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

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• • WAGONS WEST * *

• THE HOLTS*

Whip (Michael) — Eulalia ZZ Leland

Holt 1808-1865

Woodling 1818-

Blake

(see Blokes)

I

Caroline zz Toby zz Clarissa zz Otto

Brandon 1837-1865

Holt

1841

Sinclair 1841-

p

Cind;

Sinclair Holt

1836-1870 1850

Tim Holt 1867-

Stalking Horse

18?-

(foreman of the Holt ranch)

White Elk, his ward 186?-

• THE ORIGINAL WAGON TRAIN FAMILIES STILL LIVING IN OREGON

Chester ~ Emily zz Baron Ernst

Harris

Harris 1797-

von Thalman

1787-

Chet

Harris

(see California)

Dr. Anton

Wizneuski

1814-

Tonie ZZ Dr. Robert Mell Martin

(see Blakes)

Ted

Woods

1806-

n~

Frank zz

Woods

1842-

Olga

Runkova

1808-

Lawrence ~ Woodling d. 1838

Bettina

Snow

1841-

zz Husband

I

Eulalia Woodling (see Holts)

1

Cindy zz Claibor

1816- Woodlii

1815-

Lucy

1861-

Paul zz Lisole

Thoman 1818-

Arbo 1819-

Sally zz Tilman Henry zz Nancy MacNeill Wade Canning Wade 1821 1807- 1807 1817-

Peter

Thoman

• •

• •

5

• THE BLAKES, MARTINS, AND BRENTWOODS *

Eualia

Woodling Holt fsee Holts)

ZZ Leland ZZ Blake 1804-

Ton ie zz Dr. Robert Mell Martin

J814- 1798-

tele = Rob lalton Martin 846- 1841-

Cathy

van Ayl

1814-1865

Sam — Claudia

Brentwood Humphries 1797 1809-

4ank Blake

'adopted)

11850-

T

Beth

Blake

1841-1869

Susanna

Fulton

1837-

T

Andrew Jackson

Brentwood

1839-

Cathy Martin

1869-

Samuel

Brentwood

1866-

• IN NEW ORLEANS *

)mm»e

Edward

Jean-Pierre Millicent

irding Blackstone U50 1840-

laiah Harding's lughter)

Cautier 1843-

Randall 1845-

Jim

Randall (see below)

• LIVING IN IDAHO •

• LIVING IN CALIFORNIA *

het zz Clara Lou arris Hadley *22- 1823-

^ather zz Danny

Jim Pamela

Randall ZZ Drake 1843 1841-

acCregor 28-

I

ri Woods

tylor

150-

Cinny (Virginia) zz Hector

Taylor 1823-

Dobbs 1814-

Mullins 1804-

1 1

Melissa

Austin

1824-

Child 1853-

Rick

Miller

1815-

Child 1854-

Elisabeta Child Child Manuel 1849-1851-1823-1849

flBB38fe!BL3Bi

The huge stern paddle wheel turned slowly as the great river steamer made its way steadily down the broad, placid waters of the Mississippi. The mighty mile-wide river had long been the principal thoroughfare for moving the produce of the American heartland to market.

Millicent Randall was standing at the prow of the ship. On both sides of the river, she could see enormous amounts of activity as the grain, timber, cotton, and vegetables that were in demand throughout the United States and Europe were loaded on the wharves to be sent to market. The commerce on the Mississippi, she realized, was one of the principal reasons that the United States, with the debilitating Civil War behind her, was becoming a great nation in the 1870s. America truly had been blessed by nature.

The sun was warm. The breeze rippled gently through the soft folds of Millicent's thin, clinging

dress, and even a casual observer would have noted from the way that the wind pressed the fabric against the young woman's ripe, full figure that she was wearing nothing underneath her garment. To a lady of 1870, Millicent's attire was shocking, but the truth of the matter was that Millicent, once a prim, proper young woman from Baltimore, who composed music and played the flute, no longer qualified as a lady.

Without her knowledge, Millicent had been fed a Gypsy potion made from mind-altering, central European mushrooms, and her life had been dramatically changed. Aroused erotically for the first time in her life by the gambler/businessman Luis de Cordova, who had used the potion in order to get her to do his bidding, she had begun to dress and act in a provocative manner. She had gone off with de Cordova to St. Louis, and on the way he had treated her badly, using her as bait to engage men in card games—with Millicent as the prize—and then cheating the card players so that he amassed a small fortune. Subsequently he had paid for his dishonesty with his life.

Her new companion, Sergeant Karl Kellerman, who had recently resigned his position with the St. Louis constabulary, was taking her to New Orleans. Dazzled by the brown-haired, provocative young woman—who combined an air of good breeding with startling sensuality—he had lavished many gifts on her.

Kellerman had indicated to Millicent that he liked her unusual attire and heavy use of makeup; she was so much in love with him that she dressed

and used cosmetics to please him. But whenever she was alone and 4oiew she was not going to be seeing Karl for a number of hours, she became more like her old self, wearing modest clothes and using very little makeup. She had no way of knowing that the recent change in her was due to the fact that the effects of the mind-altering drug de Cordova had used to control her had worn off.

Looking at the cat's-eye sapphire ring she wore on her right hand, Millicent considered herself the most fortunate woman alive. Karl had given her the ring in Memphis on their journey south, and she had no idea that it was tainted with the blood of its previous owner. No, Millicent only knew that her troubles were behind her, that her future was as bright as the river sparkling in the rays of the sun. Everything about Karl and the journey enchanted her, including the fine foods and wines that they were served at every meal, their lavish suite on the ship, and their frequent lovemaking.

When the stern-wheeler put into the old cotton port of Natchez, where a concerted rebuilding campaign was eliminating the scars left by Civil War fighting, Millicent went ashore with Karl and delighted in every moment of the experience. She and Karl made a tour of the city and then went to a fashionable restaurant on the riverfront to dine. Millicent was in her glory. Wearing one of the new gowns he had given her, a low-necked dress of crimson velvet with a matching broad-brimmed hat, she was the object of all eyes. Millicent glowed, aware of the stir

she was creating, and the large, well-built, dark-blond-haired Karl, jauntily smoking a long cigar, seemed highly pleased by the fuss that resulted.

Under the circumstances, it was easy and almost inevitable for Millicent to daydream. She had no doubt that she and Karl would marry after they reached New Orleans, their destination, and her mind dwelled lovingly on the details of the luxurious life she would lead as his wife. She was in no way dismayed by the fact that he had not proposed marriage to her: Her daydreams were based on anything but reality.

The riverboat reached the great port city of New Orleans slightly over two days later. In effect the post-Civil War capital of the South, New Orleans was unique among American cities. Tied up along her Mississippi waterfront were the barges that brought the cotton bales of the South, the wheat of Minnesota, Dakota, and Kansas, and the corn of Iowa and Illinois to the city for transfer to the great ships that would carry the produce to the Atlantic seaboard states, to the Caribbean and to Europe, and even to Asia. Manufacturing plants were rising faster than anyone could count them, and a variety of industries was adding to the city's economic strength.

New Orleans wasa fascinating cultural mixture of France and Spaingwhose colony she once had been, and of the old American West. The restaurants catered to all tastes, with some as rough-and-tumble as frontier saloons and others as sophisticated and unique as any in America. Many of the shops were

elegant and expensive, and even the gambling halls and brothels could be almost indescribably lavish.

Millicent was dazzled by New Orleans and its atmosphere. Now, seventy-two hours after her arrival in the Queen City, she was sitting in her dressing room in the suite that Kellerman had rented for them in the Louisiana House, one of the best hotels in town, trying to curb her sense of excitement. She gave in to the ministrations of Effie, the pretty, light-skinned black maid whom Kellerman had hired for her through the hotel. Effie was busy with a comb and brush, arranging Millicent's long brown hair, and the young woman marveled at the efficiency of the maid.

"Every time I go anywhere in this town," Millicent said, "and it doesn't matter if it's a restaurant or a dress shop or where it is, I'm just astonished by the people I see. I've spent the past few years in the mountains and small towns of the West, and I grew up in Baltimore, which is a large city in its own right, but nowhere have I seen women as beautiful as there are on the streets of New Orleans!"

"There ain't none that's prettier than you, Mrs. Kellerman," Effie replied with great sincerity. She had learned that her new mistress was not married to Karl Kellerman but nevertheless did her the honor of referring to her as the wife of her employer.

Millicent smiled and shook her head. "They have a quality that I lack—a kind of sophistication."

"You'd never know it from the way you look and act, ma'am," Effie said flatly. "Now hold still while I

pin up your hair." She worked in silence for a moment, then went on, "You know that sad-faced young gent'man we keep seeing all over town? You handle him just right, the way you pretend he don't exist. No New Orleans woman could handle him any better."

Millicent was embarrassed. For the past three days, whenever she had left the Louisiana House, she had been followed at a distance by a well-dressed, clean-cut young man, whom Effie had identified as Jean-Pierre Gautier, a wealthy young New Orleans heir who had lost a sickly wife about a year earlier. He seemed to be much taken by Millicent, and certainly it could not be accidental that he appeared everywhere she went, nodding to her politely and wishing her good morning or good afternoon.

She had handled the situation by ignoring him, for she was afraid Karl would become highly jealous and even violent if she acknowledged the stranger in any way. To her surprise, however, Karl had displayed only indifference to young Gautier's interest in her. She found it hard to understand or appreciate Kellerman's reasoning; apparently, he was confident that he already had possession of her and was strangely willing to let another man seek her company. Furthermore, as he had told her, he had no desire to become involved in unpleasantness with the wealthy, socially prominent Gautier family.

Effie pushed a pair of white egret feathers into Millicents dark, upswept hair, then examined her own handiwork critically.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come shopping with you this afternoon, ma'am?" Effie asked.

Stepping into the dress that the maid held for her, Millicent replied emphatically, "I'm very positive. After all, this is the day your litde boy is coming from his grandmothers house to visit you, and I know how eager you are to see him."

Eme was deeply touched. She worked for a living because of her need to support her young child, who meant everything to her, and she was touched by the consideration of her new employer, who had remembered her casual statement that her son was visiting that day. "Thank you, ma'am, and God bless you," she murmured.

"Nonsense," Millicent replied briskly. "That's the very least I can do for you." She examined herself in the mirror, then picked up her handbag. "How do I look?"

"Just perfect, ma'am! That Mr. Gautier is going to swoon when he sees you today."

Millicent joined in the maid's laugh. "If you happen to see Mr. Kellerman before you leave," she said, "would you tell him for me that I'll meet him back here at five o'clock this afternoon?"

"Yes, ma'am, 111 tell him."

"Be sure you give your son a hug and kiss from me," Millicent said as she left the suite.

Effie began to clean up the dressing table and to hang up clothes that Millicent had not chosen to wear. The maid told herself she was fortunate not only to have found employment that paid sufficient

wages to support her son and herself but also to have found a mistress as kind as Millicent. In these days when jobs were not easy to find, necessity had forced many of her friends to seek work in brothels.

Finishing her chores quickly, EfBe was about to depart when the door to the sitting room opened and Karl Kellerman's bulk filled the frame.

Six feet three inches tall, with broad shoulders and a barrellike chest, he stood now with his thumbs hooked in the belt that held his twin .44 caliber pistols.

EfBe saw him eyeing her attractive face and figure. She had never been alone with him like this, and she was distinctly uncomfortable. "You just missed madam by a few minutes, sir," she said, trying to conceal her nervousness. "She said she'll meet you back here about five o'clock. She's gone shopping."

"Thanks, EfBe," he drawled, continuing to eye her speculatively. He was grateful to be free of Millicent that long. The woman's cloying manner and her ingenuous excitement over being in New Orleans were beginning to get on his nerves. A scant hour ago, at the restaurant where he had lunch he had met a stunning blonde who would be available, he knew, and he also had his eye on a provocatively seductive redhead who worked at the establishment where he had eaten the day before. Right now, he had a craving for this mulatto, which should be easy enough to fulfill.

"Well," he said, "both of us have some time to

kill. What do you say we kill it together?" He crooked one long finger and beckoned to her.

Effie's blood ran cold. Not only did Kellerman hold no appeal to her, but for more important, she had no intention of repaying Millicent's loyalty by cheating on her. She made no move.

Kellerman chuckled, reached for her lazily, and pulling her close, began to paw her buttocks with his free hand.

Effie resorted to an old trick and pretended to relax. Then, when he eased his grip, she suddenly wrenched away from him.

Kellerman was surprised for the moment but was in no way disturbed. He could handle any woman.

He reached into a waistcoat pocket, withdrew a twenty-dollar gold piece, and carelessly flipped it to the maid. Effie caught the coin and identified it. Her mind immediately filled with thoughts of the clothing, food, and toys that the magnificent sum of twenty dollars—which represented two weeks' wages—could buy for her little son. She stood indecisively for a long moment as Kellerman's dark eyes seemed to bore into her. It occurred to her that it was even worth jeopardizing her job in order to have so much money all at once. Slowly she began to unbutton the blouse of her uniform, as Kellermans triumphant chuckle rang in her ears.

Half an hour later, the nervous Effie dressed rapidly. She could hardly wait until she put distance between herself and the brute who had just made love to her with such callousness. "Please tell madam,"

she said, concealing her hate for him as best she could, "that I'm sorry I won't be seeing her again, but I quit the job here and now."

When Millicent returned to the suite several hours later, laden with packages from her afternoon of shopping, Kellerman, who was drinking a stiff bourbon and water in the parlor as he smoked a long cigar, told her that the maid had resigned and departed. Millicent was taken aback by the news. She had genuinely liked Effie and was surprised by her unexpected resignation. "Why did she leave?" she asked. "What did she say?"

"She said nothing," he lied. "She asked for her wages, which I paid, and she quit. You know the type. She's shiftless and has no sense of responsibility."

Still disappointed, Millicent couldn't help wondering how she could have misjudged the maid's character so badly.

The next morning, Karl left Millicent behind at their hotel suite, telling her he had to go on a little errand involving business. Millicent didn't know what his business was but knew better than to ask. She was content to spend the morning in bed, having been out with Karl until late the night before.

