feeling some of the discomforts of preg-

nancy, get ofiF her feet, especially since they had planned a big day for tomorrow. So Clarissa was sitting by the window, knitting a woolen blanket for her infant. She was lost in thought, and EulaHa, also knitting a sweater for the child, guessed that her daughter-in-law was missing her husband. Even the dog Mr. Blake, lying near Clarissa's feet, seemed to be aware of his mistress's feehngs, and frequently he wagged his tail and raised his head, looking up at her solicitously.

The quiet mood was interrupted by the arrival of Cindy and Hank. Eulalia, from a parlor window, saw the young people coming down the walk to the house and said to her daughter-in-law, "Clarissa! Come here and tell me if you see what I see."

Clarissa joined her, saw the new closeness of Cindy and Hank, and giggled as she said, "I guess wonders will never cease. It looks as though they've buried the hatchet."

The teenagers came into the house but made no mention of what had happened to them on their homeward journey. They went directly to the kitchen for glasses of milk and a plate of the chocolate brownies that Clarissa had made that day.

They were still in the kitchen eating when Lee Blake came home and sought them out. The general hugged and kissed Cindy, then extended a hand to Hank. "I'm proud of you, boy," he said, "and I'm more determined than ever to recommend you for an opening at the military academy next year. You've also done me quite a favor. The army needs every recruit we can get these days, and I wasn't looking forward to discharging those five culprits from service. Now it doesn't look as though I'U need to. They've become the laughingstocks of the entire post because of the way you handled them, and

they're so ashamed that Til be able to keep them in line without punishing them much more, except to have them offer a public apology to you and especially to Cindy in front of the whole garrison. Do you two suppose you can tolerate such a ceremony?^

A furiously blushing Cindy agreed, as did a red-faced Hank.

"I didn t do a thing/' the girl said. "I had no chance. Hank tamed them in a hurry, and the way he did it was astonishing!" She looked at him admiringly.

Hank muttered under his breath in embarrassment.

The wide-eyed Cindy looked at her stepfather. "Are first-year students at the mihtary academy allowed to attend school dances?"' she demanded.

Lee was startled by the question but nodded. "Of course," he said.

"And," she persisted, "is there any chance that youll be going east to visit the War Department next year and taking Mama and me with you?"

He began to understand the drift of her conversation and nodded solemnly. "I'm sure it can be arranged, Cindy."

She turned to Hank and wagged a finger at him. "When you go to West Point, you'd better see to it that you invite me to your first school dance, Hank Purcell," she told him. "If you ask any other girl, I'll never talk to you againi"

Lee covered his mouth with his hand and averted his face so the two teenagers wouldn't notice his laughter. EulaHa, who had been standing with Clarissa in the doorway of the kitchen, sent Cindy and Hank off to do their homework.

After the teenagers had gone upstairs, Eulalia turned

to her husband. "Do you mind telling me what that was aU aboutr

Lee waved her and Clarissa into the kitchen, and while Eulalia put a pot of cojBFee on the stove to brew, the general described the incident that had taken place in the woods that afternoon.

"I'm not in the least surprised by Hank's expertise with a pistol/* Clarissa said. "Next to Toby, that boy is one of the best shots there is."

"It's too bad he isn't a few years older," Lee Blake replied. "I have good use for him."

EulaUa thought she detected a hint of concern in her husband's voice. *What do you mean?" she asked.

"When the War Department gave me command of the Army of the West, I thought I'd be ending my army career on a quiet, tranquil note," he said. "But I couldn't have been more mistaken. It looks Hke there's going to be hell to pay in the West, all through Dakota, Montana, and Utah, and I need all the good men I can get. The Sioux, along with the Blackfoot and Cheyenne, appear to be on the warpath against us. This could tiun out to be our biggest fight ever with the Indians. Not only is our immigration into the western territories threatened, but the new railroad we're building is also in jeopardy."

Eulalia's hand was steady as she poured the coffee. "How will this affect Toby?" she asked softly.

"He's involved with the whole process," Lee said, not wanting to worry Toby's mother and wife but at the same time feeling it was wrong to make light of the problems he faced. "That was the whole reason for his going to Washington City, to meet with General Grant to discuss ways of dealing with the Indians. He's in Dakota now, attempting to dissuade Indian leaders from

their alliance. I just had a telegram from Andy Brentwood, who arrived back at Fort Shaw this morning after meeting with Toby in Dakota. Based on Toby's recommendation, Andy has put in a request for an additional five hundred men to be sent to Dakota as soon as pos-sible.**

Clarissa folded her hands in her lap and sat calmly at the kitchen table, even though her heart was pounding.

Lee spooned some sugar into the cofiFee Eulalia poured him, then stirred it vigorously, his mind lost in thought. "I'm afraid," he said, "111 be obliged to forward Andy's request to the War Department. I just pray that they'll be able to give us the help we need."

"Oh, dear." Eulalia was upset. "Why refer to Washington, Lee?"

He smiled painfully. "The truth is," he said, "that I'm scraping the bottom of the manpower barrel already. The Army of the West simply isn't big enough to do all its jobs. I have troops in California and New Mexico and Nevada keeping an eye on the Apache. The Navaho in Arizona may kick up their heels at any time. The Nez Perce here in Washington have been pacified, at least for the time being, but it's anyone's guess for how long. The same is true of the Arapaho and the Cheyenne in Wyoming and in Colorado. Not to mention the problems that we face in the Dakotas, Montana, and Utah. Fires are smoldering all over the West, and there's no telling when and where a major blaze is likely to break out."

"President Johnson and General Grant have no right to expect the impossible from you, Lee," EulaHa said primly. "If they want you to take responsibility for maintaining peace in the West, then they've got to supply you with the manpower to do itl"

Lee Blake grinned wearily. "Based on pure logic, my

dear, you're absolutely right. But there are factors you fail to take into consideration."

"Such as?*' she demanded.

**The most important thing to keep in mind," he said, "is that the United States is a nation of civilians. After a major war—especially a war as tragic as the Civil War— there's a national revulsion against military service. The army needs men, but we're not getting enough volunteers. So although General Grant promised to give us all the men we needed, he was, perhaps, being optimistic. There simply aren't the men available.**

"Then how are you going to handle the problem?**

**As I said, I intend to scrape the bottom of the barrel, ril reduce headquarters personnel—here, at the Presidio, everywhere—and in that way I can meet about half our current need. I'll have to do some juggling to get the other two hundred and fifty men, but I'll get them. I have too much respect for Andy Brentwood and Toby not to comply with their request."

In spite of his assurances, Eulalia was troubled. "I'm not sure I Hke any of this," she said.

*T can't say that I blame you," he replied, "but after we've been married for a time, you'll grow accustomed to this juggling act of mine. My subordinate commanders will scream and cry and beat their heads against the waUs, but one way or another Fll manage to get the job done and to provide the manpower to the right commands at the right time."

"I've listened to you very carefully," Clarissa said, running her hand through her red hair. "You talk about the need for additional men to meet the threat of Indian uprisings in this territory or that territory, but you don't mention the exact situation of the men who are already in the field."

Tou're thinldng of Toby, naturally/' Lee said.

Clarissa nodded slowly. "Of course, I am," she said. Toby isn't even attached to an army unit. He*s travehng alone, going from one Indian village to the next. He's in great danger every moment of every day and night.'*

"I'd be lying if I denied that," Lee said gently. **Toby is indeed in great danger, and he'll continue to be exposed until Colonel Brentwood's reinforcements arrivQ and the Indians are convinced to maintain peaceful relations with us."

^That's what I thought," Clarissa said, sighing.

Eulalia's sudden reply was quiet but emphatic. "This may sound foolish, Clarissa, dear," she said, taking her daughter-in-law's hand, "but if I were you, I wouldn't be too worried about Toby, no matter how great the danger he seems to be in. Toby can take care of himself."

The sun was shining in a cloudless blue sky, but the winter winds that blew across the endless prairies of the Dakota Territory were cold. Still, there had been very little snow, and Toby Holt traveled easily as he rode across the land. After he had met with Andy, he had returned to Fort Rice for a few days, to obtain from the fort's sutler dried beef and com, flour and salt, and even bags of oats, in the event there were heavy snows and his horse was unable to graze. Toby had of course also acquired a new saddle for his horse, and in his saddlebags he even had room for small presents—silver combs and razors—to give to the Indians he would visit.

Now coming to a small, icy stream, Toby paused to drink, water his horse, and take stock of his situation. The first of the Sioux villages he intended to visit was a day's journey away. He felt confident that he would be able to see the chief, and he had no intention of allow-

ing the Indians to lay a trap for him the way Thunder Cloud had. Relying on the Indian's sense of honor, he would only stay in their camp if they pledged safe conduct. No, the big problem was what Toby should say to the chief to persuade him to lay down the tomahawk. What would his father say, for instance, in a similar situation? Neither Whip nor Toby had been trained as a diplomat or peacemaker.

He sat beside the little river on the hard ground, the bright sun warming him and his saddlebags protecting him from the wind. As he pondered and sought a solution to his dilemma, Toby noted that something was moving in the tall, dry grass some yards away.

The movement was infrequent, not like that of an animal busily burrowing in tlie ground or scampering to its home. Toby waited for a moment, saw the movement again, and got to his feet. Picking up his rifle, he walked cautiously to the spot. Suddenly he halted and looked down in the thick, dry grass at what he first assumed was a young Indian boy. Not until he examined the figure more closely did he realize he was looking at a young woman.

Her hair was matted and snarled, and dirt was caked on her bare feet and hands. She was painfully thin, so emaciated that her ribs showed beneath her tattered, filthy deerskin dress.

She had been savagely beaten. There were welts, bruises, and scabs on her arms and legs, her back, and even on her head. At first Toby thought she was dead, but then he became aware of her shallow breathing. He dropped to one knee beside her, turned her over, and tried without success to rouse her. Finally, he took a small tin cup from his belt and, dipping it into the river.

filled it with water, then gently poured a few drops into the young woman's mouth.

She stirred without opening her eyes, drank several sips of water, then sighed quietly and lapsed into unconsciousness again, Toby lifted her in his arms and carried her to where his horse waited. After placing her on the ground beside his saddlebags, he wrapped her in a blanket.

A flight of wild ducks spurred him to action. He raised his rifle and brought down one of the birds with a single shot. After retrieving the bird, he unpacked a pot from his gear. He cleaned the duck, cut it into small pieces, and put it in the pot with some water. Then he started a fire with sticks he gathered and put the pot over the fire.

The Indian woman was half-starved and in her condition required soup. Toby took some vegetables, dried peas and com, from his own supplies and added them to the pot.