Now the former police sergeant walked slowly down the crowded street toward the New Orleans business district, taking in the sights of the city and enjoying his experience thoroughly. In all of his travels, never had he seen so many chic, stunningly attractive young women as there were in New Orleans. At a rough estimate, he guessed that there were ten

beautiful girls in New Orleans for each one in St. Louis, where he had been a detective sergeant.

Certainly he had made the right move when he had resigned from the constabulary and had decided to make his fortune by his wits. And this was the city for him: a place where the pleasures of the flesh were available to men of means.

Karl did not regret having brought Millicent Randall to New Orleans with him, even though her support was costing him a small fortune. Her beauty was exceptional, making her the equal of any woman in New Orleans, and in addition, she was a passionate bed partner. But he was growing tired of her^ and he couldn't help thinking how he would enjoy some new diversions, like that blonde and the redhead. He would have to devote himself to meeting these new women after he arranged a few business deals. Also, although he had other plans at the moment, he would would soon look in on his partner, Wallace Dugald, whom he had financed to open a bar near the waterfront the last time he was in New Orleans.

Turning a corner, Kellerman slowed his pace as he approached an inconspicuous, two-story building. On the ground floor was a modest greengrocer's shop with a variety of vegetables displayed in the bins outside on the wooden sidewalk. On the side of the building, a narrow wooden staircase rose to the second floor, and Karl mounted it slowly, halting when he entered a room off the landing. Two men with hard, expressionless faces sat reading the morning

newspapers. They looked up at him searchingly, and he was quick to identify himself.

"I'm Kellerman," he said. "Domino sent for me."

One of the pair nodded and grunted. "All right," he said, "we'll relieve you of your pistol. While you're at it, you can leave the knife that you're carrying in the top of your boot out here, too. We'll take good care of your weapons until you leave."

Karl knew better than to argue with the guards and surrendered his weapons to them. One of them disappeared into a back room for a few moments. When he returned to the anteroom, he beckoned abruptly. "The boss will see you."

Karl followed him into a small, drab chamber at the second floor rear. There, seated behind a modest desk, was the gray-haired man who had earned his name because of his love for the game of dominoes. The general public had never heard of him, but he was known in certain circles as the most influential member of the underworld that thrived along the Mississippi River. The police of towns and cities along the great river had reason to believe that he was involved in a variety of activities, from grand larceny to prostitution, but they had absolutely nothing they could pin on him.

Domino's appearance belied his reputation. A pair of metal-rimmed spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose, his gray hair was neatly combed, and he was wearing a worsted, rust-colored suit. Those who did not know him invariably took him for a book-

keeper or some other minor functionary in the city's business world.

Waving a small, neatly manicured hand, Domino did not rise as he pointed his visitor to a chair on the far side of his desk. "Sit down, Kellerman, and 111 tell you why I sent for you," he said in a mild voice. Turning to the guard, Domino ordered him to leave the room so that the two men could speak in private.

Karl felt uneasy under Domino's careful scrutiny.

"I was interested,'' Domino said, "to learn of your resignation from the St. Louis constabulary. Surely you don't earn enough to live in the style to which you've accustomed yourself on your half interest in the saloon here."

Karl was not surprised to learn of Domino's awareness of his investment in a New Orleans bar. The gang leader made it his business to know everything about anyone engaging in any business in the South.

"I've had no specific plans to augment my income," he said, "but I was intending to look you up and pay you a visit. I can use some extra income these days."

Domino smiled vaguely. "I understand that you're traveling with a real beauty. Women are expensive." He did not pursue the point.

"Yes," Karl replied curtly. "She's expensive."

"I trust," Domino said, "you're not squeamish about assignments that you undertake?"

"Try me," Karl said. He did not intend to boast

that he was directly responsible for two recent deaths, of which Domino was probably well aware.

"I know your background," Domino told him, "and you're just the person to perform a job that has been waiting for the right man. Are you familiar with the Three-Two-One Club?"

Reluctant to reveal his ignorance, Karl shook his head.

"It's in an old Creole mansion on Jefferson Avenue," Domino said. "During the war it was converted into a private gaming club, and it's expanded since that time. Girls are available, of course, and they also serve meals. There is one large room for those who like to do a bit of gambling for high stakes. It's strictly a rich man's club. The security there is lax—surprisingly lax," Domino went on. "I stop in occasionally for an evening of cards myself, and I'm always astonished by the lack of protection. One experienced man who knows what he's doing can collect thousands of dollars in a properly staged holdup."

Karl's face was expressionless. "Sounds interesting," he said. "What's the fee?"

"Twenty percent of the first ten thousand you collect, and twenty-five percent of everything over that amount. Take it or leave it."

"Not so fast," Karl said. "What help will I get from you and from your organization?"

"Absolutely none," Domino told him coolly. "The haul will be so large that I'll automatically be suspected of having had a hand in the robbery. But I

intend to turn the tables on the police and on the other gangs of New Orleans. I'm going to be a patron at the Three-Two-One on the night of the robbery, and I expect to be personally robbed and then treated exactly as you treat the other patrons."

"That's very clever of you," Karl said, his mind working quickly. He would be even more clever. Instead of taking all the risks and submitting himself to the dangers of the enterprise in return for a meager twenty or twenty-five percent of the spoils, he decided it would be far simpler and infinitely more satisfying to do away with Domino. Then he could keep the entire proceeds of the robbery for himself. If necessary, he would go into hiding until the repercussions of the affair blew over.

They parted amicably, with Karl retrieving his weapons from the outer office. When he reached the street, he began to walk back toward the Louisiana House, taking his time, going over his whole conversation with Domino. He had been right to come back to New Orleans, he reflected, and so far, he was in luck. He saw no reason his fortunes should change, and as soon as he accumulated enough money, he could have any girl that he wanted.

Pamela Randall sat before the open window of her second-floor bedchamber in the comfortable, spacious farmhouse and looked out at a familiar but beautiful scene. In the background, beyond the ranch that she and her husband owned, stood the impressive, rugged, snowcapped mountains that formed a vigilant, permanent guard over the Idaho Territory. The land

stretched as far as the eye could see, and the pastures where the horses and cows grazed were lush and green beneath the warm June sun. The air that blew in from the mountains was crisp and dry. Truly, Pamela thought, she had never been in a region as lovely as this, not even in the rolling, verdant countryside of Sussex, England, where she had grown up.

Beautiful, aristocratic-looking—with her abundant wheat-colored hair piled on top of her head— Pamela was lost in thought as she looked out the window in the direction of the corral and caught a glimpse of her husbands foreman, Randy Savage, dismounting from his horse. Tall, rugged, sandy-haired, and very handsome, Randy had been the reason for Pamela's almost ruining her life. Having had little else to occupy her over the winter months— and intrigued because he was so different from the men she had known in her native England—Pamela had foolishly imagined herself in love with him. And Randy, greatly taken with Pamela's beauty and realizing the way she felt about him, had thought that he was in love with her, too.

Fortunately, their mutual common sense had asserted itself, and they had stepped back from the abyss in time. There was no harm done, and neither was any worse for the experience.

As Pamela continued to watch, another horseman entered the corral and dismounted. It was her husband, Jim Randall, a lean, hard, brown-haired veteran of the Civil War, who had lost an eye in the war and wore an eye patch that gave him an added

touch of distinction. Jim had sufficient funds that he could have lived in comfort in his native Baltimore for the rest of his days, but it was typical of him to have come to the West, to have bought a ranch, and to have created a new and useful life for himself. Pamela had met Jim shortly after she arrived in the United States, and feeling it was time to settle down and put a stop to her carefree, coquettish ways, she had married him. Only recently, however, had she learned to appreciate Jim fully, and her heart was filled with love as she watched him.

Jim and Randy began talking. Watching them together, Pamela couldn't imagine how she could have thought herself in love with the foreman. Her husband was extraordinary.

The discussion in the corral was spirited but brief and ended in seeming agreement. Randy hurried off to the bunkhouse, and Jim entered the main dwelling, appearing in a few moments in his wife's bedchamber. "When I picked up the mail in Boise this morning," he said without preamble, "I found another letter from Edward that had just arrived." He handed her the letter, written on hotel stationery.

Edward Blackstone, a dashing, wealthy young Englishman who had been Pamela's next-door neighbor in rural Sussex, had originally traveled with her to America in order to see the country and to attend to business matters here. After Pamela had married Jim, Edward's cousin, Edward decided to travel from Fort Benton, Montana, to St. Louis by boat down the Missouri River because he sought the rich

experience. The letter related how he had encountered their mutual relative, Millicent Randall, traveling with Luis de Cordova, who, as it turned out, was a crooked gambler. Edward had killed de Cordova, who had tried to cheat him at cards, and the Englishman had thought that Millicent was safe at last.

But now, Edward said, Millicent had vanished in St. Louis in the company of Sergeant Karl Kellerman, who had left the constabulary there. Edward asked for Jim's help, as well as that of any volunteers he cared to bring with him to St. Louis, where Edward and his fiancee, Tommie Harding, would await reinforcements.

"What a shame to have found Millicent, only to lose her again," Jim said, shaking his head. He and Pamela had been shocked when his staid and reliable cousin had sold her restaurant in Boise the previous winter and had run off with de Cordova, and they had been relieved when Edward wrote that he had found her. But now Millicent's activities were more shocking than ever, and Jim said, "This running away, first with one man and then another, isn't at all like her."

"It's possible there's a simple explanation for her conduct," Pamela replied. "Perhaps the recognition that men find her desirable has altered her personality and caused her to act foolishly."

"Quite possibly you're right," he said. "But whatever may be motivating her, I can't let Edward down. I telegraphed him at his hotel in St. Louis to the

effect that I'll be leaving from Boise right away to catch the railroad in Ogden, Utah, and I should be arriving in St. Louis in two weeks' time. I've just spoken to Randy Savage, and he's going with me. Edward doesn't explain why he needs help, but the mere fact that he needs it is good enough for me. He doesn't explain either who this Tommie Harding is."

Pamela put a finger to her lips and pondered for a moment. "Do you remember, dear, just before Edward left Boise for Fort Benton to begin his trip down the Missouri, he told us he was going to sail on a ship of the Harding Line? Could it be that this Tommie Harding is the daughter of the ship's captain, the owner of the line? In any event, it appears that we're going to have a new relative one of these days."

"I hope," Jim said, "that you don't object to my going off to St. Louis to help Edward."

"Of course not!" Pamela told him. "Edward wouldn't ask for help unless he really needed it. We have no choice."

He nodded. "I was pretty sure you'd feel that way," he said, putting his arm around her. "I'll appoint an acting foreman to take charge of operations here at the ranch, and you know I'll come home as soon as I possibly can."

"Don't hurry on my account," Pamela replied. "I'll cope with things here. You stay with Edward for as long as necessary to solve this mystery about Millicent once and for all."

So Jim and Randy left the ranch that afternoon,

traveling by horseback to Ogden. They set an arduous pace for themselves and arrived in the bustling railroad town some ten days later. Leaving their horses at a local stable and wiring ahead to Edward Blackstone, they boarded a Union Pacific train heading east and arrived in St. Louis less than forty-eight hours later.

Edward and Tommie Harding were awaiting the arrival of the train in St. Louis, and they greeted the newcomers warmly. As always, Edward was impeccably and expensively dressed in a tailor-made suit and shirt with lace cuffs. His pencil-thin mustache was neatly trimmed, as was his dark brown hair, and he and the pert, blond-haired Tommie, who was wearing a plain but becoming blue dress, made a good-looking couple. Jim quickly discovered that Tommie was even more attractive, vivacious, and intelligent than he had thought at first glance, and he was very impressed by her.

Because of the presence of the carriage driver, they said nothing about the mission that had brought them all together. Instead, Edward explained how he and Tommie had met and fallen in love and how they had promised Tommies father, who was indeed the owner of the Harding Line, that they would wait before getting married in order to be sure they were right for each other. In the meantime, they were traveling together, an unconventional arrangement for an unmarried man and woman, but then Tommie was far too independent-minded and free-spirited to be considered conventional. What was more, Edward,

always the gentleman, saw to it that they slept in separate rooms when they registered at hotels.

When they reached the hotel, they made themselves comfortable in the living room of Edwards suite. There, Tommie handed Jim a clipping from a recent newspaper. "Read this," Edward said.

Jim read the news story from Memphis that told of the death of a gang leader there. The man, named Jason, had been found in his office, shot to death. It had been a suicide, the article said, but subsequently it had been revealed that one of his bodyguards also had died. No one knew the identity of the perpetrator of the crime or what the link was between the suicide and the murder, but it was speculated that the killer might have been an exceptionally tall and broad-shouldered man with dark blond hair and pale blue eyes. The news story did not reveal how the Memphis police had obtained even that much information about the killer.

Jim finished reading the article and handed the story to Randy.

"Millicent and this fellow, Kellerman, disappeared from St. Louis as though they'd been wiped from the face of the earth," Edward said. "The constabulary here have no definite idea where they've gone, though Commissioner Bowen thought New Orleans would be as likely a place as any, since Kellerman has some business contacts there."

"If they've left St. Louis," Tommie said, "they reserved their steamer or stagecoach tickets under assumed names."

"Why would they do that?" Jim asked, puzzled.

Edward shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine," he said. "The only reason that has occurred to me is that Millicent knows I'll come searching for her and is deliberately covering her tracks."

"Perhaps were wrong to search for her," Jim said. "She's of age, after all, and she's free to do whatever she wishes."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd seen her on board ship coming down the Missouri," Tommie told him. "She behaved as though she was a woman possessed, as though she had little control over what she was doing. True, she helped Edward turn the tables on de Cordova, but the minute Sergeant Kellerman came on the scene to investigate, it was as though she lost all control of herself again."

"That means we can't leave her to her own devices," Edward said, picking up the theme from her. "We feel compelled to find Millicent and, if necessary, to protect her—from herself. At first our intentions were to go directly to New Orleans to find her. Then we saw the story from Memphis in the newspaper. So now we propose to stop off at Memphis and talk with the police authorities there."

Randy Savage was puzzled. "I fail to see the connection," he said, "between the missing Millicent Randall and Karl Kellerman and the deaths of the gangsters in Memphis."

"I'm sorry," Edward said. "I should have made it clear from the start that the description of the possible killer, vague though it is, fits Kellerman

almost exactly. We want to give the information to the Memphis police. That news story is also why we asked you to meet us here in St. Louis before we started out."

Randy still looked confused.

"Kellerman is a murderer," Tommie explained. "He has Millicent in his possession. If we're going to apprehend him and rescue Millicent, we're going to need all the help we can get!"

Toby Holt was returning to his ranch from a visit to Portland, going down the trail that followed the course of the Columbia River. The sturdy, sandy-haired twenty-nine-year-old, sinewy and lean as whipcord, breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of pines and incredibly fresh mountain air. Like his late father, Whip Holt, he knew utter contentment on the ranch. He had acquired a national reputation as a surveyor for railroad lines, as an Indian fighter, and as a troubleshooter for presidents of the United States, but he was never happier than when he was at home.

His stallion needed no urging either. The great beast increased his speed as he headed toward home.

A surprise awaited Toby as he neared the cleared pasture lands that surrounded the ranch buildings. From a trail in the pine woods off to his left, there emerged a small figure on the back of a rapidly moving pony, a three-year-old boy in complete western attire, even to his boots and broad-brimmed hat.

"Hello, Papa!" the child called cheerfully.

"Well, hello, Timmy," Toby replied with a grin,

and began to search for his wife. He finally caught a glimpse of her, mounted on her mare, partially concealed in the deep woods, and he realized that the wonderful, ever-sensible Clarissa was allowing the boy to ride ahead of her so that he would feel he had been riding all by himself.

Toby was quick to go along with the game. "Where are you going, Tim?" he asked.

The child pointed in the direction of the ranch house. "We race!" he announced.

"That's a fine idea, son," Toby said gravely. "Lets race! One—two—three—go!" Before he was through counting, Tim, crouched low in the saddle, had started off in the direction of the house, his pony's hooves pounding the hard ground of the trail. Toby deliberately reined in his own mount and allowed his son to beat him by several lengths.

Tim was ecstatic. "I won! I won!" he shouted, and hugged his father as Toby lifted him to the ground.

Clarissa approached, and Tim danced around her as she, too, dismounted. "I raced Papa, and I won, Mama. I beat him!"

Sharing his delight, she bent down, picked him up, and kissed him. "I know you won, Timothy," she said. "I saw you. Congratulations."

They made a handsome family: the tall, statuesque Clarissa in her riding dress, her thick red hair piled up under her broad-brimmed hat; the rugged, lean Toby, who more and more bore a resemblance to his legendary father; and the animated little boy,

whose youthful features reflected those of both his parents.

Approaching on foot was Stalking Horse, his face bronzed and deeply lined but his bearing erect and sure. The elderly Cherokee had been foreman of the ranch ever since Whip Holt had founded the place.

Tim hurtled toward the Indian, shouting his news. Stalking Horse listened, made an appropriate comment, and then waved Toby and Clarissa toward the house. "Leave your horses," he called. "Timmy will help me get the saddles off and turn the mounts out to pasture."

Satisfied that their son was in good hands, the couple started toward the house together, their shoulders touching. "That boy is a marvel," Toby said. "When I first saw him, I thought for a split second that he was out riding alone."

"There's no way on earth that I'd let him out of my sight," Clarissa replied. "He's too much like his father."

"I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment," Toby told her.

She giggled. "It's a fact," she said. "At the age of three he's already a complete Holt. He's too young to realize that he had a famous grandfather and has an equally famous father, but those things don't matter to him. He's already competing like mad with both of you, and someday, he's going to surpass you. I almost feel sorry for his wife."

Toby's face clouded as they entered the kitchen

and Clarissa poured him a mug of coffee from the pot warming on the stove. "I'm not sure how you mean that," Toby said, "but I'm afraid I take it in the worst way. I apologize to you for all the heartache and inconvenience I've caused you."

She looked up at him, her face registering both alarm and compassion. "Don't be silly, darling," she said.

"We've had some rough times," he insisted.

"But we've overcome them, and that's what counts," Clarissa countered. "Of course we've had hard going from time to time. That's the nature of marriage, but it's what people feel for each other that matters. We love each other, so I can't think of anything that could be better." Saying this, she put her arms around her husband.

As they held each other, Clarissa and Toby sensed that this was a moment of perfect communion. They had no need for further words. They were one in spirit, and their love presented an unbreakable barrier between them and the world.

That night after Tim had been put to bed, Toby and Clarissa were joined at dinner by Stalking Horse and White Elk, a nine-year-old Arapaho orphan who had been jointly adopted by the Cherokee foreman and by Pamela Randall. The boy divided his time between them, and it was their hope that he would grow up to represent the best of both the Indians' and the white man's worlds.

The dinner table was laden with platters of delicious, steaming foods, most of which were pro-

duced on the Holt ranch. The roast beef came from the cattle that were raised here, the carrots, peas, onions, and potatoes were grown in Clarissas large vegetable garden, and the apples and peaches that were used in the pies for this evening's dessert came from the ranch's own fruit trees. Only the flour used in the bread and piecrust came from the market in Portland, but even then, Clarissa baked her own bread and pastries, using the fresh butter that was made from the cream of the ranch's dairy cows.

White Elk was very much at home at a dinner table, handling a knife and fork with ease and taking an intelligent part in the conversation. "The weather grows warmer, and snow is gone from the mountains," he said in fluent English, "but the Arapaho will not go on the warpath this year against their white brothers. I am sure of it."

Stalking Horse exchanged a quick look with Toby and decided the flat statement could not be allowed unchallenged. "What makes White Elk so certain of what will be?" he asked.

The boy looked gravely at the old man. "The government has given the Arapaho new hunting grounds that lie in the north of the territory," White Elk said, "far from the new railroad tracks. We went hunting in that region, and my grandfather will remember that game was plentiful and the rivers were filled with plump fish."

Toby decided to test the boy. "Why should good hunting grounds make a difference?"

White Elk instantly rose to the challenge. "Indians

are like their white brothers," he said. "When their bellies are full and they have the promise of more food that is easy to get, they are at peace and will stay at peace."

"Good boy, White Elk," Clarissa said. "Pass me your plate so I can give you another slice of roast beef and some more potatoes. As for you two," she went on to her husband and Stalking Horse, "leave the child alone so he can finish his supper in peace."

Toby had sufficient respect for his wife not to argue the matter. He ate in silence for a time, but his mind was churning. "Stalking Horse," he said at last, "when I was in Portland this afternoon, I called on the chief of police, Peter Thoman, but his office told me that he's attending a meeting in San Francisco and won't be back until the end of the week. I reckon I'll have to wait until the beginning of next week before I have myself deputized."

The elderly Cherokee nodded complacently. "Plenty of time," he said.

Clarissa kept her own counsel. She knew that her husband was getting deputized because he had volunteered to get to the bottom of the vicious attack on Wong Ke, Toby's wealthy Chinese business mentor and friend, who had been mysteriously beaten while on a recent visit to Portland. Ke and his partner, Chet Harris—one of the original members of the first wagon train to Oregon and now a successful businessman in San Francisco—had indicated that members of an illegal Chinese criminal gang—or tong—had been responsible, and Toby was determined to even

the score and teach his elderly friends attackers a lesson they would not forget.

Glancing at her husband, Clarissa knew it was useless to argue with him. He would be impervious to warnings that it might be dangerous for him to investigate the incident and that it would be best to forget the matter and leave well enough alone. When a Holt's sense of justice was disturbed, he moved heaven and earth until he felt a wrong had been righted, and Clarissa knew it would be a waste of time to speak to Toby about the matter until he had obtained vengeance for Wong Ke.

Toby saw the worry in his wife's eyes and wanted to reassure her, to tell her that everything would work out fine, but in all honesty, he could not. He had a strange premonition that he was in danger. A new incident, in some way connected with the attack on Wong Ke, would take place in the near future, and his life would be threatened by it. But he could not allow that knowledge to deter him from doing what he regarded as his duty, however, just as he could not bring himself to mention the potential danger to Clarissa, worried as she was already.

Karl Kellerman was tiptoeing out of the hotel suite when Millicent Randall half sat up in the bed and called to him softly.

"Go back to sleep," he said, turning to her. "I've got an important business appointment this morning, so you may as well sleep until noon. Ill come back and pick you up in time for dinner."

Falling back on the pillows, with her thick brown hair framing her face, she raised her arms to him. He came to the bed and bent down to kiss her dutifully, and she threw her arms around his neck and tried to pull him into the bed with her. Lifting her face, she kissed him passionately.

Karl returned her kiss briefly, then managed to extricate himself from her grasp. "Lovemaking will have to wait until later," he told her, speaking softly. "I have a business appointment that I simply must keep."

Millicent sighed petulantly, then dropped her

31

arms and watched him as he silently let himself out of the suite.

Stopping first for a light breakfast in the hotel's restaurant, Karl then started out on foot across the city. As he drew nearer to the docks on the Mississippi River waterfront, the neighborhood changed from one of wealth to one of penury. The buildings grew shabbier, the clothing and food shops here were inexpensive, and there were a number of cheap brothels. The men and women on the streets were wearing rough, working-class attire, and Karl was conspicuous in his expensive clothes.

When he was about two blocks from the river, he came to a little building on which a small sign was hanging, identifying it as Dugald's Bar. As he entered, Karl saw that the place was crowded with merchant seamen, presumably from a recently arrived freighter, even though the hour was early. Waiting on the customers was a mild-mannered little Scotsman with gray hair, Wallace Dugald, Karl's partner and co-owner of the bar. In spite of his gentleness, Dugald was sufficiently authoritative to keep the unruly customers in line.

Dugald nodded to Karl as he carried a tray of drinks to a table in a far corner. Karl sauntered behind the bar and poured himself a glass of beer. While he was sipping it, Wallace Dugald returned to his post as bartender.

"I read in the papers that you retired from the St. Louis constabulary, Karl. I've been expecting you

to show up here any day now. Welcome to New Orleans."

"Thanks, partner," Karl replied jocularly. "It's good to be here. I never spent much time in this place since the day that I provided you with the financing in return for fifty percent, but still it feels like home."

"Just say the word," Dugald told him, "and it'll be home. I'm not complaining about our business arrangement, but I'd be delighted to have you working here side by side with me."

"Thanks very much, Wallace," Karl said, "but I'm not sure yet what I'm going to do to earn my living. I spent a lot of years on the police force, so I want to take my time deciding what I'm going to do from here on in. It's a decision that I can't make too quickly."

Wallace looked owlish when he grinned. "As soon as the customers clear out of here," he said, "I've got a surprise for you. Maybe it'll help you make up your mind."

Not understanding the significance of the remark, Karl shrugged and said, "In the meantime, let me give you a hand behind the bar. That'll speed things up a bit." He hung up his jacket, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and began to pour drinks swiftly and efficiently.

The merchant seamen left the bar late in the morning to search for girls, and Wallace turned to Karl. "We have just enough time for you to see the surprise," he said, "before the noon crowd begins to

arrive." He led the way behind the bar to the far end, and there raised a trapdoor in the floor, which revealed a narrow flight of stairs that led to a cellar.

Following him through the trapdoor, Karl descended to the cellar. The only light was provided by a stubby candle that Dugald had lit and now carried in a battered brass holder.

Wallace crossed the room and went to an old-fashioned iron safe, which, after he put down the candle, he opened with a key. Inside were two identical cloth bags that made a clinking sound when he moved them.

"Here," he said, "are the profits from one full year of operations. I had the money changed into gold coins at the bank because they take up less space, and I divided them equally. One of these is yours, and the other is mine. If you like you can go over my accounts for the year, and I'm sure you'll find they'll tally to the penny."

"That won't be necessary," Karl said, and picking up one of the bags, he weighed it experimentally in his hands. His legitimate share of the profits amounted to a good deal of money, but he knew there were still not sufficient funds to pay for keeping up his hotel suite, meals at good eating places, and other expensive habits.

"I don't have to look at the ledgers or count the money, Wallace," he said. "I trust you. After all, we're partners!"

Wallace was pleased. "I'm glad you feel that

way, Karl," he replied. "I've never trusted banks, which is why I've kept the profits right here in the safe. Go on, take your share now."

"I'm in no hurry," Kellerman said. "The gold won't rust in your safe, so I'll leave it right where it is until I decide how to use it."

His mind racing, he already was making coldblooded plans. Somehow—in a manner yet to be determined—he would dispose of Wallace Dugald permanently. Then he would take both bags of gold. The combined profits would provide him with a nest egg sufficient to live in the manner to which he was growing accustomed. Adding to this the money he would earn doing the job involving the crime boss Domino, he would have a small fortune. He would be able to afford the company of the blonde on whom he had an eye, and Millicent Randall be damned!

Suddenly the whole future looked bright. "It sure was a lucky day," he said, "when you and I became partners."

Millicent, wearing an expensive, revealing gown, dined with Karl at one of New Orleans's fanciest restaurants. She was supremely happy. The food and wines were perfect, every patron in the place took notice of her, and her lover was strong, handsome, and impressively virile. She was prepared for a wonderful evening and was stunned when Karl said to her, "I'll drop you off at the hotel after dinner. I have some business that requires my attention this evening."

"You left me to go on business this morning, too," she said indignantly.

"I've got to work," he said.

She couldn't help pouting. "At this time of night?"

"Night, day, any time at all," he replied, his manner brutal. "The money doesn't grow on trees to pay for supper at a place like this, and I don't find the cash in the streets to buy you dresses like you're wearing tonight."

"I—I'm sorry, Karl," she murmured. "I don't mean to be a burden on you."

"You're no burden," he told her, "but I've got to have the freedom to do what I must to earn a living for us."

"I'm ready to go back to the hotel," she said meekly. "Try not to be too late tonight."

He replied coldly, "I have no idea what time I'll be coming back tonight. Don't wait up for me."

Karl walked Millicent back to their hotel and then continued on his way, going rapidly to Dugald's Bar. There he changed into the inconspicuous attire of a working man: flannel shirt and woolen trousers. Dugald, meanwhile, was busy serving customers.

Karl stood for a time at the rear of the establishment inspecting the patrons; finally he settled on a grizzled man who sat alone at a table. The tarnished gold braid on his cap and on his cuffs revealed that he was a merchant marine captain. The officer interested Karl, and he decided this might be the kind of man he was looking for.