While the soup was cooking, he decided to clean up the woman. If dirt contaminated any of her wounds, her recovery would be hampered. He took another pot from his gear, filled it with water, and put it over the fire to warm. Then he dipped a cloth in the water, and his touch surprisingly Hght, he began wiping the grime of the prairie from the woman's face, arms, and hands.

While he was attending to her, she opened her eyes, saw the face of a white man looming above her, and was filled with terror.

Toby reassured her. Recognizing from her fine, chiseled features that she was a Sioux, he addressed her in that tongue. "You have nothing to fear," he said. "I am your friend, and I am here to help you.**

The woman heard his tone, saw the expression in his

eyes, and believed him. A hint of a tremulous smile appeared on her parched lips.

Toby was encouraged. She seemed to be stronger than she had appeared at first.

When the soup was ready, he poured some into a cup and, supporting the woman with one arm, fed her with his free hand. She ate the contents of the cup slowly.

At last she spoke timidly. "Is there more?**

"Much more," Toby told her. "Eat and drink your fill.**

She ate two more containers of the soup before drifting ofiF to sleep.

Toby knew that his mission had to take second place for a time. It was an inviolable law of the wilderness that the requirements of someone who was injured or sick came ahead of all else.

He realized that the Indian woman would need time to regain her strength before being able to travel again, so he decided to make camp at this spot for a few nights.

BeUeving no harm would come to the woman if he left her for a short time, he went hunting in earnest and soon picked up the tracks of a deer. Thanks to the speed and stamina of his staUion, he found and brought down a large buck and a doe. Returning to his camp with the catch, he skinned and cut up the carcasses, saving the sinews for rope or thread, and built up his fire in order to cook the meat. Wood was scarce on the prairie, and Toby was lucky to find several good-sized pieces that had come downriver and been cast upon the riverbank.

While the meat was roasting, he dressed the deerskins, spreading them out tightly and tying the comers to pegs he hammered in the ground. Then he scraped the skins clean, having reasoned that he would have good use for them in the future.

After sleeping for the better part of the afternoon, the young Indian woman awakened, and Toby again fed her several portions of the nomishing soup. He was surprised by the speed of her recovery. She sat up unaided, ate ravenously, and then said, "You are very kind."

Her praise embarrassed him, and he drew attention from himself by gesturing toward the fire. ^Tonight you will have meat to eat."

She smiled, and it occurred to him that once she was really clean and gained weight, she would be pretty.

He introduced himself and was surprised by the look of awe that came across her face. "You know me?" he asked.

"Every Sioux,*' she said, 'Tcnows the name of Holt and tells stories of the prowess of the great hunters and warriors and guides who bear that name."

Somewhat flustered, Toby offered her the rest of the soup, which she eagerly accepted.

Gathering strength as she ate, she said, "I am Gentle Doe." Then she told him the story of how she had rejected the hand of Tall Stone in marriage and how the village chieftain had revenged himself.

"You needn t be afraid any longer," Toby assured her when she finished. "You are beyond the reach of your enemy now."

The young woman nodded, her eyes shining, and then, without another word, she curled up in the blanket Toby had given her and went to sleep again.

Recognizing the need to estabhsh a more permanent camp, Toby spent the rest of the dayhght hours scouring the area for buffalo chips—dried dung—that he could use for fuel to stoke his campfire. Then he took his other blanket from his saddlebag and prepared to settle down.

That night he and Gentle Doe ate venison, and at his

insistence his companion took his extra blanket while he made do sleeping wrapped in his coat and propped up against his saddle. The following morning he awoke early and made some biscuits in a pan on the fire.

While they were eating their breakfast, Toby caught a glimpse of a small herd of buffalo in the distance. He mounted his stallion, rode toward them, and brought down a large bull with a single shot. The carcass was so heavy that skinning and butchering it required considerable time, and he knew he would have to make several trips to the camp with the spoils.

A surprise awaited him on his return. Gentle Doe had found his pack of toilet articles, including a comb and soap, and had used warmed-up river water to bathe herself. She had washed her hair and somehow combed out the snarls, and she had cleaned her filthy dress, which was drying near the fire. She sat now, wrapped in a blanket.

By the time that Toby returned to camp for the fourth time, bringing the last of the bufiFalo meat with him, he discovered that Gentle Doe had been even busier. His largest kettle was on the fire, with buffalo bones, meat, and vegetables simmering in it, and she had heated venison for their noon meal. Not only had she revived physically, she seemed almost cheerful.

Curiosity overcame Gentle Doe, and childlike, she chose a direct method to satisfy it. "Why does Toby Holt travel alone in Dakota?" she asked. The blanket that Gentle Doe had wrapped around herself kept slipping as she ate, and she took her time tugging it back into place. Like most Indians, she was not embarrassed by nudity.

Toby hesitated, somewhat flustered by the glimpse of her bare shoulders. He decided he had nothing to lose

by telling her the full story of his mission. He explained that he had been directed by the United States government to negotiate peace with the Indian nations. He stressed that he was empowered to offer them large reservations, where they would have their own hunting grounds and white settlers would be forbidden to enter.

He went on to say that although Thunder Cloud had rejected his terms, he intended to persist and offer them to the local chieftains of the individual Sioux villages.

Gentle Doe was surprised. "Has Toby Holt yet gone to these villages?"

He shook his head. "I was heading for one when I found you.**

Gende Doe was lost in thought for a time, her expression grave. Then she spoke slowly. "Gentle Doe knows the location of many villages of the Sioux in the Dakota Territory. She v^ill travel v^th Toby Holt, and she will show him where these places are.*'

Toby was touched by her offer, but he was afraid traveling v^dth someone else would slow down his mission. He started to protest, but she raised a hand to silence him and spoke with determination. "If Toby Holt had not come to her help,** she said, "Gentle Doe would be dead now. He saved her life, and he asked nothing in return. He shot a duck, two deer, and a buffalo to provide her with food. Never before has Gentle Doe had such a good friend. No matter what may happen, even if she Hves for one hundred winters, she cannot repay his kindness. But she must try and do that which she is capable of doing.**

Toby demurred. "It would not be right for a woman to go from one end of Dakota to the other. The territory is large, and living conditions would be difficult.**

She met his gaze and smiled. "I no longer have a

home of my own,** she said. **If I go back to my village, Tall Stone wiU Idll me/'

That settled the issue. Toby cx)uld not refuse protection to a helpless young woman who had nowhere else to go.

The following morning. Gentle Doe, wrapped as before in the blanket, mended her buckskin dress. Toby, meanwhile, smoked buffalo meat for their future use. Suddenly a small party of Arapaho Indians rode across the prairie, driving several mountain ponies ahead of them. These animals had been captured in the Rocky Mountains and had been trained by the warriors, who were now intending to sell them to the Sioux or the Cheyenne.

Toby struck a bargain with the warriors, giving them a twenty-dollar gold piece in exchange for a lively mare. When the Arapaho had gone, he presented the pony to Gentle Doe.

His generosity overwhelmed her, and she was incapable of speaking.

**! don t want your thanks,** he told her. "I bought the pony for my own convenience. We'll be able to break camp that much sooner—Fd say in the next day or two— and we'll make far better time as we go through Dakota."

Gentle Doe nodded but made no reply, and Toby mistakenly thought that was the end of the matter. Had he seen the expression in her eyes, he would have known better.

Gentle Doe had never met a man like Toby Holt. With the single-mindedness of the young and naive, she was determined to stay with him, to make him her own.

That night, she insisted he sleep in his own blanket. He took it reluctantly, wished her good night, and soon

lay asleep under the Dakota stars. Soon Gentle Doe slid into Toby's blanket, her body pressing close against him, her hands exploring him.

More asleep than awake, Toby wrapped her in his arms, drawing her still closer, and dreamed he was home on the Holt ranch, in bed with Clarissa, his wife.

Then he suddenly realized that the young woman he was kissing and caressing was more slender and shorter than Clarissa.

He opened his eyes and was stunned to find that he was embracing Gentle Doe.

Releasing her instantly, he hoisted himself to one elbow as he stammered, "I—Tm sorry. I—I don t know how we happened to be imder this blanket together. I have a wife. In Washington. I love her very much. She—she's going to have our baby."

Gentle Doe put her hand on his mouth. "The squaw of Toby Holt is not in Dakota,** she said. "She is far away. If she will soon bear him a child, she is not fit for his lovemaldng. Gentle Doe is here. She was weak, but now she is strong again. She wants Toby Holt, just as Toby Holt wants her. Let him take her, and let there be an end to talk."

He felt desire, instantly countered by guilt. Hastily pulling himself out of the blanket, he said, "I don t mean to insult you, but I must be true to my wife."

She looked at him without understanding. Tou do not want Gentle Doe?"

He laughed ironically. Indeed I do want you," he said.

"Gentle Doe,*' she persisted, "also wants Toby Holt. His squaw is far away, and Gentle Doe is here.**

Toby knew that if he failed to keep his distance from her now he would become embroiled in an affair from

which there would be no escape as long as he and Gentle Doe remained together. Explanations were useless. **Get some sleep," he said, speaking more harshly than he intended. "We're going to leave early in the morning." He left her the blanket and spent the rest of the night sitting up.

Gentle Doe completely recovered her health and strength, and her endurance soon matched Toby's. They rode from sunup until sundown day after day, and because of her knowledge of the locations of many Sioux villages, they were able to cover much ground.

When they camped for the night, they used one of the deerskins Toby had dried to make a small lean-to, though he elected to sleep in the open in order to guard their camp. With the other deerskin. Gentle Doe had fashioned herself a new dress, which made her look even more attractive.

No Indian town would have turned away Toby Holt, son of Whip Holt. Though he did not like to rest on his fathers laurels, it certainly did no harm that the tall, wiry, sandy-haired Toby closely resembled Whip, who had befriended the Indians of Dakota and traded with them many years earlier. Indeed, there were many older warriors and chiefs who thought for a moment that they were seeing the ghost of the young Whip Holt. In addition, the presence of Gentle Doe with Toby proved to be beneficial. That he was traveling with a daughter of the Sioux gave him even greater acceptance, though in most villages it was taken for granted that they were sleeping together.

Toby spoke earnestly and at length with the village chiefs, medicine men, and principal warriors, stressing the futility of war and the advantages of a peace treaty

with the United States. He did not ask for a commitment from the braves of any community, and on the few occasions when agreements were oflFered to him, he refused to accept them. His goal was to achieve unity within the Sioux nation itself. It would not be appropriate for individual tov^Tis to make peace with the United States and lay themselves open to charges of treason from their own people. It was far preferable, he insisted, for them to work from within and persuade their entire nation not to go to war. Then, and only then, would they give up the alliance with the Blackfoot and Cheyenne.

He was playing a delicate, dangerous game, with war or peace hanging in the balance, and he would not know the results of his efforts until Thunder Cloud summoned his people to take up arms against the United States. If at that time they refused. Thunder Cloud would have no choice but to break the aUiance with Red Elk and Long Knife.

Gentle Doe, who accompanied Toby to his meetings, observed the Indians carefully, and felt certain that Toby was getting his message across to them. As she told him when they left a small Sioux village in the south of the Dakota Territory, "They are shy in the presence of a white man, particularly one who is a Holt. But they listened to what Toby told them, and in their hearts they agreed with him, rather than v^th their own tribal chiefs. You wiU learn that the words Gentle Doe speaks are true. When Thunder Cloud sounds the drums that sunmion his braves to war, those with whom Toby has held powwows will not heed that call."

"I hope you're right,** Toby replied, *l3ut Fm afraid we won t know for sure until the chips are down.**

In the notebook he kept to record the results of each

session, he often made the notation: Results of meeting not known. Still and all, he felt that he was not wasting his time. He had at least some cause to be satisfied with the progress he appeared to be making.

His personal life, however, was increasingly complex. It was inconceivable to any of his hosts that a virile young man and an attractive woman would travel and not sleep together. As a matter of course, they were given the same tepee when they were invited to stay overnight.

For some days Gentle Doe appeared to accept Toby's decision to have no intimate relations with her. Gradually, however, she became restless, and more than once he caught her studying him surreptitiously. Still, he remained steadfastly faithful to Clarissa, and after he and Gentle Doe retired for the night, usually after having shared an evening meal with their hosts, he went to his side of the tepee, rolled up in his blanket, and stayed that way until morning. In both of them, though, tensions were building.

They were given a particularly cordial welcome in one of the larger villages of the Sioux, located in the prairies of south-central Dakota. The chief gave a banquet in their honor, serving bear steak and heart of elk, and afterward Toby presented the chief with the buflFalo skin he had acquired when he first met Gentle Doe. Then all of the adults joined in the meeting.

The people left little doubt where they stood on the questions that Toby raised. Many warriors and almost aU of the squaws agreed with his arguments, that they would be better off if they made peace with the United States, accepted a tract of land as a reservation, and ignored the settlers who moved into the territory beyond their own boimdaries.

After the meeting Toby was in high spirits as he and Gentle Doe were led to a large tepee where they would spend the night. He saw a pallet of pine boughs covered with a wool blanket, which had been acquired in a trade with settlers. He had a premonition of trouble but shrugged it off. "You take the bed," he said. "HI roll up in my own blanket on the other side."

Gentle Doe made no reply and lowered the entrance flap.

Toby did not look at his companion again, although he heard rustling sounds behind him. Then, as he was undoing his blanket, he felt Gentle Doe come up behind him. As he turned he saw that she had removed all of her clothing. Before he could say a word, she pressed close to him, reached up, and caught his head, then pulled it down and kissed him hungrily.

Before he quite realized what was happening, he responded to her embrace. Her lips parted for his kiss, her fingers wound themselves into the hair at his neck, and her warm, supple body pressed still closer. Toby felt himself becoming more and more aroused. Encouraged by his response, Gentle Doe redoubled her efforts.

Toby prided himself on his self-control, but he felt it waning under Gentle Doe's ardor. He knew he had to act at once before his passion got the better of him.

Exercising all of his willpower, he caught hold of Gentle Doe's bare shoulders and, holding her in place, disengaged himself. "No," he said softly. 'We must not do this."

Gentle Doe did not advance, but neither did she retreat. "That which we would do," she said, "is natural."

"I reckon it is," he whispered.

"That which is natural cannot be wrong,** she said, and laughed softly.

She was as bold as a hussy, and Toby wondered why he had thought that the name Gentle Doe suited her so well. It was impossible to make her understand his reluctance to make love to her, but he knew he had to try. *Tou know I am married," he said. "I love my wife, and when married people love each other, they must keep themselves only for their mates."

*1 know you say you are married,** she replied, speaking quietly but firmly, "but where is your squaw? It is the duty of the woman to stand beside her man, to cook his food, sew his clothes, and keep his house. It is her duty to go with him when he travels and to help him when he engages in work for his people. Toby is working hard for his government and his people, but his squaw is not at his side.**

"You know she's at home,** he replied, **because she*s bearing our child.'*

Gentle Doe was acjamant. "When the squaw of a chief is heavy with child, it is his right to take another squaw and to keep her beside him as long as she pleases him, imtil such time as his first squaw recovers and becomes a whole woman again. Toby Holt is a great warrior and a mighty hunter. It is his right to do as he pleases. If he wishes to take Gentle Doe as his squaw for a time and to make love to her, that is his right."

Toby clenched his fists. Never before had he faced such great temptation. Not the least of the young Indian woman's attractions lay in her innocence. "I must obey the laws of my people and of my God," he said.

She startled him by flinging her arms around his neck and clinging to him. "If Gentle Doe were a bad woman," she said, "she would find ways to make Toby love her. She would offer prayers to her gods, and she would

prepare secret potions that she would place in his food. But she will do none of these things.**

All at once she released her grip on him but continued to stand close to him, and she did not raise her voice as she continued to speak. **! know that you want me as much as I want you. I can see it in yoiu: eyes, I can tell it in all that you say and do, and in every way that you act. So I will wait. The day will come when you will give yourself to me as freely and wilHngly as I would give myself to you. When that day comes, we will be unitedl*'

With that. Gentle Doe returned to her bed and slipped imder the blanket. Within seconds she was sleeping soundly, her conscience, like that of a child, im-troubled. But Toby lay awake for a long time, thinking of Clarissa. He had come to rely on his lovely, forthright wife in a way he had never depended on anyone, and he was lonely for her. They had been married too short a time to be separated this way; if he could spend just one day with her, Toby knew all would be right with his world again.

Ma Hastings chewed on the frayed, unlighted end of a cigar and looked out the window of the sod house at the corral beyond it. Propping her feet on the kitchen table, she shoved her broad-brimmed hat to the back of her head, then spat v^dth accuracy at a bug that crawled across the bare floor about a dozen feet from her. The isolated property had been the home of a rancher, but he, his wife, and their two sons had been murdered by the Hastings gang, who had found the place convenient to use as a headquarters for several weeks. Now, afraid that the nearest neighbors—who hved forty miles away—might grow suspicious, Ma had determined that

she and her band would have to take to the road again in the near future.

**I don't Hke it, Digger," she said to her swarthy, bearded lieutenant. **I don't like it worth a damn. All we hear from every last Sioux we meet is that Toby Holt— along with a good-looldn' Sioux gal—visited his village recently and made a heap of sense when he urged the Indians to keep the peace.**

**I never even seen Holt until he beat the tar out of us when we set that ambush for him in the Black Hills,** Digger replied. "All I can say is that he must be a mighty persuasive talker. Every Indian we see believes every last word that Holt has told him.**

Ma Hastings spat again, even more vehemently. **Toby Holt is just like his pa,** she said contemptuously. "He has more luck than sense. Ya boys bungled when ya set an ambush for him, but seein* as how he*s a Holt, the story has got around that he did all kinds of heroic things. Just like when he killed my son. It was a sneak attack, but ya'd never know it when ya hear the stories.**

Digger had been present on tfiat occasion and recalled distinctly that Toby Holt had not been just lucky but had been an accurate marksman. It was useless to try to correct Ma Hastings, however. She was somewhat unbalanced on the subject of Toby Holt and would not listen to reason.

**Well, I tell ya straight out, Digger. If we don't put an end to Toby Holt once and for all, we'll have hell to pay. Now I ain't just talkin* about my own little bone o* contention with Holt." She spat vehemently still another time. "Nah, it goes even beyond that, now that he's goin* around talkin' the Indians into bein' peaceful. I tell ya, if the Indian nations of this here area don't go on the war-

path soon and drive the settlers out, we*re goin* to be in terrible trouble/*

Her lieutenant scratched his beard and looked at her blankly. "How come?'* he demanded.

Ma was exasperated. "If the Indians are peaceful and agree to move to reservations," she said, "people will migrate into the territory by the thousands. They won't just be comin* by wagon train, no sir. YouVe heard tell about the railroads that are goin to be built out this way, and them trains is gonna be filled with settlers."

"It strikes me," Digger said patiently, "that the more settlers that move into an area, there's that many more folks for us to rob."

Ma looked at him in disgust and sighed. **Ya may be handy enough with a rifle," she said, **but ya sure was somewheres else when the Lord was handin out brains! When a territory develops, it don't work out hke ya say. Look at Oregon—and California—and Colorado. The more folks come into an area, the more need there is for services, and before ya know it, a whole city grows up. Pretty soon there's a whole slew of cities. That's when the righteous and the psalm singers take charge. They don't want no violence, but they're such cowards they can't put down the strong by themselves. They start shoutin' that the saloons and whorehouses are a bad influence and ought to be closed down. They cry and moan and carry on every time one of 'erh gets robbed. So before ya know it, they go out and hire themselves a constabulary. Tough men who know how to shoot and ain't afraid of nobody. And if the constabulary ain't enough, the U.S. Army lends them a helpin' hand and sends in some cavalry units. Just exactly like they done in the Montana Territory not a year ago!"

"I begin to see what ya mean, Ma," Digger said.

** *l begin to see what ya mean, Ma!'" she cried, mimicking him. "Gawd a'mighty. Digger! We been sent flyin' out of more territories and states in the West with our tails droopin* between our legs than we can count. We got one hell of a choice right now. Either we take a stand, or we admit we're beat and leave the Dakota Territory. We just plain retire. Maybe you're ready to get yourself a homestead and grub in the dirt for some rotten vegetables, but I don't call that land of existence eamin' a livin'l"

**Yeah, Ma," the lieutenant said, 'Tjut I'm hanged if I can see what we can do about it."

"Sure as you're bom, you'll be hanged less'n ya do begin to see the light. Digger," she told him. "Our hope lies in the Indians raisin' enough fuss, fume, and fury to drive the settlers out of the Dakota Territory for aU time. And that," she added, her voice rising triumphantly, "puts us directly against Toby Holt, the man I hate more'n anybody else on earth. I aim to dance a real jig at his funeral!"

Digger looked at her dubiously, his expression mournful. "If I was you. Ma," he said, "I wouldn't try to tangle in too much of a hurry with that Holt feller again. The boys got stung pretty bad last time, so they're still kind of leery of him."

She gestured angrily. *T know better'n to count on ya yellow-livered prairie dogs for anythin'/' she said. *That's why I sent that Sioux Black Horse packin'. He wasn't worth his weight in fleas when it came to doin' away with that Toby Holt. Anyway, I now got me a much better scheme in mind."

Digger made no attempt to conceal his great relief. "What's thatr

Ma's smile was a leer. *1 tell ya, it pays to have friends ya can really trust. They come in right handy/*

He looked at her blankly.