After pouring himself a tankard of ale and picking up a bottle of whiskey, Karl took the empty seat across from the captain. They soon fell into conversation, and Karl encouraged the relationship by pouring the officer a fresh drink from time to time.

The man, seemingly mild-mannered and quiet, was Captain Robin Kayross, a Greek sea captain. He was the master of a large steam-propelled freighter, the Diana, which plied the seas between New Orleans and Hong Kong. It developed that he was not self-employed but was hired by the ships owners, who lived in San Francisco.

After several of the strong drinks that Karl quietly poured for him, Captain Kayross began to discuss his lot in life more freely. "There are some," he said, "who envy me. They think that being master of my own ship must be paradise. Well, it isn't. I don't mind telling you that except for a few fellow Greeks—some of my officers and about half a dozen members of my crew—I have hell's own time keeping a full crew. Every chance they get—and in almost every port I visit—officers and crew jump ship, and I've got to begin again the whole process of recruiting. It gets harder and harder."

"Is there any particular reason they jump ship?" Karl asked with pretended innocence.

Robin Kayross snorted. "They have fifty reasons," he said stridently. "For one thing, they complain day and night about the quality of the food I serve. I'll admit the diet is monotonous because I save money

by buying foods in large quantities, but nobody ever gets sick and dies from what he eats on board the Diana. If I can tolerate the meals, so can my crew!"

Karl wore his most interested-looking expression as he poured out another drink for the captain.

Kayross continued, "No matter how many men I sign on, they always claim that the crew is short-handed. It doesn't matter if I put to sea with twenty men or with thirty, I hear the same thing. Well, sir, I don't mind telling you that I don't believe in coddling sailors. When a man goes to work for me, he can expect to work long, hard hours for his money. Putting to sea on the Diana is no vacation, and every last man who works for me finds that out in a hurry. Either he works or he feels the bite of a rope's end on his bare back, and there's no two ways about it. So I'm less than popular with my crew, particularly as I hold back pay as an incentive for working hard. They claim that often I withhold their wages completely, but I'm damned if they can ever prove it."

The man was totally lacking in scruples, Karl thought, and that was all to the good.

"I'm not saying I'm all that unhappy," the captain went on, chuckling quietly. "One way or another I manage to fill my purse, and that's what really counts. What my crews don't know won't hurt them, and the same thing goes for the ship's owners. All the same, hiring conditions are so bad that I swear to you in the name of Beelzebub that I'd give

almost anything to have a crew made up of shanghaied seamen. That way there d be no problem. They'd work their tails off or get whipped for their pains. They'd get fed whatever slops we wanted to give them and would be damn glad to get them. They'd get a few hours of rest at night, just enough to keep them going all the next day, and I wouldn't hear a peep out of them. There's only one way to run a ship! With whips and chains!"

Karl sipped his own drink and stared thoughtfully into the contents of his glass. "I wish I knew whether you were serious or joking," he said softly. "I could make suggestions about how to go about shanghaiing some men if you were really serious."

Kayross was suddenly cautious. "How do I know you're not a member of the New Orleans constabulary?" he demanded. "How do I know you aren't assigned to a squad that's trying to break up the gangs that are impressing ordinary citizens as seamen?"

"I tell you plain, and I tell you true, that I don't represent any constabulary," Karl said emphatically. "I have no power to arrest anyone. You can believe me or not, as you choose, and if you get it into your head that I'm trying to trick you, then be damned to you!

"It does no harm," Kayross said, "to be careful."

"No harm at all," Karl replied. "To show you / meant no harm, have another bottle—on me."

"Ill have another if you'll drink with me." Kayross had no intention of getting drunk while this burly stranger remained sober.

Karl went behind the bar and took a bottle. "You and your Greeks/' he said, returning to the table and pouring out two whiskeys, "could try to kidnap yourselves a crew off the streets of New Orleans, though to be sure, gathering a full complement of men by impressment can be a very dangerous pastime."

"Especially in a foreign country where you have no friends on the bench," the Greek said. "That's why I'd much rather pay cash for merchandise. It's safer and neater."

Karl sipped his drink, then stared at the sea captain over the rim of his glass. "Let me get this straight," he said. "You're willing to put up a certain amount of money in cash for every shanghaied seaman who's handed over to you. Is that correct?"

Kayross examined the contents of his drink and then raised his glass to his lips. "You have the general idea," he said.

Kellerman had grown tired of fencing. "How much?" he demanded brusquely.

The captain was reluctant to name a figure, but his hand was being forced. "I'll pay five hundred dollars," he said, "for every man who's handed over to me, free and clear, to work on board the Diana."

The former St. Louis detective laughed as though really enjoying himself. "Suppose I made a deal with you," he said. "I'd be taking all the risks, and I sure wouldn't lift a finger for a rotten five hundred dollars a head. It just wouldn't be worth my neck."

"How much would you want?" Kayross demanded.

"One thousand dollars per man."

"A thousand dollars!" Kayross acted as though he had been stabbed. "I don't operate a freighter in the rich Atlantic service, you know. I'm forced to take the long route around South America to the Orient, where I'm subject to the bargaining wiles of the Chinese. All I can afford to pay is seven hundred dollars per man and not one cent more."

Kellerman shook his head sadly. "All you have to do," he said, "is rustle up cash for your payments, but I've got to take chances with every man I impress. I cant go any lower than a rock-bottom fee of eight hundred dollars per shanghaied man. Take it or leave it."

Seemingly lost in thought, Kayross stared at the contents of his glass. Then he helped himself to a small sip, smiled bleakly, and said, "You have a deal."

They shook hands, and at Kellerman's suggestion they adjourned to the waterfront in order to inspect the Diana. They walked together to the docks and soon came to the steam-powered ship. She was about fifteen years old and had been subjected to careless treatment. Litter was scattered on her decks, and she was badly in need of paint.

As Kellerman accompanied the captain on board, however, he noted with approval that the Greek seamen on duty were carrying loaded rifles.

Captain Kayross led his visitor below to the

hold, the boiler room, and the coal storage quarters, where the shanghaied seamen would be chained until the Diana was far out at sea. Cockroaches were everywhere underfoot, and an insistent series of scratching sounds indicated that numerous rats were scurrying out of the path of the approaching humans. None of that mattered to Karl. All he could think of was the money he would make providing a crew for this disreputable ship.

Cindy Holt, the pretty, vivacious twenty-year-old daughter of the famous Whip Holt and stepdaughter of Major General Leland Blake, commander of the U.S. Army in the West, was home at Fort Vancouver, Washington, from Oregon State College for the summer holidays. Her mother and stepfather had been called away on a military inspection trip, so she eagerly accepted the written invitation awaiting her from her sister-in-law, Clarissa. It was always a treat to eat supper and stay overnight at the ranch house, visiting with her brother Toby and with Clarissa and little Tim. She needed only the presence of her fiance, Cadet Henry Blake of the U.S. Military Academy, the adopted son of her mother and General Blake, to complete her joy. She and Hank, a high honors student at West Point, had a private understanding, and she comforted herself with the thought that in two more years, after he won his commission as an army officer, they would be able to marry. Until then, she was learning to exercise patience.

General Blake's boat carried Cindy and her mare across the Columbia River to Oregon, and avoiding the town of Portland, where she intended to visit friends later during her stay, Cindy struck out at once for the Holt ranch.

The summer air was warm and fragrant, and a long, lovely twilight softened the mountains in the background. Cindy's mare, thoroughly enjoying the occasion, too, began to canter of her own volition.

All at once, Cindy saw a sight that made her blood run cold. Stretched out stiff-legged in the underbrush off to the left ahead of her was a gelding that had been shot and killed. On the opposite side of the trail, a man lay stretched on the ground, and his shirt, soaked and caked with blood, indicated that he, too, had been shot.

The man opened his eyes with a great efrort and managed to focus on the young woman as she approached him and dismounted.

Slowly and with great deliberation, he began to fumble with his belt. "He searched me," he muttered hoarsely, "after he shot me, but I had the papers hidden in . . . secret compartment. Please see that they reach . . . General Blake. Tell him that government courier did his best." With a hand that trembled, he gave the girl several sheets of very thin paper that were folded into a small square.

Cindy took the folded papers from him, not bothering to explain that she was General Blake's stepdaughter. She knew the man had been wounded

too badly for her to help him unaided, and she bent over him, intending to ask him what she could do for him before she went to her brother's ranch for help. But she realized with dismay that the man had stopped breathing and had already died.

As Cindy, now deeply upset, rose to her feet, dropping the papers she had been given into the pocket of the buckskin jacket she wore, she sensed rather than saw that someone was lurking nearby.

Suddenly a shot rang out, and a bullet whistled near her.

Truly the daughter of Whip Holt, Cindy reacted coolly. She snatched her own rifle from the saddle sling, raised it to her shoulder as she wheeled, and fired in the direction from which the bullet had come. Thrashing sounds in the underbrush told her she might not have missed her mark by much.

Taking advantage of the brief respite, she leaped into the saddle, dug her heels into the mare's flanks, and was off to a flying start in the direction of the Holt ranch. She bent low in the saddle as two shots rang out and a pair of bullets passed overhead. One of them was too close for comfort, so she squirmed around in her saddle as her mare continued to plunge forward and sent another shot from her rifle in the direction of her pursuer. When she saw Toby's ranch house and the outbuildings directly ahead, she knew that she was out of the range of her enemy.

Toby had heard the sounds of gunfire and had come into the open carrying his own rifle. Now he

saw his sister riding toward him at breakneck speed, crouching low in her saddle. As she dismounted she breathlessly told him about the dead messenger and the person who had fired at her.

Stalking Horse and a half-dozen ranch hands now arrived at the scene, and Toby instantly waved them into action. They plunged into the woods, but when Stalking Horse reappeared after about a quarter of an hour, he shook his head. "Nobody is in the woods," he said. "Whoever followed Miss Cindy ran away. That's good for him, because if I find him, I put a bullet into his heart."

Meanwhile, the ranch hands had brought back the body of the messenger, and Toby told two of the hands to take the dead man to the Portland city morgue. Then he led his sister into the house. There, Clarissa awaited them and produced a pot of tea that helped to soothe Cindy, who then repeated her story more calmly.

Toby unfolded the sheets of paper and began to read them. "These are very interesting," he said. "They've been sent by General Layton at the Presidio in San Francisco, who received them from an anonymous source. They implicate a number of Chinese in San Francisco and several others in Portland in a Chinese smuggling ring."

"What are they smuggling?" Clarissa asked.

"Chinese immigrants principally, in defiance of United States immigration laws, and also opium."

"There are no laws to prevent the importation of opium into the country, are there?" Cindy asked.

Her brother shook his head. "No, but there's a strong ground swell of public opinion against the importation of opium. A large number of upstanding citizens claim that when it's used for nonmedical purposes, it's extremely harmful. It seems that members of a San Francisco tong have been making a vast sum of money on opium and immigration."

"Do you suppose," Clarissa asked thoughtfully, "that there's any connection between the tong that's involved in this smuggling operation and the attack on Wong Ke?"

"Perhaps," he replied, "though since the source is anonymous, there's no way to press any charges. General Layton was sending the papers to General Blake for his opinion. In any event, I promised Ke and Chet that I'd look into the involvements of the tong carefully, and this is the first lead of any kind that we've been given."

"One thing is for certain," Cindy said. "Someone is going to great lengths to prevent the authorities from learning too much. The courier carrying this information was murdered, and whoever killed him sure did try to stop me from leaving the scene of the killing with the papers."

Toby nodded thoughtfully, then said, "With the general out of town, I'll do the next best thing and take these documents to Peter Thoman, the Portland police chief, and to Tilman Wade, the director of security for the state. They're back in town now and may know something more."

They dropped the subject and devoted the rest of the evening to family matters. Little Tim had not yet retired, so his aunt sat with him while he ate his supper and then she told him a bedtime story. Later, at the dinner table, the talk centered on Cindy's recent activities and the news that she heard from Hank Blake in her correspondence with him.

After breakfast the following morning, Toby saddled his stallion and started into Portland carrying the courier's documents. He was satisfied that, in the absence of General Blake, the interests of the public were well served. Chief Peter Thoman was the son of Paul Thoman, one of the original settlers, and ably represented the younger generation. Tough old Tilman Wade, the state director of security, had also traveled to Oregon on the first wagon train to cross the continent, and he was unyielding in his fight against criminals. Together the combination of youth and age formed a team that had enjoyed remarkable success in its fight against crime. Oregon ranked high among the states in its record of protecting its citizens from criminal elements.

As Toby rode quietly through the pine woods, banks of clouds appeared overhead. Glancing up at the sky, he knew that rain would fall later in the day.

Suddenly the explosive crash of a rifle shot shattered the morning silence, and a bullet whined past Toby's head.

Reacting immediately, he urged his stallion to a full gallop in the direction of where the shot had

come from and grabbed one of his pistols. Crouching low in the saddle, he was prepared to shoot as soon as he caught a glimpse of the man who had fired at him.

No more than a half minute elapsed before Toby caught a glimpse of another rider far ahead in the woods, beating a hasty retreat from the scene. Still riding hard, Toby aimed his pistol and fired a shot at the fleeing figure. The distance was too great, however, and the rider disappeared from sight into the thick pine woods that extended for a considerable distance in all directions before finally giving way to cleared land on the approach to Portland. The rider could enter the city at any one of a score of places, and his tracks would be lost among those of the hundreds of other horses and vehicles in the area. Further pursuit would be a waste of time, and Toby reholstered his pistol regretfully, realizing that his would-be killer was free to renew his assault at some later date.

Toby continued on his way toward the city. Obviously he had been shot at because he was suspected of carrying the papers that had resulted in the death of the courier. Someone was very anxious that these documents be intercepted and not passed on to the authorities.

The courthouse on Fourth Street was a large, imposing building, like the other public structures located on one of two adjacent parklike public squares. Here were the offices of federal, state, and local

officials. The second-floor office of Tilman Wade overlooked bustling Fourth Street, and Toby stood with the balding Wade while they awaited the arrival of Chief Thoman.