**Do ya remember a visit we paid to the chief of a Sioux village, name of Tall Stone?**

He thought hard for a moment, and then his face cleared. "Oh, yeah. I remember him now. Big feller, built like an ox.**

"He*s comin* to see me," Ma said, "and he's due to arrive here today. So ya better tell the boys to keep watch for him and his braves. They can keep their weapons, and they're to be treated nice and polite. Tall Stone don't know it yet, but he's goin' to do our dirty work for us and get rid of Toby Holt once and for alll"

**How are ya goin* to talk him into that?** the mystified lieutenant asked.

Ma*s harsh laugh boomed through the kitchen. "From what I learned from that Black Horse before I fired him,*' she said, "Tall Stone was sweet on a young Indian girl, called Gentle Doe. She wouldn't marry him, so he made up a passel of charges about her and had her thrown out of the village. Danmed if it ain't the very same Sioux girl who's now traipsin' around the Dakota Territory with Toby Holt."

Digger began to laugh, too.

"We'll not only be rid of young Holt once and for all," she said venomously, "but he won't be able to persuade the Indians to make their peace with the United States. You show Tall Stone in to me the minute he gets here, and keep everybody else away. I'll attend to the rest.**

Several hours later the chieftain arrived, accompanied by a small party of warriors. He had not forgotten his pact with Ma Hastings to do away with Toby Holt, and now he had learned there was something brewing that

required his presence right away. Tall Stone's braves were greeted at the supposedly deserted farmhouse with a warmth that surprised them, and the chief was conducted to the kitchen, where Ma Hastings went out of her way to be cordial. She even went so far as to offer him a drink, which was something that white settlers were careful never to do when dealing with Indians, whose capacity for alcohol was limited.

The village chieftain eagerly accepted, and Ma went to work on him. She explained in detail that it was their mutual enemy Toby Holt who was responsible for the reluctance of so many Sioux villages to join in the crusade being planned by Thunder Cloud. "This man is a menace," she said, "and he must die now. Then the ambitious plans of the leaders of the Indian nations can be fulfilled, and the land of your ancestors once again will belong to you."

She paused to let the words sink in, then resumed. **There's another reason why you should want to see Toby Holt dead right away."

Ma knew from the intensity of his wooden-faced stare that she had aroused his curiosity. "Gentle Doe," she continued calmly, *Tias become the woman of Toby Holt. She goes with him from one town of the Sioux to the next. They do not try to hide their relationship."

A cracking sound filled the kitchen, and Tall Stone stared down at the wooden mug he held in his hands. He had closed his fists so convulsively that the wood had shattered, and liquor dripped on his hands. He threw the remnants away and said in a voice of deadly calm, "Even though I have never seen him, Toby Holt is my enemy, as was his father before him. Tell Tall Stone what he must do."

"I will see to it," Ma said, "that a message is delivered

to Toby Holt. I will guarantee that after he receives this message, he will be present at a certain place on a certain day. Tall Stone will be notified of this in advance and can set an ambush for him. You will get rid of this man, who is your enemy and is the enemy of the Sioux, and your whole nation will rejoice."

"And what does Ma Hastings get from the death of this man?" Tall Stone demanded.

Her eyes and voice were equally cold as she replied, "The death of Toby Holt is all I wanti"

Leon Graham had decided to strike anew, and he planned the evening with infinite care. He had been seeing Beth Martin for a few months now, and this time he would not take the chance that she would run out on him.

Beth could have sworn Leon had invited her to dine at one of the hotels, but instead they drove directly to his house, where the dining room table was set for two. She didn't want to make a fuss over nothing; after all, she had been there for supper on another occasion, and Leon had been a perfect host then. Leon gave her a strong predinner drink of rum and fruit juice, which helped erase her inhibitions, and by the time they went to the dining room table, she felt quite at ease.

They were served an elaborate meal, and with each course Leon brought out a different bottle of wine. Once or twice Beth cautioned herself that she was drinking too much, but the wines were dehcious, and her glass somehow was always filled.

After dinner they retired to the drawing room for 140

coffee and brandy, and Leon poured his companion a generous portion of a rare and potent cognac. She couldn't recall drinking it, but later she had the distinct impression that he refilled her glass at least once, and perhaps more often.

Then she dropped, suddenly, inexplicably, into a deep, comalike sleep.

"Hello, wenchi Hello, wench!"

The screaming of the mynah bird awakened Beth, and as she came to her senses, she was confused and terrified.

She found herself on a large, four-poster bed, with no covers over her. Her head rested on a pillow. Beside it was another pillow that was indented where someone else had lain.

Her hair had been piled high on her head when she had dressed for the evening, but now it hung in loose waves over her shoulders.

The mynah bird was still screeching. Beth*s head throbbed dully, insistently, and the horrified young woman found she was clad—or almost unclad—in clothes she had never before seen. On her feet were a pair of high-heeled pumps, and she was struck by the incongruity of wearing them in bed. Her legs were encased in long, black stockings, which were held in place by frilly garters around her thighs. Worst of all, she was wearing a tiny garment of black lace that emphasized rather than concealed her breasts and thighs. She could not figure out how she had acquired this outlandish costume.

Swinging her legs to the floor, she struggled to a sitting position, and in the light cast by a pair of brass oil lamps, she caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing-room mirror opposite the bed. She was wearing more

cosmetics than she remembered applying, and the makeup, combined with her skimpy, sexually provocative attire, made her look like a trollop.

Her head ached so badly she could not think clearly. As she struggled to understand v^hat had happened to her, the bedchamber door opened and closed.

Leon Graham carefully locked the door behind him, then dropped the key into a pocket of the handsome dressing gown he was wearing. "Hello, wenchi Hello, wench!" he said, a sardonic smile on his face.

Beth looked frantically for something to cover her near-nudity but could find nothing. She tried to make the best of the sorry situation by smiling, but the effort was feeble.

"Here," he said. "iVe brought you something that will make your head feel a bit better. I imagine you have a headache just about now/* He handed her a large, chilled mug.

She took it, smelled brandy, and shuddered. "What's in it?*' she asked, looking suspiciously at the dark brown liquid.

"Just drink it,** he told her, and laughed.

The mynah bird echoed his laugh, sending a chill up Beth's spine.

She raised the mug to her lips and took two large swallows. For a moment she thought she would explode internally, but her insides soon settled dov^n, and a warm glow spread up the back of her neck into her skull, easing her headache. She took another sip.

Leon had simk into a chair across the bedroom from her and was watching her approvingly. "How on earth did I ever come to be in your bedroom?" she asked. "And how do I happen to be wearing this ridiculous costume?*'

He continued to smile steadily at her. "One thing led to another/' he repHed.

She glanced at the two indented pillows resting at the head of the bed and steadied herself by gulping more of the potent drink. "Does that mean—what I think it means?** she asked faintly.

"You don t remember?" He pretended astonishment. **Why, you're the most passionate wench I've ever had!"

"Hello, wench! Hello, wench!" the mynah bird screeched.

The combination of shock and shame made Beth numb. She had been unfaithful to Rob and couldn't even recall it.

Leon was watching her closely, gauging her reactions. "The next time," he said, "we're going to have an even better time, because you'll be more sober. Suppose we start right now. I'd like to see you strut around in that outfit."

She blinked at him incredulously.

Leon reached behind the chair and amazed Beth by producing a long bullwhip. The leather thong sang as the whip uncoiled, and the end cracked only inches from her head.

Before Beth could move, Leon stood in front of her, gripping the handle of the whip. "Listen to me carefully," he said. "I've wined, dined, and entertained you for weeks, preparing for a night like this one. Now you are mine. You belong to me, and you exist only for my pleasure. Do as you're told, obey instantly when I give you an order, and you'll be rewarded. When I'm convinced that you're totally within my power, you'll be allowed out in public again. Until then, you'll stay right here. When I'm absent from the house, my servants wiU bring you food and drink. But that's all they'll bring

you. Try to escape, and I'll beat you, fust as Fll beat you anytime you fail to obey or please me.**

Again the whip cracked, and the dumbfounded Beth felt weak in the knees.

"IVe ordered you to parade for me. Then well have a tumble together. Either you do as I say, or you 11 have your first beating here and now. Frankly, my dear, I wouldn't think the whip would be worth your acting the part of a prude. After all, we've already been to bed, you know."

Stalling for time, Beth drained the contents of the mug. The liquor weakened her coiu*age, for she began to think that Leon Graham was right. He was insane, of course. But that was beside the point. What mattered at this moment was that he intended to whip her unless she did his bidding.

Placing the empty mug on the bedside table, Beth rose unsteadily to her feet. The heels of her shoes were so high she could hardly maintain her balance.

Taking a deep breath, she began to strut for Leon as he ogled her and caught glimpses of her from different angles in the bedroom mirrors. She felt cheap and ashamed.

Leon relished the exhibition. **Hello, wench," he murmured.

The mynah bird heard him and began to screech again, "Hello, wenchi" Then the bird laughed, its piercing sound penetrating to Beth's very marrow. She could only pray that the nightmare would end soon.

Leon tired of the exhibition and, lifting Beth off her feet, carried her to the bed, where he removed the few pieces of clothing she wore. Then he began to paw her.

The humiliated, disgusted Beth made no protest, though his hands, his mouth, his body were repulsive to

her. His foul breath made her gag, and the weight of his body suffocated her. But afraid of what the madman might do if she failed to react, she pretended that she, too, was aroused.

Leon's voice floated down from somewhere above her. That's more like it!" he said. "You really are a lively wench! Til let you in on a little secret. The extra pillow on the bed was arranged to make you believe that we'd made love before. We hadn't, really. I knew you'd be much easier to get that way, but this is actually the first time." His maniacal laugh filled the bedchamber, and the mynah bird joined in, shrieking loudly.

Beth was so sickened she could not even weep, and she continued to heave up and down in helpless abandon, her sweat mingling with that of the man who had so cruelly seduced her, just as his harsh laughter mingled with that of his mynah bird.

Three days later Beth Martin listlessly paced the length of Leon Graham's bedchamber, so discouraged that she did not even try the door, which she knew was locked. Finally, she sank into a chair, and feeling hopeless, she began to sob uncontrollably.

How she had gotten into this predicament she could not understand, but it seemed her life had steadily eroded since her mother's death. Rob, whom she loved, had somehow become a stranger to her, and she had been unable to control her outbursts at him. She had ahenated her father's new wife, Eulalia, and she had probably come close to losing the affection of her father, too. Now she had sunk to the lowest point of her life, and she didn't know if she would ever be able to resume her marriage with Rob or if her family would ever accept her back.

But the most important thing this very minute was her own survival. And she could not survive another day as the prisoner of a madman.