"If your pa was still alive," the older man said, "he'd be every bit as amazed as I am. There was nothing but trees and bare land here when we finally called a halt to our wagon train, and today the population of Portland is about eight thousand people. What really astonishes me is the prediction that well have double that number by the time 1880 comes. The faster the town grows, the more complicated the job of maintaining public order becomes."

"I don't envy you, Tilman. It was a lot simpler in my father's day when he and a half-dozen others kept the peace by keeping their rifles oiled."

They were interrupted by the arrival of Peter Thoman, who was exceptionally tall, extremely thin, and was acknowledged to be a very efficient police chief.

Toby told the officials his sister's experience the previous evening, then showed them the documents she had been given by the dying courier. He also told them of the attempt on his own life less than an hour earlier.

Both men read the papers with interest. "You will note," the police chief said, "that the tong is never mentioned by name. That's because no outsider ever learns its name. That is one of the secrets the Chinese guard zealously. However, there is no

doubt in my mind who the head of this tong now is. Kung Lee is his name, and he has effectively eliminated the former leaders and has seized complete control, showing no mercy to them or to anyone else. If my memory serves correctly, Wong Ke told you that Kung was responsible for the attack on him."

Tilman Wade fingered the butts of the Colt repeating pistols that he carried in his belt. "Even without these papers," he said, "Id be inclined to suspect a tong headed by Kung. They've demonstrated repeatedly that they have no respect for American laws. They're a vicious group."

"Well, we agreed that I was going to be deputized as a federal marshal so that I could go after the tong," Toby said matter-of-factly. "I guess now is as good a time as any."

Tilman looked very much concerned. "The circuit judge is sitting in the federal court, all ready to swear you in, Toby," he said, "but are you really sure you want to take on the responsibility for chasing after Kung Lee's gang? I mean, here you've finally gained the chance to settle with your family on your ranch and to live like an ordinary citizen."

"I promised Wong Ke and Chet Harris that I'd do all I could to track down the ruffians who attacked Ke," Toby said solemnly, "and I'm going to keep my word to them. They're not only business associates; they're like family to me, and I'm very much in their debt. In addition to which, I don't like the idea of

the tong defrauding the American public by illegally importing Chinese laborers and bringing large amounts of opium into this country. It's my duty as a citizen to help put a stop to such practices."

"You've more than earned your share of good citizenship, Toby," Peter Thoman said. "This country would be in great shape if everybody's contribution equaled yours."

Karl Kellerman claimed that business affairs would keep him occupied all day, so Millicent was once again thrown on her own resources. Dressing modestly and with just a trace of makeup, she spent a couple of hours shopping and then returned to the Louisiana House for a noon dinner, sitting alone on the far side of the dining room as the orchestra played classical selections.

Before she had a chance to study the menu, the hotel manager appeared at her elbow. "Madame Kellerman," he said, using the name under which she was registered, "may I have the honor of presenting to you Mr. Jean-Pierre Gautier, a member of a prominent New Orleans family, who also happens to be a majority stockholder in this hotel."

Millicent looked up at the thin, extremely well-dressed, dark-haired young man who was bowing to the waist before her. He was the one who had shadowed her whenever she had been alone, following her into shops and restaurants and keeping watch over her on the streets. She pretended, however,

never to have seen him before and simply extended her hand and murmured, "How do you do."

He handled her fingers as though they were made of the most fragile glass. "I am overwhelmed, Madame Kellerman," he said. "If you are not expecting anyone for dinner, may I join you?"

His sincerity was so obvious that she was amused as well as flattered, despite her earlier resolve to avoid him at all costs. What was more, Karl seemed not to care what she did, and so she told him, "Sit down, by all means."

He promptly took the chair opposite her and asked for the privilege of buying her an aperitif. She consented graciously, and he immediately ordered from the hotel manager, who went off to get a waiter to serve them.

"I hope," he said, "that you don't mind the presence of the orchestra. They're one of the additions to the hotel for which I'm responsible."

She laughed aloud. "How could I not like the music of Brahms," she said, "especially the waltzes?"

He was impressed. "You are a musician, Madame Kellerman?"

"My name isn't Kellerman," she said. "I'm Milli-cent Randall, the name I had when I was bora, and I am indeed a musician. I play the flute, and I studied for many years at the Baltimore Conservatory, where I also composed for the flute."

"I'd love to hear your compositions," he said. "I'm afraid I have no musical talents myself, although

I much appreciate music. The most I can claim is that I do my part in sponsoring the symphony orchestra here." They had quickly discovered a mutual interest in music and discussed nothing else as they each drank two glasses of wine. Millicent had not had the opportunity to talk about music with anyone since she had left Baltimore, and she chatted happily, feeling as though floodgates had been unexpectedly opened in her.

In time, Jean-Pierre revealed his own background. He was the heir to one of the larger French fortunes in New Orleans and had been married to a woman whom he had loved dearly and who had died after a long and painful illness the year before. He made no secret of the fact that he had been captured by the very sight of Millicent, and ever since she had come to town some days earlier, he had spent most of his waking hours trying to arrange an introduction to her.

She was somewhat less than frank in her response to him. She spoke freely of her life in Baltimore and subsequently of her travels in the West and the establishment of her cousin's ranch in Idaho, but she offered no explanation whatever of how she happened to come to New Orleans, and she blithely ignored the existence of Karl Kellerman.

When Jean-Pierre asked for the privilege of seeing her again, she became equally elusive, telling him she would be happy to meet him for a noon or evening dinner but that it was impossible for her to

set up engagements far in advance. What she did not tell him was that her day-to-day existence was still ruled by Kellerman's whims. When he had business that took him elsewhere, she was forgotten. But when he wanted her company, he expected her to be immediately available to him.

Jean-Pierre, however, seemed more than- satisfied with any arrangements she cared to make, even though her planning was tenuous at best.

By the time they finished dinner, parting company when they left the table, it was obvious that Jean-Pierre Gautier was infatuated with her. Milli-cent was relieved, even though she knew it was selfish to feel as she did. The fear had been growing within her for several days that Karl might desert her, and she wondered what she would do if she found herself alone in a strange city. Jean-Pierre offered her a measure of security, however, and she was grateful that she had met him. In spite of her outward sophistication, she was afraid to face the world alone, and she felt better able to cope knowing that Jean-Pierre was ready and able to assist her in every way possible.

Occupying the ground floor of the dilapidated wooden building in San Francisco's Chinatown was a curio shop that sold trinkets and souvenirs of China. On the second floor, at the far end of a rickety wooden staircase, were quarters that casual visitors to the shop assumed to be the home of the propri-

etors of the modest little establishment. But beyond a door of heavy oak, a surprise awaited the few persons ever to gain admission to the place. Here, the floors were covered with magnificent, handwo-ven Oriental rugs. On them stood superbly wrought vases and statuettes of porcelain, and on the walls hung precious Chinese paintings. At a glance, the place represented the Orient at its most sumptuous. A room on one side of the suite was furnished like an American office, however. Here stood a large, mahogany desk, a reclining chair, and a number of visitors' chairs of carved oak. The walls were graced with expensive portraits by American artists.

Behind the huge desk sat Kung Lee, the tong leader who was said to be the most powerful Chinese man in North America. In his mandarin robes of black he did not look like a man of power, however. His build was frail, his hair was gray, and he wore horn-rimmed glasses. He could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy-five years old. His right hand moving delicately, swiftly, he was writing a letter, his brush strokes firm as he made the Chinese characters.

His efforts were interrupted when a nondescript-looking serving man in black jacket and trousers came into the room and bowed. "Forgive the intrusion, Celestial Leader," he said, speaking in the educated Mandarin tongue, "but Chung Ai has just returned to San Francisco from Portland and craves an audience with you."

Kung Lee sighed, slightly annoyed by the interruption. "Send Ho Tai to me," he said, "and after he has entered this room, wait for a few moments, then show in Chung Ai."

Ho Tai, a burly native of the north of China, ambled into the room. His appearance was unlike that of the scholarly Kung Lee in every way. The newcomer was short and squat, a man with a knife-scarred face. He carried a double-edged blade of exceptional sharpness in the belt of his all-black attire.

Ho Tai bowed to Kung Lee, but there was no conversation between them. The older man's gaze rested on his henchman for a moment, and Ho Tai seemed to know what was expected of him. He moved silently to a corner of the room, his step surprisingly graceful for someone of his build, and there he folded his arms and stared impassively straight ahead.

The door opened again, and Chung Ai advanced noiselessly into the room. He bowed low before Kung Lee, who offered him a chair, which he sank into gracefully, ignoring the presence of Ho Tai. Chung Ai was dressed like a ranch hand in an open-throated flannel shirt and worn work pants stuffed into calf-high boots. He wore a brace of pistols in his belt, and in one hand he carried a broad-brimmed hat.

Chung Ai reported diligently and at length on his most recent activities. He related how he had shot the horse of the official U.S. courier and, after bringing down the animal, had proceeded to put another bullet into the man. Before the courier had

died, Chung Ai had searched him in vain for the precious documents that he was taking to General Blake at U.S. Army headquarters. He had been diverted from his task by the arrival of Cindy Holt on the scene and had seen the dying man take the papers from a secret compartment in his belt and give them to her.

Carrying the telltale documents, the girl had escaped and gone to the house of her brother, the famous Toby Holt. The following morning, Holt had started in the direction of Portland when Chung Ai had intercepted him in the forest and had fired at him.

"Ah." Kung Lee pressed his fingertips together and sighed gently.

"With deep regret," Chung Ai said, "I must inform Your Excellency that my attempt to kill Toby Holt failed, and I only just got away with my life. I did not dare to linger and exchange gunfire with Toby Holt. All who have attempted to exchange fire with him in this way have paid for their foolishness with their lives. I would have gained nothing had I engaged in such an exercise."

The older man pursed his lips. "What became of Holt after you shot at him and missed?" he asked.

"He went into Portland, where he met with the authorities. This article appeared in the Portland newspaper." He took a frayed clipping from his shirt pocket and passed it across the desk.

Kung Lees face remained expressionless as he

read that Toby Holt had been sworn in as a United States deputy marshal.

"I am sure that—at the very least—we can expect interference at some future date from Mr. Holt," Kung Lee said with regret. "I do not look forward to the prospect of such a man as that one meddling in my affairs."

"I offer you a thousand apologies," Chung Ai said. "I did the best I could."

Kung Lee pressed his fingertips together and pronounced sentence. "Failure," he said, "is intolerable to me. I recognize only success. And there has been none. First, you failed to do away with the meddler Wong Ke. Then you failed to stop the courier with the telltale documents. Last, and most grievous, you failed to do away with Toby Holt, who now will become our greatest enemy."

Chung Ai began to explain his position further, but he was so terrified he could only babble.

Kung Lee glanced at Ho Tai, who had remained immobile throughout the conversation. The tong leader inclined his head almost imperceptibly.

Ho Tai moved forward swiftly, his wicked knife glistening in his hand. He struck with lightning speed and cut Chung Afs throat from ear to ear. Then, just as swiftly, he lifted the dead man's body into his arms before too much blood spilled onto the fine Persian carpet, and took the body out the back door and down the outside stairway. There, in the concealed backyard of the little building, Ho Tai placed

the body in a crate labeled Imported Porcelain and covered the remains with sawdust. The crate would be sent to a curio shop owned by a rival tong, and the surprised owners would see how Kung Lee dealt with people who failed him.

Meanwhile, Kung Lee sat behind his desk, his eyes rooted to the spot where blood had stained his priceless antique rug. At last he pressed the bell to summon his manservant, and when the man entered and bowed, the tong leader instructed him, "Remove the carpet at once. I'm afraid it has suffered irreparable harm. Fortunately, I have several others that I like equally as well. Put a new carpet in its place, and be sure your hands are clean so you do not soil it!"

The police commissioner of Memphis, Charles O'Shea, leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at each of his guests in turn. Edward Blackstone, his handsome face reflecting the seriousness of his intent, anxiously regarded the commissioner, awaiting his statement. Pretty and vivacious Tommie Harding regarded her fianc^—she was far more concerned about his reaction than anything that the head of the Memphis police force might have to say.

"I'm glad," O'Shea said, "that my department isn't alone in showing an interest in the activities of Karl Kellerman. He was a good enough detective during the years that he was on the St. Louis force, but in all my dealings with him, I never trusted him completely. Although I can't put my finger on what was wrong with him, I'm willing to swear that he was less than honest."

"You have no hard evidence, then, that proves

61

his connection with the criminal world?" Edward asked.

The commissioner shook his head. "We don't have a shred of it," he replied. "Some of my men go along with what you think and are prepared to swear that Kellerman had a hand—quite possibly the major hand—in the death of the Memphis gang leader and one of his bodyguards recently. But they can't prove it, and neither can you. I'd love to get. my hands on him and have a little heart-to-heart chat with him, but he's too clever, and I'm sure he has his alibis already worked out."

"Nevertheless, you have no objection if I attempt to speak with him about a certain lady who was last seen in his company and who happens to be my cousin?" Edward persisted.

"Not at all," Commissioner O'Shea replied, "and I have a little information that will be of help to you." He opened a desk drawer and took out a file. "I heard from New Orleans just the day before yesterday. According to the New Orleans police, Kellerman has indeed turned up there, as you and Commissioner Bowen in St. Louis surmised. Kellerman is a part owner of a saloon known as Dugald's Bar in a working-class district, and he's been spending a great deal of time there ever since he got into town."

"Did the report confirm," Edward asked anxiously, "whether he was traveling with a lady?"

The commissioner studied the report for a few seconds more and then closed it decisively. "Keller-

man's weakness," he said, "has always been women. He appears to be incapable of leaving them alone. To answer your question more directly, several members of my department saw him when he stayed overnight here, and they said he was traveling with a brown-haired strumpet, if you'll pardon my language, ma'am,'' he added to Tommie. "Apparently she had the manners of a lady, more so than most of the other women who've associated with him, but in her dress and in the way she made up, she was nothing but a strumpet, plain and simple.''

"Unfortunately, Edward,'' Tommie said softly, "that sounds like an accurate description of Millicent."

"However," the Memphis police commissioner went on, "the report from the New Orleans police doesn't indicate whether this same brunette is still with Kellerman."

Edward did his best to conceal his disappointment. "At the very least," he said, "once we catch up with Kellerman, he'll have to tell us what's become of Millicent. If she isn't with him, at least he should know where she's gone."

"I wish you good luck in tracking down Kellerman," the commissioner said, "and if you don't mind, I'll give you a word of advice: When he wants, Kellerman literally breathes charm, but in his natural state, he's inclined to be ruthless, rough, and very tough."

"We're prepared for all contingencies," Edward said. "I have two strong men in my party who will come to my assistance if there is any trouble. But I

also believe that the more informal our get-together, the better it will be, and so I intend first to visit him alone. In the event that Millicent isn't with him, he'll be far more inclined to talk and reveal her whereabouts if he feels that I'm just paying him a quiet, friendly visit."

He and Tommie took their leave of the commissioner soon thereafter, and when they returned to their hotel, they reported on their meeting to Jim Randall and Randy Savage.

"Obviously," Jim said, "we have no real choice in the matter. We'll have to go on to New Orleans, find Kellerman, and ask him for Millicent's whereabouts. At least the end appears to be in sight."

Edward was less certain, after suffering many disappointments, that they would find Millicent soon, but he said nothing about it to the others.

A howling gale blew in from the Gulf of Mexico, and New Orleans was inundated with heavy, steady rains. The weather was perfect for Karl Kellerman's purposes. At his own suggestion, he relieved Wallace Dugald behind the bar of their establishment so that the Scotsman could take a nap. During the next two hours, three solitary drinkers managed to brave the elements and to patronize the bar. Karl accorded each of them the same treatment, putting a drug into their drinks that rendered them unconscious. Then he carried them, one by one, down to the cellar, where he bound them hand and foot and gagged

them. He told himself that in return for this minor effort, he had earned twenty-four hundred dollars.

He congratulated himself, reflecting that his timing was perfect. Captain Robin Kayross had promised to come by later that night with several members of his loyal cadre. Karl would be awaiting them, as arranged, with the first of his shanghaied seamen.

Wallace returned from his house after an absence of a little more than two hours, and now Karl intended to put into effect the second part of his plan.

By including Dugald in the ranks of the unfortunates who would be compelled to work their way across the Pacific and back on board the Diana, Karl would be able to take complete possession of both bags of gold that reposed in the cellar safe, and any future profits that the bar earned would be exclusively his. In addition, before this night ended, he would perform the gaming house robbery that Domino had set up for him. He would earn large sums before dawn.

As Wallace stood in the entrance, removing his outer clothing, rainwater dripped from him and formed a puddle on the floor of the saloon. "It's pretty fierce out there tonight," he said. "This is the worst weather I've seen in a long time.''

"It strikes me this is a good night for us to celebrate," Karl told him.

The very idea struck Wallace as absurd. "What is there to celebrate?"

"We're celebrating the fact that I've joined you here and intend to take an active part in the business."

Wallace became more enthusiastic. "That's great, if you mean it, Karl," he said. "I've been working seven days and seven nights a week, and I can stand some relief now and again.'

Karl nodded. "You've been spending far too much time at the bar. It's only common sense that you take it easy, maybe even go on a little trip." His smile broadened as he thought that Wallace would indeed go on a trip very soon.

Sending Wallace to sea as a shanghai victim was by far the best solution to the problem of what to do with him. As a matter of principle, Karl disliked the idea of killing the man responsible for his acquisition of two bags of gold; in addition, if he murdered Wallace, he would have the problem of disposing of his body. Shanghaiing him and sending him to work on board the Diana would get rid of him without a trace, and yet Karl's own hands would be clean.

Walking behind the bar he asked, "What will you have?"

Wallace hesitated. "I've always made it a rule never to drink on a night when I'm going to be serving customers."

Karl laughed jovially. "As you can see, there isn't a customer in sight, and judging from the downpour out there, we're going to have the whole evening to ourselves. If I remember correctly, you like rye whiskey and water."

"Right," Wallace replied, beginning to relax. "Make it a mild drink, if you will."

"You bet," Karl told him, busying himself behind the bar. Turning his back to his partner for a few moments in order to conceal what he was doing, he poured into Dugalds drink several drops of the powerful drug that he had purchased at an apothecary shop earlier in the day, the same medicine that had already proved itself with the men who were sleeping in the cellar, bound hand and foot. Satisfied that the medication had no taste and no smell, he handed Wallace the glass, then poured himself a somewhat stronger drink.

"Here's to our partnership," he said. "Long may it continue to flourish." He raised his glass to his lips.

Dugald also drank. "Amen to that," he said, then sipped again. "This tastes pretty good," he went on. "I was colder than I realized. This is really one hell of a rotten night."

For the next quarter of an hour, Karl kept up a light stream of conversation. Afraid that the drug was having no effect, he considered feeding Wallace another dose, but at last his patience was rewarded, and he saw Dugald's eyelids beginning to droop.

"This is very strange," Wallace said thickly. "My drink must be more potent than I realize. I can hardly hold up my head."

Karl thought it best not to reply and waited for the Scotsman to lose consciousness.

Wallace peered at him, eyelids drooping. "This

is strange," he muttered. "You look like you're gloating, Karl. Why are you gloating?"

Karl still thought it best to make no reply.

"You're up to something!" Wallace cried, his voice thickening as the drug continued to take effect. "One mild rye and water wouldn't make me feel like this. You doped me. You put something in my drink!"

Karl continued to say nothing.

With a last burst of energy, Wallace shook a fist under the younger man's nose. "I don't know why you did it, but you've tricked me, Kellerman!" he cried. "Why have you done this to me? Damn your soul to hell!"

All at once, he lost consciousness and sagged to the floor.

Karl's leering grin broadened. He opened the trapdoor, and throwing his partner over one shoulder, he descended to the cellar. There he made Dugald's wrists and ankles secure with lengths of rope, and as he had done with the other victims, he tied a gag around his partner's mouth. If he awakened prematurely, he would be unable to make a fuss or call for help.

Placing the unconscious body next to that of his other victims, Karl allowed himself a sigh of relief. For all practical purposes, Wallace Dugald was already confined to the hold of the merchant ship. Now glancing at his pocket watch, Karl noted that it was time to leave for the gaming establishment. If he could keep to his schedule, he would return to the

bar in time to turn over the unconscious men to Captain Kayross.

He left the cellar and felt supremely confident as he slipped a six-shooter into one pocket and a blackjack, a length of lead pipe covered with leather, into another. Donning his hat and coat, he locked up the bar and ignored the elements as he walked briskly to 321 Jefferson.

"I'm here for some action!" he told the guard on duty at the entrance, and pushed his way into the old mansion.

Pausing at a landing on the way to the second floor, Karl tied a bandanna around his face, knotting it at the back of his neck. Then, one hand on the butt of his pistol, he entered the principal game room, shutting the door behind him. There were two card games in progress, and several people were sitting at a bar over which a bartender presided. There were twenty-five to thirty well-dressed patrons in the room, including one man in plain civilian clothes sitting at the bar, whom Karl recognized from meetings he had attended as a lieutenant of New Orleans police. It was obvious that the official was working as a security officer in the place, probably earning a large sum for his after-hours work. But having spotted him in advance, Karl was way ahead of the game; he knew the man could be disarmed before he posed any threat.

Scanning the patrons quickly, Karl was relieved when he saw that Domino was very much engrossed in a game with one of the card dealers. So far, the

former detective-sergeant from St. Louis thought, everything was going his way.

"Ladies and gentlemen, give me your attention," Karl called as he took his pistol from his pocket. "First off, I'll ask those of you who are armed to surrender your weapons at once. We'll start with you, lieutenant."

The police officer, embarrassed by the public recognition, took a pistol from an inner coat pocket and slid it across the floor to a place at Karl's feet.

"Thank you, sir," Karl said crisply. "Your turn, Domino."

The middle-aged gang leader feigned indignation, his eyes boring into his hireling as if to say, "No nonsense from you. Do your job the way I told you." But he at last produced his pistol and got rid of it in the same way as the police lieutenant.

"I'll appreciate the contributions of any other firearms or knives that any of you may be carrying," Karl went on jovially. "Believe me, my friends, it will be to your advantage to get rid of your weapons now. I'm inclined to become nasty—in fact, I develop a terrible itch in my trigger finger—when I discover that someone is still armed. So no funny business. I've got my eye on everyone in the room. One false move and I shoot the first person who doesn't do as I say."

The two card dealers relieved themselves of knives, and several of the other patrons got rid of pistols.

Karl circled the chamber slowly, relieving each

individual of cash. He refused to take any jewelry from either the ladies or the men, reasoning that he would need to call on an accomplice in order to rid himself of the gems. He well could be identified and brought to justice if he began to deal in stolen jewels.

Karl deliberately waited until he had robbed all of the other patrons before he approached Domino again. It had galled him to think that he had been asked to surrender the better part of his booty to the gang leader. His plan, however, would ensure that he was beholden to no one, and he was so confident of his luck and his ability that he had no fear of reprisals from any of Domino's men. Indeed, Keller-man even believed it was also" possible that he might be able to take over many of the lucrative functions of the gang leader's organization.

For a few seconds his resolve faltered as Domino's steely eyes bored into him. But at last he said, "All right, it's your turn now."

The gang leader dug into his trousers pocket and dug out a thick roll of money. "Here," he said gruffly, dropping the money into Karl's hand.

As Karl stashed the money away in his own pocket, Domino began to search elsewhere. "I've got some more that I can give you," he said.

This was just the opportunity Karl needed. "I warned you what would happen if anybody tried to reach for a hidden gun," he said stridently, and was about to shoot when a woman standing nearby screamed. Karl was momentarily unnerved, but he still squeezed the trigger.

Domino staggered and crumpled to the floor, then lay still in a pool of blood.

His mission brilliantly accomplished, Karl lost no time in taking himself elsewhere. Flinging open the door, he raced down the steps two and three at a time, knocking the guard at the entrance to one side and tearing the bandanna from his face as he dashed out into the street. He ran to the curb, where several carriage drivers awaited possible fares. Leaping into the carriage at the head of the line, he promised the driver a double fee if the man would shake all pursuers.

They started at once for the center of town, and the driver was so adept that no one succeeded in following him. Karl kept his word and paid the man a double fare, then darted around the corner and caught another carriage for hire, which took him close to the waterfront. Discharging his second driver, he walked rapidly by a circuitous route to Dugald's Bar, where he unlocked the door and let himself in. He was much relieved when a quick glance in the cellar revealed that Wallace and the other victims were precisely where he had left them, still unconscious.

He had barely reemerged on the main floor when Robin Kayross arrived, accompanied by several of his loyal crew members, one of whom was driving a cart. The four unconscious men, Wallace Dugald among them, were taken from the cellar and piled into the cart, and an oilcloth cover was used to conceal them.

This was no time for conversation. Kayross handed

the former sergeant thirty-two hundred dollars in cash, then disappeared with his shanghaied cargo. Now at last Karl had the time to count his gains from the night's spoils. He was astonished to discover that his haul from the gaming establishment was far larger than he had anticipated: He had taken in thousands of dollars in return for one night's efforts. Now he could start living the life he craved, buying expensive clothes, eating only in the town's finest restaurants, and continuing to lead Millicent Randall on while making a play for both the luscious blonde and the expensive redhead who had interested him. By displaying courage and presence of mind, in one night he had assured his future.

Wallace Dugald's head ached, and he felt a tremendous thirst as he awakened. Little by little he became aware of his surroundings. He was lying on a filthy, foul-smelling mattress, and near the upper end was a container. The odor told him it was a chamber pot. The floor was made of metal and was filthy with a thick coating of coal dust. Nearby, something glowed inside an open door, and he finally realized it was a huge boiler of some kind. The heat was almost unbearable, and there was no daylight, no fresh air.

More to the point, he became conscious of his own predicament. A thick iron band encircled his right ankle, and he was chained to a stanchion from which he could move only a few feet in any direction.

As he watched, a small group of short, brown-

skinned men appeared and began to shovel coal into the furnace. As the proprietor of a bar frequented by seamen, Wallace had become accustomed to judging men from all over the world, and he took it from their coloration and facial features that these men were Malays and Lascars.

The men—who were wearing loose-fitting, Western-style trousers but no shirts because of the heat—were not chained, and he called out to them eagerly, "You there! Where am I, and what's the meaning of these chains?"

There was no reply as the brown-skinned men went about their work.

Captain Robin Kayross approached, wearing the cap and jacket whose faded, tarnished gold braid symbolized his authority. In one hand he carried a short, ugly cat-o'-nine-tails. "You're awake, I see," he said.

"That I am," Wallace replied, "and I demand to know the meaning of this outrage. Why am I chained in this awful place?"

Kayross lashed out and struck him full across the face with the whip. "You'll address me as 'sir,' ' he said, "and you'll speak to me respectfully because that's due my rank. Do I make myself clear?"

Wallace was infuriated, but the blood oozing from a cut the whip had inflicted on his upper lip served as a reminder that he had no choice. "Yes, sir," he said.

"That's more like it," Kayross said. "Just keep in mind that you'll be whipped into obedience any time

you start acting up. You're lucky you weren't killed, you know. But you look smart enough to do what you're told to stay alive."

The man looked familiar, and all at once, Wallace placed him. He was a sea captain who had spent long hours in the Dugald Bar drinking and talking in low tones with Karl Kellerman. Suddenly he remembered that Karl had drugged him, and he put the whole picture together. Karl had rendered him helpless and then delivered him into the hands of this equally unscrupulous fellow.

"I intend taking no chances and being forced to shoot you because you were trying to escape. You're staying right where you are until we put out to sea, and if you behave yourself, your chains will then be removed, and you can move to the fo'c'sle with the rest of the crew. In the meantime, you'll keep the engine stoked like it is now; that way, we're ready to take off and put out to sea any time we want. You'll obey my officers, or you'll get the hide ripped off you. I find that when common sense fails, one language my indentured seamen always understand is the langugae of the whip." He swished the cat-o'-nine-tails back and forth. "Do what you're told when you're told to do it, and you'll be fed two meals a day," Kayross said. "I hope I make myself clear."

"Very clear, sir," Wallace replied, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands. No one would ever know the great effort that his docility cost him.

Kayross grunted and then called out to the Lascars and Malays who were lurking in the shadows.