The meal that Leon's butler had brought remained untouched on its tray, as did a potent drink of rum. The thought of drinking more Hquor made her queasy, but she knew better than to throw it away. She would definitely need it to anesthetize herself when Leon again returned and made his weird sexual demands, holding his whip and ordering her to strut and parade, to subject herself to his lovemaking, and even to make violent love to him.

Her nightmare was endless. For three nights and three days she had been the man s prisoner in his bedroom, subject to his whims and his perverted fancies, and there was no escape in sight. Heaving herself to her feet, she began to pace again, averting her eyes each time she passed the full-length mirror that stood on one wall. Unfortunately, she knew every detail of her disgusting, gaudy appearance only too well: the heavily appHed makeup; the black silk stockings held in place by frivolous garters; and worst of all, the single garment that enveloped her body, a dressing gown of transparent silk that clung to her as though it had just been soaked in water.

To think that she had regarded Leon Graham as honorable and respectable! All the time he had been hiding behind the fagade of respectabihty, Graham had been planning his cruel and bizarre seduction. What was more, there was no doubt that Beth was not the first She knew from the blas6 reaction of his butler and the two hatchet-faced serving women that they were accustomed to their roles as jailers.

Suddenly the raucous sound of Leon's mynah bird.

laughing and cackling loudly, interrupted Beth's reverie. That bird, she thought, would drive her mad. "Shut up, damn youl" she shouted.

"Hello, wench! Hello, wench!" the bird called shrilly.

Clapping her hands over her ears, Beth began to pace again. It served her right, she told herself angrily, for speaking to the creature. Now she was in for another session of the bird's tortinre.

All at once she halted and stared up at the pair of crossed pistols that served as a wall decoration. She had barely noticed them before. Suddenly she was so excited her breath came in short gasps.

The pistols were too high to reach. She dragged a straight-backed chair to the wall, then lifted the long sldrt of her diaphanous gown as she climbed on it. Her hands trembling, she took the pistols from the wall.

A swift examination proved that the weapons were old-fashioned, smooth-bore pistols, each capable of firing only a single shot. They were not loaded, but hanging near the pistols were a powder flask and a small leather bag that Beth quickly discovered contained dry powder and bullets. No doubt Leon Graham was ignorant about guns and thought the flask and leather bag merely added to the decor, but Beth, who had learned aU about firearms from her father, could now turn the pistols into lethal weapons.

All at once she was no longer helpless. All the pain she had endured, all the anguish and misery, now were transformed into cold determination.

Stepping down onto the floor, Beth quickly moved the chair back to its place. Then, after quickly loading the two pistols, she cocked them, took them to the bed, and placed them beneath her pillow.

Frightened, trembling, she nevertheless knew what

had to be done and went about the task with an almost mechanical determination. First she pulled the bell rope to summon the butler, and when the man appeared, she did not try to hide her near-nudity. "1 expect that Mr. Graham will be returning home soon," she said, "so be good enough to bring a bottle of champagne on ice with two glasses. We'll open it ourselves."

The butler bowed as he left the chamber and carefully locked the door behind him. He had to admit that Mr. Graham knew what he was doing. Most of the women he brought here protested their imprisonments for a time but eventually underwent a change and actually learned to enjoy their lot. This one had held out for seventy-two hours, which was longer than most, but now she was capitulating Hke all the others. After a night of intense lovemaldng, she would be free to come and go as she pleased and would stay on volimtarily as his mistress. Most of them did.

In the bedchamber Beth went to the dressing table, and even though she already wore more than enough makeup, she applied kohl to her eyes and rouge to her lips and her cheeks. She glued a black velvet beauty patch to her chin and then fixed another one in the cleavage between her breasts. Why not? she thought recklessly. The more she could do to distract Graham, the sooner she would be completely free.

The butler returned with two glasses and a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. After he had withdrawn, Beth double-checked the pistols to make sure she could reach them swiftly beneath her piUow, and then, smiling slightly, she gulped her rum drink, which calmed her.

The mynah bird began to cackle again, but the sound seemed far-off to Beth.

She felt no guilt over what she planned to do. Her

freedom and the restoration of her dignity depended on her acting with firmness. She scarcely bothered to think of Leon Graham at all; if she had been pressed, she would have said simply that he deserved to die.

At last Leon arrived. He carefully locked the door behind him.

**I thought you*d never get here," Beth said. Her walk provocative, her expression sultry, she slowly crossed the room to him.

Leon was elated. His harsh, degrading treatment of the woman had been eflFective, and it was plain that she had undergone a complete change of heart. He particularly noted the beauty patches and rouge and realized that she had exerted herself to please him.

*1 ordered some champagne that's been chilling," she said, "and IVe hardly been able to wait until we make love. I don't know why it is, but I've been thinking about you—and the things you do to me—all day."

Giving him no chance to reply, she rubbed her body against him, raised her face to his, and pulled his head down for a passionate kiss. She continued to rub herself against him, and her hands roamed over his body. She succeeded in imbuttoning his waistcoat, shirt, and trousers. "Hmrry, darHng," she murmured. "I can hardly wait."

Leon laughed huskily. **We*ll have to drink the champagne. We don't want it to get warm, do we?"

"Of course not," she replied as she continued to undress him.

By the time he opened the bottle of champagne and filled two glasses, she had succeeded in stripping him naked. He was already thoroughly aroused, but the champagne would ensure that he was entirely distracted from what she was going to do.

Leon made no protest as Beth gulped her own champagne, led him to the bed, and sat on his lap, caressing and kissing him.

This, Leon thought, was almost too good to be true. He had estimated when he had first met Beth Martin that she was capable of great passion but had never been awakened. Now, he was convinced, he had caused her metamorphosis. She was not like his other mistresses, whom he had tamed in the same way. None of them had been socially acceptable, and he had had to exercise great caution in his public appearances with them.

But Beth was a respectable married woman, the socially impeccable daughter of the commander of the Army of the West, and he could be proud to escort her anywhere in San Francisco, presenting her to any company. Yet, in private, as she was demonstrating at this very moment, she could transform herself into a complete harlot.

Leon returned kiss for kiss, caress for caress. Beth stretched voluptuously on the bed, writhing as one hand grasped the man, while the other slid beneath her pillow.

"Hello, wench I" the mynah bird shrieked.

Closing his eyes as he stretched beside Beth, Leon allowed her to do as she pleased with him. Then something hard and unyielding pressed into the left side of his chest. He opened his eyes onto the unwavering gaze of Beth Maitin. She was as cold as the metal of the pistol she held.

"For God's sake—don't!'* he whispered.

"Die, you filthy beastl" she said softly, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot boomed through the quiet house. Leon fell

back on the bed, dead. His blood turned the bedclothes crimson.

"Hello, wench! Hello, wench!" the mynah bird screamed.

Beth began to laugh hysterically. She would dispose of the bird she hated almost as much as she had despised its master. Still gripping a smoldng pistol in one hand, she reached under the pillow for the other.

She rose, her own laughter wilder and louder as it mingled with the screams of the bird. She intended to blow off its head, but a pounding at the door distracted her. "Go away," she screamed. "I'm busy."

The pounding continued, making it difficult for her to think clearly. Suddenly she forgot what she had in mind as, giggling inanely, she stood staring down at the two pistols, one loaded, the other imloaded.

The mynah bird cackled with her.

In deep shock Beth stared at the creature, and she continued to giggle. Time lost all meaning for her, and she was surprised when she heard the bedroom door being smashed with a heavy ax.

Two members of the San Francisco constabulary burst into the chamber, both carrying drawn six-shooters. Behind them came the butler and the two serving maids, one of whom screamed when she saw the body of Leon Graham on the blood-drenched bed.

The mynah bird continued to cackle.

The astonished Beth found the pistols being snatched from her hands, and then one of the constables demanded, "What happened here?**

"I shot and kiUed Leon Graham,** she replied in a daze.

One of the constables, she noted absently, scribbled in a notebook.

**Why did you IdD him?^ the other constable demanded.

^'Because he was a loathsome creature,** she replied promptly.

'*He was your lover?*

Her laugh was as harsh as that of the mynah bird. *Tleally! What do you think?'* she asked, and then, as the constables stepped toward her, she lost consciousness and fainted in their arms.

Not until the following day, when Beth woke in a cell of the Market Street prison and the jailer gave her the day's newspapers, did she realize what a sensation she had created. The wealthy Mrs. Robert Martin, wife of a prominent young railroad surveyor, daughter of the commander in chief of the U.S. Army of the West, had killed in cold blood the man she had freely admitted was her lover. Furthermore, the newspapers hinted, when she had been arrested in the bedchamber of her dead lover's house, she had been seminude, attired in a manner appropriate only to a prostitute.

The victim of the crime, Leon Graham, was a trusted employee of his uncle, the wealthy Chet Harris, one of San Francisco's leading citizens.

Only then did Beth begin to realize the seriousness of her plight. She knew she would be placed on trial for her life and that her reputation was destroyed. But she was not yet capable of feeling, and she did not care.

Toby Holt felt a sense of relief almost like that of coming home when he and Gentle Doe arrived at the banks of the broad Missouri River, which roughly bisected the Dakota Territory from north to south. They had been travehng for a few months and had visited one

Sioux community after another. Now it was spring, and they were assured ample water, plentiful fish, and good hunting as the wild animals came to the river for water.

They established their camp, pitching their animal sldn lean-to a short distance from the riverbank, and digging a pit for their campfire. By now their duties were well defined, and Gentle Doe, like any good squaw, set out in search of wood and buffalo chips with which to make a fire. There were no trees in the area, but there were driftwood and dead bushes, so more fuel than was customarily found in Dakota was available. Perhaps, Toby thought, they might even find young plant shoots they could eat as a fresh vegetable.

It was his duty to fish and hunt, but he was in no rush, knowing that fish were plentiful in the Missouri and that game abounded in the region. His first task was to wash the accumulated grime of several days' travel from his body. The day was warm, and he stripped, leaving his clothes and weapons at the top of the gentle slope of the riverbank. He plunged into the Missouri, enjoying himself despite the coldness of the water. One of the joys of wilderness travel, he reflected, was that of swimming and cleansing oneself in a mighty river.

Refreshed and dripping as he emerged from the water, Toby started up the bank to the place where he had left his clothes and weapons, then paused in surprise. Standing some yards from him, grazing on the new spring grass, was a large bull buffalo, at least one ton in weight. Toby could not remember when he had seen a large male buffalo separated from its herd, although he knew that occasionally a rogue was inclined to wander off by himself.

As he cHmbed the bank, Toby grinned. The buffalo, he thought, was saving him the trouble of hunting this

afternoon. To his further surprise, the buflFalo neither bolted nor moved away but continued to nibble at the grass. TThis was extraordinary because the beasts were shy and never lingered in the presence of humans.