"Let the fate of this miserable one be a lesson to you," he said to them. "Do that which is expected of you, and you will be well treated. Disobey me and my officers, and you will be reduced to the level of this poor slave. For your own good, remember my words!" Not bothering to glance again in the direction of Wallace, he stamped off and left the furnace room.

For a long moment, no one stirred or spoke. Then one of the Malays obtained a cup of cool water from somewhere and handed it to Wallace. The gesture was so unexpected that Wallaces voice was husky as he thanked the man. Taking the cup, he drained it in order to relieve his burning thirst. Turning away, he picked up a shovel lying on the floor next to his dirty pallet, and thrusting it into the nearest pile of coal, he began to feed the furnace.

His mind racing as he thought about the dilemma in which he found himself, he worked until his torn shirt was wet with sweat and clung to his body. Rivulets of perspiration descended from his forehead and burned his eyes, but he merely blinked them away. He was lost in thought, and as he and the brown-skinned men kept the furnace burning up to the point that Captain Kayross had specified, he was seething with anger at his partner, who had no doubt sold him for a handsome sum. Now he faced a miserable existence as a common seaman, and unless he behaved in an exemplary manner, he would be severely punished.

Gazing into the fire with eyes that blazed like

the coal flames burning there, he spoke in a voice that throbbed with emotion. "If I could," he said aloud, "I'd break these chains and smash them over the head of my double-crossing partner. I've lost the gold that I accumulated through long hours of work, and with it, my half-interest in the saloon that was my whole life. I'm condemned to an existence that will be the death of me if I don't watch my step.

"But I intend to live! No matter what may happen, I'll stay alive and protect myself. Above all else on earth, I crave revenge against Karl Kellerman." Ordinarily shy and mild-mannered, he spoke now with a soul-shattering intensity that seemed to shake the mefal floor of the furnace room.

"So help me God," he declared, "I will obtain vengeance against Karl Kellerman if it's the last thing on earth that I ever do!" He shook his fist in the light of the furnace, and his shadow leaped high against the bulkhead. "I'll do anything that's needed," he swore. "If I must, I'll even sell my soul to the devil, but I will obtain vengeance!"

The changes in Karl Kellerman were so pronounced that Millicent Randall was deeply concerned. He was no longer the devoted suitor, the loving companion with whom she had left St. Louis and, compromising her whole future, had accompanied to New Orleans. More often than not, he behaved like a total stranger. He had been transformed into a man who spent increasingly vast sums of money on a stunning wardrobe with which no other man in New

Orleans could compete. Instead of accompanying her on her shopping expeditions and escorting her to dinner and supper at the finer restaurants of the town, he now left her to her own devices. He seemed to think that as long as he provided her with money for her shopping excursions and meals, nothing further was required of him.

On several occasions, her confusion and loneliness had impelled her to accept dinner invitations from Jean-Pierre, but she preferred to avoid the young French heir.lt was plain that Jean-Pierre was infatuated with her, but she didn't feel free to accept his attentions. True, Karl was indifferent to her, but she still loved him and even still hoped that someday they might marry. What was more, she was afraid Karl would take it quite amiss if she were to spend her time with another man, let alone one as handsome and gallant as Jean-Pierre.

Karl, however, felt no similar inhibitions, telling Millicent daily that his work was responsible for his absences. Several evenings each week his work kept him busy all night, and he did not return to the hotel suite until midmorning the following day. Then he only appeared long enough to bathe and change his clothes, have breakfast with Millicent, then leave again. Meanwhile, he paid court to the lovely blonde with whom he had become acquainted at the restaurant. When she resisted his advances, however, he began to lay siege to the red-haired beauty he had also seen, and here he was far more successful. Within a short period of time, thanks to the many gifts that

he lavished upon her, he was engaged in a violent affair with her.

Millicent had no way of knowing where he went or who accompanied him, but she began to grow suspicious. On several occasions she thought she smelled perfume on the clothes he left for the laundress.

This particular morning began like so many others that had preceded it. After having eaten breakfast in the dining room of the Louisiana House, Millicent and Karl returned to their suite, where he meticulously adjusted his expensive new cravat in the mirror and took a flower from a fresh bunch in a vase to put in his lapel buttonhole.

"You'll have to keep yourself occupied today," he said. "I'm afraid I'm going to be tied up at work."

Something within Millicent rebelled, but she made no reply.

He reached into a pocket and peeled off a one-hundred-dollar bill from a wad of notes. "This is in case you find something that strikes your fancy while you're shopping. I suggest you eat your noon dinner here and charge the meal to the suite."

"What will you be doing?" she demanded, unable to control her fury. "Eating dinner in a private room somewhere with your romance of the moment?"

Karl retreated at once into a hard shell. "I beg your pardon," he said distinctly. "I prefer to ignore that comment, and I would rather pretend that you never said it."

She had gone too far to stop now; her suspicions

were getting the better of her. "You aren't nearly as clever as you like to believe," she said hotly. "You've succeeded in convincing yourself that you've had me badly fooled, but you haven't. I think I could name the exact date that you started cheating on me."

Karl feigned great indignation. "I've told you many times that I have business to conduct," he shouted angrily. "If you don't want to believe me, that's your prerogative, and you're free to walk out on me whenever you wish. But what will you do then? You'll have no money and nowhere to go. That means you'll wind up in the only place that's open to you—one of the many brothels for which New Orleans is noted."

Millicent, suddenly frightened at the picture he painted, began to weep.

Karl reached out and slapped her hard across the face. "Your tears won't win you any sympathy from me," he said harshly. "Stop that crying!"

Not knowing that the sight of feminine tears drove him into a frenzy, she wept still harder. Suddenly he reached out, caught hold of one of her wrists, and twisted her arm behind her back. "Damn you!" he shouted. "I told you to stop crying!"

She thought he intended to wrench her arm from its socket. The pain was excruciating, but she managed, somehow, to stem the flow of tears.

Having resorted to physical abuse, Karl was incapable of stopping. He twisted her arm still harder, and moaning because of the intense pain, she collapsed onto the bed.

"I go when and where I please," he told her roughly. "Hereafter, you'll keep your thoughts on the subject to yourself, and if you don't like what I'm doing, you'll still smile and keep up a front as though you're enjoying life with me. I have no intention of supporting you. if you're going to complain all the time, make life miserable for me, and get yourself all red-eyed in the process."

Grinding her teeth together until her jaw ached, Millicent continued to stifle her sobs.

"Be glad I don't throw you out into the street," he said. "From now on, be grateful for any attention that I may pay you, and act accordingly. I expect you to be ingenious in the ways that you display your gratitude to me." He gave her arm a final, excruciating wrench. Then, after examining himself in the mirror, he left the suite, slamming the door behind him.

Burying her face in her pillow, Millicent gave in to her feelings and wept at length, sobbing hard. Ultimately, she cried herself out, then, rising dully, went to her dressing table, where she removed all her cosmetics. In her misery, she had forgotten all about Jean-Pierre's offers of kindness, and she believed she had no one to advise her, nowhere to go for help. She felt totally trapped. She would be forced to do as Karl had demanded and go along with whatever he did, pretending that she liked it. Never had her future seemed so bleak.

The house was located in an old, middle-class, Creole section of New Orleans and had a wrought-iron balcony on the second floor overlooking a small, informal garden. The balcony opened onto a large, simply furnished chamber, and into it, carrying a tray of food, came a hard-faced young man who was unaccustomed to the role of nurse that he was being obliged to play.

"Here's your noon dinner, Domino," he said. "It ain't much with all that mush in it, but we're fixing exactly what the doctor said you could have."

Domino, his face pale, his head swathed in bandages, struggled to a sitting position in the four-poster bed. "I'm grateful for every bite of food the doctors allow me to eat," he said. "I'm gathering strength day by day, and that's all that matters."

"I'm sure you're right, boss," the young man replied, placing the tray in his superior's lap.

"I get chills," Domino said as he began to eat, "every time I think of that woman's scream deflecting Kellerman's aim. Another quarter of an inch and the bullet would have gone into my brain and finished me. That was as close a call as I'll ever have." He shuddered and ate more rapidly.

The younger man shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. He was under instructions to discuss whatever Domino wished to talk about, with one exception. Under no circumstances was he to refer to the incident in which the gang leader had almost lost his life. He had no idea what he was to do when Domino insisted on raising the subject himself.

The older man grimaced as he downed a glass of fruit juice. "I wonder how soon the doctors will let me have some whiskey to drink again," he said, and his sigh hung in the air.

His young associate knew the question required no answer and was relieved.

The gang leader quickly finished his meal, devouring every bite of the food. He was behaving like a model patient because he knew that the more closely he followed the orders of his physician, the sooner he would enjoy a complete recovery.

As the young man took the lunch tray and left the room, Domino sat back and reflected how he would repay Karl Kellerman for his treachery. The gang leader had begun by instructing his associates to keep completely mum in regard to the state of their employer's health following the shocking incident in the gambling hall; that way no one would know if Domino was alive or dead. He wanted Karl Kellerman to spend his days in a fools paradise, thinking he had disposed of the crime leader, when in the meantime Domino would be planning ways to dispose of Kellerman that would cause him the most prolonged agony possible. Domino didn't yet know exactly what he would do to the man, but when the time was right, Karl Kellerman would suffer the tortures of the damned.

Edward Blackstone had booked passage for his party on board the Mississippi Lady, an elegant paddle-wheeler that was a combined passenger and cargo ship. Ordinarily the voyage from Memphis to New Orleans on such a vessel would have been a delight from beginning to end, but Edward was too preoccupied and too anxious to find Karl Kellerman. Consequently, he was in no mood to enjoy the serene beauty of the journey down the Mississippi, nor could he appreciate the delights of such river towns as Natchez and Baton Rouge.

Tommie made no attempts to persuade Edward to relax. She was aware of his single-minded devotion to duty, and she recognized his need to find Millicent and to persuade her to give up the abandoned life that she was leading. Until he achieved that goal, everything else was secondary to him.

Even Edward's constant companion, Robin Hood, the little monkey dressed to resemble the hero of the

85

British legend of the Middle Ages, failed to amuse Edward these days. So Tommie paid more attention to the animal than she usually did, took care of his feeding, and kept him with her for long periods.

At last, the party arrived in New Orleans and went straight to their hotel. While they were settling into their rooms, Edward went down to the lobby and consulted with a hotel employee as to the whereabouts of Dugald's Bar, which he proposed to visit that same night. He got directions on how to get to the place, and then he returned to the suite that he and his companions occupied. Jim and Randy awaited him in the parlor.

"I think," Edward said to them, "that we should eat an early supper tonight."

"Good," Jim replied.

"Then we can set out immediately for the saloon that Karl Kellerman owns," Randy proposed.

Edward shook his head. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, especially after you've traveled such a great distance in order to help recover Millicent, but as I mentioned, I believe I should face Kellerman alone at this first meeting. Since I've met him previously, I think I know a little something about him. I don't want this initial meeting to get his back up. I'm sure I'll accomplish a great deal more if I go to him calmly, and quietly inquire about Millicent's whereabouts. If it should prove necessary, then you shall certainly come with me to a second meeting, but I hope that it won't be necessary."

Jim Randall smiled ruefully and fingered the

butt of the Colt repeating pistol that he carried in a holster on his belt. "I've got to admit that I'm disappointed, Edward, and that I've been spoiling for a fight with the no-good rotter who ran off with Millicent without marrying her. But I agree that it's better if he cooperates with us voluntarily rather than by our using fists and firearms, so I suppose that means that I've got to back off and give you the benefit of a first meeting with the devil alone."

"I'll be on my guard, never fear," Edward told them, "and thank you for your confidence, gentlemen. I can assure you that I won't let you down."

The door that led to Tommie Harding's bedchamber opened, and the young woman, who had already changed into a simple but attractive black dress for supper, came into the parlor. Jim and Randy, reasoning that she and Edward might want to spend some time alone, discreetlv retired to the room that they shared.

"You look lovely this evening," Edward told her when they were by themselves.

She inclined her head demurely. "Thank you, sir." Then she hastened to add, "I think this dress will be quite appropriate for our meeting tonight with Kellerman."

"Whether or not the dress is appropriate is a moot point," he said. "As I mentioned earlier, I don't want anyone coming with me."

Tommie looked as though he had slapped her across the face. "I don't understand," she said. "I know Kellerman every bit as well as you do. After

the death of de Cordova, when he was still a police officer, Kellerman spent a long time interrogating me on my father's boat. I also spoke to him at length at supper that same night."

"I can't deny anything you've said," Edward told her, "but all the same, this isn't a social occasion. I'm calling on Kellerman to settle a serious matter, and he's got to be made to recognize the validity of my demand. If you come with me, the whole tenor of the meeting will be different. I want you to stay right here in the hotel and not budge from this suite until I get back. From all I've heard, New Orleans can be a very tough town for a woman alone, and if I'm forced to leave your side tonight for any reason, you'd be totally unprotected."

"You sound," she said indignantly, "as though I've spent my whole life in cotton batting. I'll have you know that I've traveled up and down the Missouri River with my father, visiting every town on the water, and by that I mean every rough frontier community. I can assure you they're all a darn sight tougher and nastier than New Orleans. Relatively speaking, this is a community for ladies and gentlemen, and I can promise you, I get along here just fine!"

Edward had enough problems on his mind without being forced to worry about Tommies welfare, too. "You may be perfectly right," he said. "The streets of New Orleans may be as safe as those in London, but all the same, I want you to stay indoors tonight and not to leave the hotel, and I expect you to abide by my word."

Tommie became infuriated. "What gives you the right to give me orders?" she demanded.

Edward controlled his own temper with a great effort. "My concern for your safety and well-being gives me every right to look after you," he said, "and to ask you in the name of common sense to behave yourself. It was only with the gravest reservations that I allowed you to accompany me even this far in the first place." His tone softened, and he took her hands in his. "I'm not regretting for a moment that you're here; I love you, and I want you with me all the time. If I thought it was to our advantage to take you with me, I'd certainly take you with me tonight. Under the circumstances, however, I find nothing to be gained. Be good enough to reconcile yourself to the need to stay here in the hotel, safe and sound, and to keep Robin Hood company during the few hours that 111 be gone!"

Tommie said nothing, but inside she was still seething about Edward's command to remain in the hotel suite all evening. Having acted as chief of her father's crew on countless Missouri River voyages, she had enjoyed a measure of independence rare to most women in the age in which she lived. She had learned to take care of herself when danger threatened, and consequently, she vowed that nothing would stop her from following Edward when he went out to see Karl Kellerman.

They ate their dinner in the hotel dining room, and as soon as Edward left them—with Jim and Randy heading for the card room to enjoy a game of

poker while they waited for Edwards return—Tommie went up to their suite and quickly threw a long, dark gray cape over her shoulders. Before she could get out the door, however, Robin Hood leaped onto one shoulder and clung to her. It was impossible for her to disengage the animal quickly, so she had to make the best of things by allowing the monkey to accompany her. If she took time to pry him loose and leave him in the suite, Edward would be out of sight by the time she reached the street.

So with the little monkey—clad in a green doublet and a matching hat with a jaunty feather in it—clinging to her shoulder, Tommie followed Edward and, staying in the shadows, made her way behind him toward the waterfront district. Neither Tommie nor Edward knew it, of course, but Milli-cent Randall had every intention of following Karl Kellerman that same night and determining to her own satisfaction whether he was being unfaithful to her or whether he was really engaging in business. After his abusive treatment of her that morning, she had spent a long, introspective day and had ultimately concluded that she needed specific information if she was to take action of any kind. She had to admit that most of the evidence she had accumulated to prove Karl's infidelity was circumstantial. She merely assumed—but did not know for certain—that he was seeing another woman.

In the back of Millicent's mind, a loose plan was taking shape. If Karl indeed proved unfaithful to her, she would slip away and would join Jean-Pierre

Gautier, who, she now saw clearly, would be delighted to help her in every possible way. Jean-Pierre had indicated that he believed Karl was unworthy of her, although he had never said anything specific against him, but his own interest in her was sufficiently great that she knew he would take her in, give her shelter, and provide her with whatever funds she needed. At the very least, she reflected, she had an alternative and was not reduced to sitting in her bedchamber at the Louisiana House wringing her hands helplessly while Karl cavorted with some other woman.

Early that evening, Karl had returned briefly to their hotel suite to wash up and put on some expensive cologne. Millicent was not surprised when he said he was required to go elsewhere on business and that she was to eat supper alone in the hotel dining room. She agreed so quickly and meekly that he was convinced he had taught her a lesson that morning when he had abused her.

Instead of doing as he had bidden, however, she gave him a head start of only a few seconds and then silently followed him into the corridor and down the stairs. She had dressed with special care in a dark, unadorned dress, which she wore with black shoes and stockings. Over her gown she threw a short, dark cloak.

Fortunately Karl was in no hurry and took his time as he sauntered down the street and headed toward the wharves. Millicent followed him at a safe distance and had no difficulty in keeping pace with

him. She raised an eyebrow when she saw the neighborhood becoming shabbier, for she had assumed that he was so fastidious that any woman with whom he chose to associate would have a background of wealth, breeding, and culture.

Various male passersby who saw Millicent heading down the street immediately assumed that she was a prostitute and made verbal advances to her. Terrified, she ignored them.

At last Karl came to Dugald's Bar, which he had been keeping closed during the day, ever since Wallace had been shanghaied. He unlocked the door, entered, and lighted the gas lamps. Taking off his expensive suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves, he went behind the bar and began wiping down the counter with a rag.

Two men now entered the bar and greeted Karl boisterously. Millicent, surreptitiously watching the exchange through the window, had no way of knowing that the pair were Karl's henchmen, both of whom were addicted to opium and depended on him for the money to buy the drug. As a result, they did whatever he wished.

Millicent caught her breath as two other patrons who had been awaiting the opening of the establishment for the night made their appearance and Karl served them. Watching him as he prepared their drinks, the woman felt faint. Karl's regular, frequent absences from her company were not caused by his attentions to another woman. They were due exclu-

sively to the fact that he was working in a saloon called Dugald's Bar.

Now Millicent was convinced she knew why he had become so angry when she had accused him of being unfaithful to her. He had been badly hurt, and she could not blame him for feeling as he had. She felt certain she had accused him falsely.

Karl had concealed his vocation from her because he had not wanted her to know that he was earning a living doing menial work. Obviously he wanted her to believe that he was plentifully supplied with funds through his various business connections and had no need to do a common laborer's work in order to support them in style. Her heart overflowed with gratitude to him, and at that moment, she loved him more than ever before. Closing her eyes and leaning against the building for support, Millicent was almost overcome by feelings of tenderness for Karl. Not only had she misjudged him, she thought, but he had been motivated in all he had done only by his love for her.

The two patrons who had entered earlier left the premises, and a husky, young cargo handler came in, sat down at the bar, and ordered himself an ale. As Karl turned away to fill his glass, he exchanged swift glances with his two henchmen, who were seated nearby. The newcomer was a splendid specimen and would be a perfect recruit for Robin Kayross, who would be paying Dugald's Bar another visit that same evening.

Karl promptly slipped some knockout drops into

the new arrival's mug and then pushed it across the bar to him. The young man took a few swallows and soon became woozy. Immediately thereafter, he lost consciousness.

As he slumped forward on his stool, sprawling across the bar, Karl signaled to his two confederates. Knowing what was to be done, they were on their feet instantly. They opened the trapdoor to the cellar, carried the unconcious cargo handler down the rickety staircase, then bound him securely hand and foot.

At that moment Millicent entered Dugald's Bar, unaware of what had just taken place, thinking only how wonderful Karl was.

Karl caught his breath and gaped at her. Talking rapidly, she apologized to him profusely for her suspicions, which she admitted were groundless, and she thanked him at length for working to support her while concealing his vocation from her. Relieved by her ignorance, Karl eagerly accepted her interpretation of events and played his part to the hilt. "I'm glad you understand at last," he said. "I'm sorry that I had to get rough with you this morning—"

"Oh, I understand!" Millicent cried, "and I don't blame you in the least."

Karl allowed her to hug him briefly before he led her to a table situated in a far corner at the rear of the room. "I'll get you a cup of coffee. Just be sure you stay out of the way while you're drinking it. I don't want any customers who come in here to think that you're available to them for purposes of their

own, so pay no attention to anyone and mind your own business."

"Oh, I will," she said.

"It well may be several hours before I'll have the opportunity to escort you back to the hotel," he said. "As you can imagine, I'm more or less stuck here. Until then, I want you well out of the way."

"Don't worry about me," Millicent told him. "I've already caused you enough troubles, and I'll be very good until you're ready to leave."

He seated her at the corner table, half facing the wall, where she would be unaware if any other customers encountered the same fate as the cargo handler. The thought occurred to Karl that if the need arose, Millicent, in her innocence, could provide him with the perfect alibi for his own evening's activities; he could turn her unexpected appearance to his own advantage.

Millicent sat meekly at the rear corner table, quietly accepting the cup of coffee that Karl brought her and, her eyes downcast, paid no attention to his two henchmen when they returned from the cellar where they had deposited the cargo handler.

Watching Millicent as she sipped her coffee, Karl reflected that his luck was good. He was leading a charmed life; it appeared that he could do no wrong.

Edward Blackstone had no idea that he was being followed, so it didn't occur to him to turn and look back. He was not in a hurry, and as he went out

into the busy streets of New Orleans, Tommie had no difficulty in following a short distance behind.

As the neighborhood changed block by block, she became uneasy and was annoyed with herself because she had failed to take any weapons. She discovered that she was strangely comforted by the presence on her shoulder of Robin Hood. The little monkey could offer her scant protection if some stranger assaulted her, but at least the animal was company of some kind.

Eventually Edward reached his destination. Pausing to peer in through the window, he saw Karl Kellerman very much alive and in command of himself and his surroundings, standing behind the bar. Millicent was nowhere in view because the table at which she sat was just out of sight from the window.

Edward now went into the saloon. Tommie immediately moved forward and replaced him at the window.

When he saw Edward, Kellerman instantly realized that the Englishman was searching for his cousin, and that once he found her, he would try to learn about Kellerman's affairs. His mind racing, Kellerman knew he could not tolerate an investigation, which might unmask him and send him to prison.

Instantly alert, Kellerman called out softly to his two henchmen, who were sitting at the far end of the bar. "See that tall, fancy dude standing in the entrance?" he demanded. "He's dangerous! Knock him out and dispose of him, but be careful. He's

likely to do you some real damage if he suspects you're after him."

Millicent turned and was electrified when she saw Edward standing in the doorway. She heard the instructions that Karl gave the pair at the bar, and though she had no idea what Karl was up to, she now realized that her original instinct had been right: Whatever it was, Karl was up to no good. Clearly Edward had made this surprise appearance at Dugald's Bar in order to find her, and Karl was determined to prevent him from achieving his goal.

Jumping to her feet and moving forward, Millicent began to signal frantically to Edward, warning him to beware of the two men at the bar. Her gestures were plain to Tommie, who was watching the developing scene outside the window. Edward, however, misinterpreted her signals. He was not suffering from any lack of alertness, but he was so delighted to see Millicent that he thought she actually appeared to be welcoming him, and he started to go toward her.

Tommie wanted to cry out as the pair at the bar separated and began to rush Edward from behind.

Millicent's signals became frantic, and she called out, "Edward! Edward, look ..." Ignoring Kellerman at the bar, Edward continued heading toward her.

Tommie was paralyzed by fright, her heart rising to her mouth as she watched one of the pair, armed with a length of leather-covered lead pipe, strike Edward sharply across the back of the head. He became unconscious and sagged to the floor.

The pair caught hold of him, and producing lengths of rope, they expertly began to bind his ankles and wrists. They relieved him of his pistol and found under his coat jacket the little derringer he kept concealed there. As a final touch, they tied a gag around his mouth. Then, still moving swiftly, one of them opened the trapdoor to the cellar. Then rejoining his companion, he and the other man picked up Edward, carried his unconscious body down to the foot of the rickety staircase, then came up again and carefully closed the trapdoor behind them.

Millicent was so stunned that she was incapable of moving. When she looked at Karl, she saw an unfathomable expression in his eyes, and something in his smile made her blood run cold.

"If you'd stayed at the Louisiana Hotel, as I told you to do," he said, "you wouldn't be in any trouble right now. But you were curious, and now you've found out far more than is good for you. You may find it hard to believe this, but I have nothing personal against you. Unfortunately for you, however, you know enough to create one hell of a lot of trouble for me in the wrong places, so I've got to protect myself. I hope you'll understand." He turned to his two henchmen. "Tie her up, gag her, and put her downstairs, boys," he said. "But there's no need for any rough games with her. She won't put up any fight. Treat her gently while I figure out what's to be done with her."

The men turned to her immediately, and she offered them no resistance as they tied her hands

and feet and tied a gag around her mouth. Then they opened the trapdoor again and, between them, carried her down the precariously wobbly staircase to the cellar below. There the horrified Millicent saw Edward and a stranger trussed and gagged, both of them lying unconscious on the floor. The henchmen exchanged a look, and instead of stretching her out on the cement floor beside their other victims, they propped her against the nearest wall and left her in a standing position.

Then the trapdoor above closed again, and Millicent was plunged into darkness.

Tommie Harding, still peering in surreptitiously through the window, faced a terrible dilemma. Seeing Kellerman's hirelings return to the main floor of the bar after depositing Millicent below, she realized that the same fate quite possibly awaited her if she revealed her presence. What could a lone, unarmed woman and a small monkey possibly do against two armed thugs and Kellerman?

Equally to the point, she was in a part of New Orleans that was totally alien to her, and she could wander aimlessly for a long time before she stumbled onto the nearest police headquarters. Common sense told her that neither Edward nor Millicent would be held indefinitely in the cellar of Dugald's Bar; eventually they would be moved elsewhere. Therefore, if she left now and sought help from the police, there well might be no sign of either her fiance or his cousin in the bar by the time she returned. Knowing Kellerman, she realized that he could swear to the

authorities that he had seen neither Edward nor Millicent, and there would be no way on earth that she could prove she was telling the truth.

Consequently, she had to stay and keep watch, no matter what happened. It was the only way that she could try to protect Edward and his cousin. Wherever they were taken, she would follow them there, and perhaps then she would have a better chance to summon the help of the police.

Tommie suddenly realized that a passerby had halted, and she tried to shrink against the wall adjacent to the saloons window. However, the man sauntered closer, studying her carefully. She didn't want to look directly at him but was able to make out that he was wearing seamen's garb.

"How are you tonight?" he asked, his English slightly accented.

Tommie made no reply.

"You look very lonely," he said, coming still closer.

"You've made a mistake, sir," Tommie said, addressing a point in space above and behind him. "I'm not the type of woman you appear to think me."

The sailor laughed easily. "All I'm thinking," he replied, "is that you're very pretty and very lonely." He reached out tentatively for her.

Conquering the feeling of panic that welled up within her, Tommie drew back. "I must beg you to be careful," she said desperately. "My monkey has been trained, and he will scratch your eyes out."

The sailor laughed derisively. Robin Hood heard

the man's derogatory tone, felt the tension in the air, and began to grimace and chatter angrily.

"There, you see?" Tommie demanded. "There's nothing I can do to stop him." The monkey continued to chatter even more rapidly.

The sailor looked dubious. He had no desire to test the animal, however, and so he reluctantly drew back, stared at Tommie for another instant or two, then turned on his heel and made his way down the street. Tommie stroked the animal's head softly. "That was wonderful, Robin," she whispered, "just wonderful."

Pressing close to the outside wall of the saloon, Tommie peered through a corner of the dusty window and saw Kellerman and his henchmen laughing boisterously. She found herself praying that they would move Edward and Millicent soon. Since she alone knew of their plight, she alone was in a position to save them. No matter how dangerous, she had to stick out her mission to the finish.

Toby Holt planned to pay a visit to San Francisco in order to confer with Chet Harris and Wong Ke, the enormously successful businessmen who controlled so many enterprises on the Pacific coast. They knew more about the existence and activities of the tongs than did anyone else, and he wanted to learn whatever he could from them.

On the eve of his departure from the Portland area, his wife Clarissa gave a small dinner party. The guests included his sister Cindy and his closest friend