The buffalo lowered its head, its horns pointing almost straight at the man as it snorted and pawed the ground. Obviously it had no fear and, on the contrary, was demanding a direct confrontation.

Toby quickly retreated into the water, where he considered his dilemma. He caught a ghmpse of the creature's tiny, bloodshot eyes, which looked glazed, and thought he knew the answer. Then he examined the grass as best he could from a distance, and the mystery was solved,

Every ranch owner in the West quickly learned to beware of a plant popularly known as 'locoweed.** It created violent belligerence in any animal unfortunate enough to sample it. The buffalo had become temporarily insane, and the huge creatmre, recognizing a foe, was eager to fight.

Twice more Toby tried to reach the pile of clothes and weapons, but both times the buffalo drove him back into the water. He was no match for the creature without his firearms, but the buffalo was a notoriously stupid animal, and perhaps he could capitalize on that. He called to Gentle Doe, cautioning her, however, not to reply, and to approach as quietly as she could.

She obeyed him, silently creeping toward the sound of his voice, then halted abruptly when she saw the huge buffalo grazing on locoweed.

*The critter is dangerous,** he called to her from the river, "so make certain you stay upwind of him. Can you handle a gun?**

She was unfamiliar with firearms and looked miserable and confused as she shook her head.

''Never mind," Toby told her soothingly. "Just do as I tell you. Creep closer to my belongings yonder, take one of my pistols from its holster, and move back to where you re now standing.*'

She did so, taking great care not to arouse the buffalo's attention. Under ordinary circumstances it would have become aware of Gentle Doe's presence. But the powerful effect of the locoweed dulled its senses.

Toby breathed a trifle more easily when he saw his six-shooter in Gentle Doe's grasp. "Cock the gun," he called, and gave her precise instructions in how to perform that feat.

Gentle Doe obeyed silently.

"Now listen carefully," Toby said. "When I give you the signal, point the pistol at the buffalo and squeeze the trigger. The gun has a strong kick to it, so hang on. Otherwise, it'll jump right out of your hand. I know you've never before fired a pistol, so your aim may not be much good. Don't worry about it. It doesn't have to be good. Maybe the shot will scare the buffalo off. At the very least it will distract his attention long enough for me to reach my rifle. There are six bullets in the gun. Don't be afraid to use them."

Gentle Doe, although nervous, was determined. Looking far more afraid of the gun than of the beast, she pointed the six-shooter awkwardly at the buffalo, gripping the pistol with both hands.

"Nowl" Toby called. He sprinted up the bank toward his clothes and the precious rifle that could mean the difference between life and death.

A pistol shot shattered the silence, and a gaggle of

geese rose into the air, honking loudly and flapping their wings. Confused by the explosive sound, the buffalo turned slowly toward it, blinking as it tried to focus on the noise.

Gentle Doe, her heart pumping wildly, saw that Toby still had several yards to go before he reached his rifle. Grimacing, she braced herself and fired the pistol again.

The second shot reverberated across the endless plains as Toby finally reached his rifle and bent and snatched it from the grotmd. The crazed buffalo managed to identify its new enemy as the dimly seen woman and started toward her. The terrified Gentle Doe fired the six-shooter wildly and missed the beast completely.

Toby knew that the buffalo would pick up speed as it charged. Consequently, he would have no time to reload, and that meant he would have to make good his first shot, or Gentle Doe would be trampled to death before he had a chance to fire a second time.

He heard the shot of the pistol again, then yet again, but he paid no attention to it. Gentle Doe was shooting wildly. The flashes and the sound of the pistol enraged the buffalo, and the groimd shook beneath its hoofs as it pounded toward the woman.

Raising his rifle to his shoulder, Toby looked down the length of his barrel, sighted his target, and squeezed the trigger. The deep roar of the heavier weapon obliterated the sound of the pistol.

The huge buffalo stopped and stood still.

Toby assumed that the loud rifle shot had temporarily paralyzed the creature with fear but that the buffalo would recover momentarily and would resume its charge. He dropped his rifle and snatched his oth^r six-shooter from its holster. Before he could fire the smaller weapon, however, he saw a spreading patch of crimson

on the left side of the buffalo's shaggy coat, and the animal crumpled to the groimd.

The awed voice of Gentle Doe broke the silence. 'Toby," she whispered, **is the mightiest of hunters/* She came up to him and put a trembling hand on his bare arm. "You have saved the life of Gentle Doe," she whispered.

Toby turned to her, intending to soothe her. "You also saved my life," he told her, smiling. "If it weren t for you, rd still be standing down there in the river."

She looked up at him, her gaze direct and penetrating. Her hands slid up his bare chest, then clutched his back and pulled him close.

The emotional impact of the moment was so overwhelming that Toby was incapable of protesting, of stepping backward out of the woman's hold. Like Gentle Doe, all Toby knew was that they had looked death in the face and were still alive.

He was a healthy, robust male, who had been separated for far too long from the wife he loved. Gentle Doe was in love with him, and he stood nude as he embraced this girl who wanted him desperately.

Gentle Doe's teeth clamped on Toby's lower lip, she rubbed her body against his, pressed against him, and her nails clawed his bare back. Unable to control his own mrges any longer, Toby crushed her to him.

Neither of them could later recall the details of how they had achieved their union. They had no idea whether Gentle Doe had removed her single garment or whether Toby had undressed her. They could not remember when he took the initiative and began making love to her as violently as she had initiated the exchange. All they knew was that the tensions that had

built up between them had become unbearable. They foimd release in their explosive physical contact.

There was little conversation between them for the rest of the day. After they made love, they butchered the carcass of the buffalo and began the process of curing the hide. Then it was only natural for them to swim together in the Missouri River, and equally natural for them to resume their lovemaldng when they emerged from the water.

That night Gentle Doe fell asleep cradled in Toby's arms, and the realization struck him that he was being imfaithful to Clarissa, the wife he loved, the wife who was bearing his child.

Vaguely Toby recalled hearing the story from his mother that, before marriage, his father had resumed relations with a young Indian woman with whom he had lived previously. The woman, apparently realizing that she stood in the way of Whip's real happiness, had vanished, and it had been assumed that she had done away with herself.

That was not likely to happen in this situation, nor would Toby want it to. But what was he to do? He was responsible for Clarissa and their baby. He was responsible, too, for Gentle Doe because he had lacked the strength to reject her. True, she had caught him at a moment when he had been defenseless, but that was no excuse. He had to face up to the reaUties of the situation. Still, how could he avoid hurting the people for whom he was responsible?

Gentle Doe sleepily pulled Toby's head down to hers so they could kiss, then nestled still closer to him. All Toby could think was that his dilemma appeared in-solvable.

diet and Clara Lou Hams were entertaining Wong Ke and his wife in their white granite house on Nob Hill, but the atmosphere in the Harris dining room was not festive. Clara Lou was in mourning for her late nephew, and Wong Mei Lo was in black, too, out of respect for her hostess. The conversation was labored because only one subject was on everyone's mind.

For a while, the men talked about business, but the ladies felt so thoroughly excluded that they were actually relieved when Chet brought up the one topic all of them had been avoiding.

**I understand from SheriflF Keeley,** he said, "that Beth is refusing all interviews. Every newspaper in San Francisco is eager to talk with her, of course, and correspondents have come from other papers all over the country. The sheriflF is willing to cooperate with them, but Betii has flatly refused. She says she has nothing to say."

*Tm sure she doesn't,** Clara Lou said bitterly.

Wong Ke and Mei Lo exchanged a quick glance, and his wife's nod meant that she intended to intervene. 'We certainly understand how you feel, Clara Lou," she said. **We know that you were fond of Leon and proud of him. But we can't help feeling there's more to this case than meets the eye.**

"The facts speak all too loudly for themselves,'* Clara Lou replied icily. "Beth Martin may be the daughter of General Blake and may have masqueraded as a happily married woman, but she's nothing but a trollop. Look at the way she was dressed when the constables burst into Leon's bedroom."

Chet was torn. "It's possible there may have been mitigating circumstances, dear," he said. "Ke and I have discussed the whole, strange case several times, and it

seems to us that several pieces of the puzzle are missing"

Clara Lou shook her head adamantly. **I ask you— what was Beth doing in Leon's bedroom in the first place, and why was she half-naked? Answer those questions for me. The newspapers said that she flatly admitted having shot Leon. So I don't think there's any question of her guilt. Ill grant you that I have reason to feel more strongly than most, but I won't be satisfied im-til she's hanged."

Chet was shocked by the severity of his wife's views, but, loving Clara Lou, he did his best to understand how she felt. She was an independent, usually open-minded woman, but in this case someone dear to her—in fact, her only living relative, her sister having died years ago—had been taken from her, and she wanted to see the guilty party pay.

The opinion-makers of San Francisco—the industrialists and bankers, the newspaper editors and publishers, the shipping magnates and the manufacturers—were almost unanimous in echoing the opinions held by Clara Lou Harris. The men, meeting for lunch at their clubs, took it for granted that their peers felt as they did.

Their wives were even more adamant, and everywhere the reaction was the same: "I don't care what anyone says about her background, Beth Martin is nothing but a coiulesan, and I feel sorry for her poor hus-bandl"

Meanwhile, the object of all this attention was imprisoned in the Market Street jail, held without bail, as was the law in murder cases. She remained silent in her cell, refusing to communicate with the press and insisting that she required no legal representation. Sheriff Keeley chose not to press the matter.

Beth remained in a daze. She only picked at her food, and the deep rings beneath her eyes were testimony that she slept poorly. In addition, she was morose with her jailers, answering in monosyllables when they tried to make conversation with her.

"You have some visitors, Mrs. Martin," the sheriff said as he unlocked the door of her cell. *'Come along to the visitors' room."

Beth stiffened. 'Tm expecting no one,** she said.

"All the same," he answered quietly, "your father and stepmother have come down from Fort Vancouver to see you."

She became panicky, clenching her fists and facing him defiantly. "I didn't ask them to comel I don't want to see them I They have no right to interferel"

**You'll have to speak to General Blake yourself and tell him how you feel, Mrs. Martin." The sheriff was sympathetic but firm. "I was head of his military police detail when he was commandant of the Presidio, and Tm damned if Tm going to refuse him. So come along, please."

Beth tossed her blond hair defiantly, then stalked out into the corridor and followed the sheriff toward the visitors' room in the adjoining wing. She didn't feel as if she belonged to anyone. Her father and stepmother had become strangers to her, just as her husband had, and she wanted to be left alone.

Sheriff Keeley opened the door, and Beth stepped inside the room. The door closed softly behind her. Eulalia and Lee Blake, sitting on the far side of the chamber, rose.

Beth, facing them defiantly, noted that they looked tired and careworn. She noted, too, that her father was wearing civilian attire rather than his major general's

uniform. He looked all the more unfamiliar to her, distant and strange.

No one spoke a word. They looked at her, and still standing, she looked about the pale blue walls of the stark room. Suddenly Eulalia broke the spell by swiftly crossing the room and taking Beth into her arms and kissing her. She was closely followed by her husband. Their aflFection was so unexpected that Beth was confused.

"We came,** Lee said huskily, **as soon as I could get away from duty. Eulalia wanted to come ahead of me, but I preferred to have her wait and accompany me.**

Eulalia put an arm around her stepdaughter's slender shoulders. There were tears in her eyes. "We just want you to know, Beth,'* she said, "that we stand behind you. No matter what the evidence is against you, we believe in you, and we know you've done nothing to be ashamed of.*'

"If you killed the man,** Lee said, "you had good cause. If you were dressed as the press claims you were when the police burst in on you, we*re siu-e there's an explanation for that, too.**

Their belief in her, their solid, unquestioning support, so astonished her that she could not reply. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come, and all at once, unexpectedly, she burst into tears.

Eulalia cradled Beth in her arms and gestured to Lee, who produced a clean, neatly folded handkerchief, which he pressed into his daughter*s hand.

Beth regained her composure and blew her nose vigorously. Then Eulalia led her to a chair as she would have led a small child and pressed her into it. "Your father and I," she said, "need no explanations. We'll have many opportunities to talk because we're staying in San

Francisco until this whole mess is resolved. If you want to confide in us, do, but it isnt necessary. We believe in you.

Beth threatened to break down again but managed to control herself.

Lee cleared his throat. 1 wrote to your husband over a week ago and sent a military courier to find him.*'

*Tm siu*e he'll come to San Francisco as soon as he receives your father's letter," EulaHa said, then gently added, "His parents feel as we do and have confidence in you."

Beth clenched her fists and forced herself to look first at her stepmother, then at her father. "I owe both of you an apology," she said. "I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. I hated you when you got married because I thought you were insulting Mother's memory. I reahze now that I was mistaken, and I'm sorry for any heartache I caused you."

Eulalia reached out and stroked her arm and shoulder. "There's no need to explain, dear," she said. "We understand. As long as the air is cleared between us, that's aU we ask."

Beth sniffed loudly. "I wonder," she said hesitantly, "if I could ask a favor of you?"

"Anything," Eulalia told her.

"Let me make it clear that I have no intention of hiding anything from either of you," Beth said. "I've made up my mind—since coming into this room—that I'm going to tell you the whole sordid story of what happened at Leon Graham's house. But I can't bring myself to talk about it yet. It's so disgusting that it makes me iU just to think about it. So, be patient with me, please."

"Of course we'll v/ait," Eulalia said.

"Satisfying our curiosity is the least of your problems,"

Lee added. "But I'm afraid youVe going to have to speak frankly and fully to an attorney right away."

"An attorney?*' Beth asked, and looked stricken.

"Apparently," Lee said somberly, "you don t grasp the seriousness of your situation. You face a trial on a charge of murder. If you're found guilty, you may be hanged. The court might show you leniency because you're a woman, but at the very least they'd sentence you to spend the rest of your life in prison."

"I know," Beth said, but it was obvious from her indifference that the enormity of the charge had not yet sunk in. She was still tramnatized by the experience.

"I'm not unknown in San Francisco," Lee said, "and neither is your stepmother. We intend to use all our influence on your behalf. Ill engage the best attorney in San Francisco. We're fighting for your Hfe, Beth."

His fierce loyalty, like that of EulaHa, almost swept Beth off her feet. She did not deserve such staunch, unquestioning support, she thought, and tears welled up in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. She was not alone in a hostile, ahen world, as she had assumed, and perhaps her future was not as bleak as she had imagined it

vn

Rob Martin had been working seven days a week since coming to the Sierra Nevada to oversee the laying of the track for the Central Pacific Railroad, which eventually would join with the Union Pacific Railroad being constructed in the East. It was estimated that they would be joined somewhere in Utah, and then iron rails would span the North American continent. Rob, pleased with the progress of his crews, who were laying as much as a mile of track a day despite the difficult, moim-tainous terrain, beHeved the job would be finished ahead of schedule. The price for all tliis, however, was that he had been unable to get down to San Francisco to visit Beth as he had hoped. There was simply too much work to do.

Then the news arrived that meant his role in the building of the railway line would have to wait. He departed immediately for San Francisco, taking a special work train that traveled on the already completed tracks between Sacramento, California, and the construction site in the mountains.

Rob felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach by a mule; it was hard for him to think clearly. The news in his father-in-law's letter had been so shocking that he was scarcely able to absorb it. It was almost impossible for him to believe that Beth, his restrained wife, who had been so unresponsive to his lovemaking of late, had not only had an affair but had also killed her lover in cold blood.

After the train arrived in Sacramento, Rob took the short steamboat ride down the Sacramento River into San Francisco. Throughout his trip, he tried desperately to organize his thoughts and his feelings. Regardless of what Beth had done, Rob knew that he had to help her. No matter how shaky his loyalty to his wife had become, he was prepared to do his duty by her. And thanks to the gold mine that he and Toby Holt had found, he had ample funds to meet the crisis.

Whether he remained married to Beth was another matter, one he was not yet prepared to face. He knew he had to be fair to her, that his marital loyalty was being put to the supreme test. All the same, he was jealous of the man for whom she had dressed in nothing but a pair of black stockings and what had been described in the newspaper he bought in Sacramento as a "filmy gown of transparent silk.**

At the heart of his torment was a nagging question: Was it possible that Beth had been unfaithful to him for months before the separation that had taken him to the Sierra Nevada? He had no way of knowing. He knew only that she had been indifferent to him for many months. True, she had once admitted to him that the fault had been in her and not in him, that she was not in control of her emotions since her mother's death. But in spite of himself, Rob could not help wondering whether

any feelings for him had been cooled because she was having affairs witli other men.

When Rob arrived in San Francisco, he checked into a hotel, then went directly to the Market Street prison and identified himself to Sheriff Keeley.

Tm awful glad you re here, young feller," the sheriff told him. *Tve known your wife ever since she was a little tyke, when her father was commander at the Presidio, and I don*t mind tellin' you, she's in a sorry state. She can use all the support and help she can get.*'

Rob was conducted to the visitors' room, and there he waited for his wife to be brought to him. Too nervous to sit, he paced the length of the chamber restlessly, thinking how odd it was that he and Beth should find themselves in this strange situation.

After a time the door opened to admit Beth to the chamber, then closed behind her. She stood uncomfortably, her hands at her sides, saying nothing.

Rob was momentarily stricken dumb, too. It had not occurred to him that she would be allowed to keep her own clothes, and he was surprised that she was wearing a dress that he had always liked. She wore makeup on her face, too, but the cosmetics could not conceal the lines etched in her forehead or the dark hollows beneath her eyes.

He knew he should go to her and kiss her, but his jealousy was so intense it rendered him motionless. She was in jail, he could not help thinking, because she had killed her lover.

"Tm sorry I couldn't have been here sooner," he said huskily. "I started as soon as I heard from your father."

"There's no need to apologize," Beth said in a small, strained voice. "I'm sorry you had to come on my ac-

He searched his mind frantically for an answer. It was the least I could do," he said, and immediately felt foolish.

She paused, uncertain, and the tension between them became greater as the silence became longer. "Won't you—sit down?" she asked formally, and in spite of herself, a slight, hollow laugh escaped from her lips.

Rob forced a smile as he sat on a plain, straight-backed chair and carefully brushed away an imagined speck of dust on his trousers. "I trust they're—treating you well here?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," she replied. "Sheriff Keeley is very nice. If there's any dish they are serving that I don't like, he sees to it that I get something else. Of course this isn't the Palace Hotel."

"If you like," Rob offered, Til have your meals sent into you from the Palace kitchens."

'Thank you, " Beth repHed, "but I don't want you going to the expense and bother."

"Hang the expense, and it's really no bother," he said.

She shook her head, thinking it odd that they were conversing like two strangers. "I wish you wouldn't," she said. "I'm not all that interested in food."

His offer had been rebuffed, and he felt hurt. "Let me know if you change your mind," he said.

Beth wanted to scream, to claw down the wall they were erecting betv/een them. But it was impossible for her to take the initiative, to put a hand on his arm and tell him how grateful she was that he had come to see her. She could guess how much that gesture had cost him, and what a blow the news had to be to his pride. But she couldn't explain how she had found herself in such a strange situation without telling him the whole, sordid story of her betrayal and captivity. It was too

much to expect that any man, even a husband who had loved her, could believe that she could have been so naive, so trusting.

Rob took a deep breath, then tried to start a fresh conversation. "You re intending to put up a fight in court against the charges?*' he asked.

She shrugged Hstlessly.

He became agitated. "YouVe got to fight," he said. *Tf you don't, youll spend the rest of your life in prison."

"Im not sure that would be the worst thing in the world,'* Beth replied.

'Thanks to our mine,** he said, **we have no financial worries. Tm going to hire the best lawyer in San Francisco.'*

"Please don't bother,** she said dully.

He was unable to conceal his irritation. TDamnationl It's no bother."

*Tm sorry, Rob,** she said, penitent. **What I meant to say was that just a few days ago my father said that he was going to find a lawyer for me."

"I'll see your father inmiediately," he said. *1 appreciate his offer, but I prefer to pay the attorney's fees myself."

Beth struggled to find the right words. **That's very kind of you," she told him, and hated herself because her reply was inadequate.

"It's the very least I can do," he told her. "Your name is Martin, and you are my wife."

"I am, more's the pity."

He looked at her sharply. "What is that supposed to mean?"

She looked at him sorrowfully and said, "I can never, as long as I live, find the words to apologize to you for

dragging you into this and for trailing your good name in mud.**

He waved aside her apology but was so stone-faced that she interpreted his generosity as indifference.

Beth knew that whether or not Rob beheved her, the air would not be cleared unless she explained the lurid tragedy to him in full detail. But she could not force herself to speak of that day, even though she realized she was asking far too much of this man, who was her husband.

"What happened . . . that day/' she began, **is . . . was ... so complicated that I can'^t talk about it now. I'm sure, though, that all of the facts will come out in court.**

Rob knew she was making a great effort, and his heart ached for her. At the same time, however, he was angry at her. She had told the San Francisco constables that she had shot Leon Graham. How she had happened to be in his house in such bizarre, intimate circumstances had never been explained, and, as before, he could draw only one conclusion.

Unable to tolerate the tensions any longer, he rose awkwardly. "I'll come to see you again, if I may, in the next day or two.**

"By aU means,** she replied. **You*re always welcome. I'll look forward to your visits.**

Clenching her fists, she silently willed him to approach and kiss her. But Rob made no move in her direction. Bowing slightly, he reached for the bellpull that would notify the prison authorities that the interview had come to an end.

Not until Beth was making her way back to her cell, with SheriflF Keeley walking beside her, did she break

down. Then she covered her face with her hands and wept silently.

The sheriff took her arm. **Keep your chin up, Beth," he told her. "You have a long, rough road ahead."

Rob, breathing the fresh air of freedom, walked rapidly up the hill to his hotel. He mulled over the meeting he had just had with Beth, and the more he thought about it, the more indifferent and cold she had seemed. It was as though she didn't care whether he visited her or not. He stopped suddenly and stared at his feet. There was no reason for him to stay in San Francisco, if that was how she felt. He had a tremendous job to do, and rather than stay here and be an unwanted daily visitor to his wife—a nuisance to her, it seemed—he would await the outcome of the trial in the mountains, where work would take his mind off the tragedy. He deter-miaed to leave right away. After the trial would be time enough to decide whether he could ever again live with Beth as his wife. At this point he simply did not know how he felt ^

When Ernie von Thalman walked into a room, everyone took note. Though now in his early eighties, the one-time Austrian baron still had a barrel chest, a massive head, and his years of marriage to the Pennsylvania widow, Emily Harris, had added considerable girth to his physique. His shock of white hair, combiaed with his impeccable wardrobe, gave him a distinguished air, and the horn-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose added an intellectual touch. As his stepson, Chet Harris, once remarked, *'Your years as Oregon's delegate to the U.S. Congress before the acquisition of statehood really did things for you, Dad. You look so incredibly

like a federal judge that it's only natural President Lincoln appointed you to the bench/*

Clara Lou Harris passed hot canapes to her in-laws and was gratified to note that Ernie, as always, ate everything that was ofiFered to him. Meanwhile, Chet poured his mother a glass of sack and then handed his stepfather a stronger drink of whiskey.

"You two," he said, "are about the last people I expected to see turning up in San Francisco."

Emily smiled and nodded. "I'll admit we were planning on spending the whole spring at home in Portland," she said, "but we can't always do what we like."

"We have plenty of room here for guests," Clara Lou said. "We can offer you a whole suite to yourselves. So I hope you'll come here with us."

Emily and Ernie exchanged a quick glance, and the gray-haired lady shook her head. "Thanks, my dear," she said. "You're very gracious, but it just wouldn't be feasible. We've already engaged a hotel suite."

Chet could not conceal his disappointment. "A suite," he said, "won't offer you nearly as much comfort or as many conveniences as you'd have here."

Ernie sipped his drink and spoke decisively. Tm sorry," he said, 'T^ut this is a strictly business visit."

"You're going to hear a trial here?" Chet asked.

Ernie nodded. "Yes," he said. "I've been assigned the case by the presiding judge for the Oregon-California Circuit."

"Are we allowed to know which case?" Chet asked curiously.

Ernie nodded. *T don't see why not. It'll be announced in the press in the next couple of days. I'm going to preside at the murder trial of Beth Martin."

The air was suddenly charged, and Clara Lou drew in

her breath. "I'm glad to hear it!** she said emphatically. "If there's one thing that Beth Martin deserves—"

"One momenti Don t say anything morel" Ernie commanded. *1 find myself in a very odd position in this case. Remember that Emily and I came to Oregon on the first wagon train, so weVe been good friends all these years of Lee and Cathy Blake, Whip and Eulalia Holt. And please don t forget that Bob Martin has been our family doctor.**

"Not to mention the fact that Tonie Martin is one of our closest friends/* Emily added.

"On top of everything else,** Ernie said, "we*ve not only known Beth herself practically since she was bom, but also the victim in this murder case was the nephew of my daughter-in-law. I tried hard to disqualify myself from the case, and I put in a formal request to the presiding judge of the circuit court to assign someone else to it. He refused, however. He insisted that I hear the case, and he made a point of saying that because I presided at other murder trials involving women, I was by far the best qualified judge in the district to hear it. So Tve made several hard and fast rules, which must be obeyed.*' He sipped his drink and looked hard, first at Chet, then at Clara Lou.

Chet knew that expression of his stepfather's. When Ernie's mouth formed a hard, thin line and his eyes stared right through the person he was addressing, he could not be moved.

"I made my position clear to the Martins before we left Oregon,** Ernie said, "and I intend to have a few words with Lee and Eulalia when we meet them in the next day or two. Under no circumstances wiU I discuss this case—or any aspect of it—with anyone. Beth Martin—past, present, and future—is a forbidden subject. So

is Leon Graham, and so is anyone else involved to any degree, whatsoever, with this case. I will walk out of any group in which the subject is raised, and I not only won't talk about the trial, but I refuse to hear anything about it."

"We understand, Dad," Chet replied.

"Good," Ernie said firmly. "As I said, I didn't ask to be assigned this case, and I did my best to avoid it. But it*s been given to me, and Vm going to do my damnedest to live up to my oath of office. I believe in letting justice be done, and so it shall, in the trial of Beth Martini"

Repercussions of the murder of Leon Graham were felt keenly at Fort Vancouver in Washington. There, during the absence of Lee and Eulalia Blake in San Francisco, Cindy Holt and Hank Purcell continued to attend school daily, living under the watchful and protective gazes of Clarissa Holt, the Blake housekeeper, and the general's master sergeant.

One morning Cindy and Hank came down for breakfast at their customary hour. Clarissa, her baby due at any time, was sleeping in, and the housekeeper served them.

Hank began the serious business of eating his morning meal. It consisted of oatmeal, pancakes and sausages, bacon and eggs, and a salmon steak, all of which he consumed with great gusto. Cindy, however, merely nibbled at a slice of toast and barely touched her oatmeal.

**Hey," Hank said, "you ought to try some of this salmon that the sergeant caught last night. It's good."

'I'm sure it is," the girl repUed listlessly, *lDut I'm not hungry."

Hank peered at her as he shoved the last big chunk of

salmon steak into his mouth. "Whaf s the matter?** he demanded.

"Nothing/* she repKed vaguely.

"Ah, come on. Tell me what's wrong."

She hesitated, took a deep breath, and to his chagrin, her eyes filled with tears.

"It aint—isn't that badi" he protested.

"You have no idea how horrid it really is,** she replied.

Aware that her distress was genuine, he softened his approach. "Can I help, whatever it is?** he asked.

**There s nothing you or anybody else can do," she told him. "What's done has been done—and that's that."

Hank's instinct told him to say nothing and to wait for Cindy to reveal the problem to him.

His hunch proved correct. She drew a deep, tremulous breath and then said, "It's that Billy Kramer and that whole bunch he runs around with. They surrounded me during recess at school yesterday, and Billy started off by asking me if I was going to be as big a whore as my stepsister."

"What?" Hank was astounded.

"That was just the beginning," Cindy said. "They said so many mean, awful things about Beth that I closed my ears to them."

He continued to stare at her openmouthed.

"I don't like talking to Clarissa about problems when her baby is due so soon, but I couldn't help myself last night," she said. "I went to her, and she wormed the whole story out of me."

"What did she say?" Hank asked.

"Well," Cindy said, "Clarissa told me she has every confidence in Beth, but I'm not sure she meant it. I think she was trying to convince herself. Anyway, she said to

let the insulting remarks of Billy Kramer and Karl Gustafson and that whole crowd go in one ear and out the other. But if s much easier to say than do."

Hank nodded, becoming tight-lipped. Leaning back in his chair, he seemed to withdraw into a shell.

Moments later Clarissa, wrapped in a long dressing gown, came downstairs for breakfast. Mr. Blake trotted alongside her. Both Cindy and Hank were sensitive enough to know that she had made the effort for their sakes. Clarissa thought it only right that she say goodbye to them before they went off to school.

**You ought to have some fresh salmon steak," Hank told her. "If s terrific."

"Not for me, thank you," Clarissa said, smiling. *The closer I come to having the baby, the less appetite I have." She smiled up at Marie, the serving maid, who brought her a pot of hot tea and a slice of dry toast. **What were you two talking about when I came in? You were both so serious."

"Nothing much. School, mostly," Cindy replied vaguely.

Clarissa nodded. She suspected that the children were discussing Beth Martin, as was almost everyone these days, but she decided to keep the conversation going along other lines. "I'm going to drop a Une to Lee and Eulalia later today. Tm sure theyTl be relieved and pleased to hear that you're both so serious about school."

Cindy sat at the table silently, obviously ill at ease. Both she and Hank wore identical, strained expressions. Then Hank excused himself and bolted from the table. He did not return to the dining room but shouted to Cindy that he was waiting for her in the front hall and was ready to leave for school whenever she wished.

When she joined him, she noticed a bulge at his middle, beneath his sweater. But he made no mention of it, and her dread of further teasing by schoolmates preoccupied her so much that the bulge was soon forgotten.

Hank was reassuring. **You re going to feel a heap better today, and every day from now on," he told her solemnly. **Nobody in school is going to mention the name of Beth Martin to you again.**

"How can you be so sure?" Cindy demanded.

Hank was evasive. "Just take my word for it," he said.

The house became silent once the teenagers had gone, and Clarissa sat alone in the dining room, sipping her tea. The baby kicked her, and Clarissa had to fight off a wave of loneliness. With the baby due to arrive at any time, she felt isolated and couldn t help wishing that Toby would appear at the door and tell her that he had ridden all the way from Dakota in order to be with her during her travail.

Clarissa was too sensible, however, to indulge in romantic daydreams. She had not heard from Toby since receiving a letter that Andy Brentwood had mailed for him from Fort Shaw after their meeting. The U.S. Postal Service did not operate in the wild hinterlands of the Dakota Territory in which Toby was traveling. Both of them had known that it would be weeks—perhaps months—after their baby was bom before he learned about the state of the infant and its mother. This was one of the penalties they had to pay for Toby's acceptance of a pabiotic duty.

She pictured him in her mind, rugged and handsome, and she smiled. How much she loved him, and she knew now that he loved her. The doubts, the tensions, the problems of the past were forgotten, and when he re-

turned to her, she would hold him in her arms and not let him go for a long time. He was hers and hers alone.

Pouring herself another cup of tea and adding a little lemon and sugar to it, Clarissa reflected that her situation, no matter how sorry she might feel for herself, was far better than the terrible fix that Beth Martin was in.

She knew Beth well, having shared a house with her for months at Fort Shaw, and she felt desperately sorry for her. She was aware that there had been tensions between Beth and Rob and that Beth had indulged in some strange and temperamental behavior over the last two years. These things gave a certain validity to the charges being made in the press against her. All the same, Clarissa doubted that she was as dissolute as she had been pictured.