Stafford fetched writing implements from a table and looked on in growing excitement as Toby drew a rough map of Albuquerque and explained what he wanted done.

"It'll work like a charm!" the young man exclaimed when Toby had finished. "It'll be a perfect trap, and well get every one of them!"

"Well, they might not do exactly what we want," Toby cautioned. "If I've learned one thing, it's to leave latitude for the unexpected when making plans. So when you talk with Colonel Hamilton, make certain that some extra men are placed so they can be deployed where necessary."

"Yes, sir!" Stafford jotted down a note for himself. "And I'll make it a point to talk personally to every soldier about that red neckerchief," he added, referring to an important point of Toby's plan. "You know, Mr. Holt, when I was brought in on this, I had serious doubts that one man would be able to do anything about those devils. Now I realize that I couldn't have been more wrong."

Toby laughed good-naturedly at the compliment. "I had some luck, Lieutenant Stafford, which certainly helped. In any event, we haven't bagged our quarry yet."

"No, but I'm sure we will." Stafford folded the paper and put it in his pocket. "The first thing for me to do is get those cavalry patrols stopped, so Id better be moving on."

"I suggest you go to the post at Las Cruces and telegraph Colonel Hamilton from there. Then you can ride on to Santa Fe and take care of the details."

While Stafford moved about the room and gathered up his things, Toby stepped to the window and gazed out. i hope we can soon put an end to this sorry mess. I've found out that the comancheros have been selling kidnapped women."

"Selling . . . women?" Stafford turned to Toby in dismay. "You mean selling them to—?"

"To bordellos." Tobys expression was grim. "Yes, and I wont consider this matter closed until I can do something for them, too. But first we must make certain that those comancheros never harm anyone again."

As Cindy Kerr and Pierre Charcot sat down to lunch at an outdoor cafe in Montmartre, the atmosphere between them was strained. At dinner the previous evening, Pierre had asked Cindy to marry him, and she had refused. She had candidly stated that it was pointless for him to think of her in romantic terms, although she was pleased to have him as a friend.

It now occurred to her that she had been too blunt. Pierre tried to hide his feelings, but it was clear that he was deeply hurt, even though Cindy had never meant to mislead him. Out of consideration for his friendship, she had agreed to meet him for lunch, although now she was not sure it was a good idea. They both attempted to fill the tense silences with falsely hearty conversation, mostly about the menu and passersby.

Trying to think of something else to say, Cindy asked Pierre about his work. His smile was starting to wear thin, and she avoided his gaze as he made a lame reply. By pure chance, a discarded newspaper on the table next to

him caught her eye, and Cindy's heart almost stopped when she saw the headline on one article.

With great self-control, she forced herself to wait until Pierre had finished talking, then gestured toward the newspaper. "Would you hand me that, please, Pierre?"

He reached for it and glanced at the headlines as he passed it to her. "You sound upset," he said. "What could be so important that—"

"Please, Pierre." She quickly scanned the article about a whaling crew and a woman who had been rescued in New Zealand. Marjorie's name was in the lead paragraph. "It's Marjorie White, the photographist," she explained. "She's a friend of mine, and ..." Swiftly scanning the story, Cindy gasped in dismay when she read of Ted Taylor's death. "Oh, how horrible!"

"What is it, Cindy?"

Feeling sick at heart, she handed him the paper. "Marjorie was so happy," she said. "She had been looking forward to that voyage for so long. Her heart must be broken."

"Yes, this is very sad," Pierre agreed when he had read the account. "What an amazing adventure it must have been, but with a tragic ending." He paused, and Cindy could see he was thinking about Reed's death and how that had affected her. "Do not feel bad, Cindy. Your friend will soon be back in her country, it says here. Once she is with her family, they will be of comfort to her."

"That's just it. Marjorie doesn't have a family. She has no close relatives. Someone should meet her when she arrives in Maine, but I'm in no position to leave Paris right now. I have obligations to others."

Pierre was quick to fasten onto the words. "What others?"

"Madame Kirovna, mostly. She depends on me to help her manage the gallery."

The answer seemed to disappoint him. The waiter brought their lunch, but Cindy could not eat. After watching her listlessly toying with her food, Pierre made a suggestion.

"Why can Madame Kirovna not manage the gallery on her own, as she did before you arrived?"

"It would be impossible." Cindy pushed away her plate. "She is busy with her etching, and the business in the gallery has increased greatly."

"As a result of your efforts," Pierre added. He leaned forward and took her hand. "You know I don't want you to leave Paris for even a day, Cindy, but I would rather you did what you think you should. Madame Kirovna will have to give up time from her etchings, but she can manage without you. Of that I have no doubt, because she is, as you Americans say, a tough old bird."

Cindy smiled weakly, touched by Pierre's sentiments. And perhaps he was right, she thought. If she did go to Maine, she could probably use Gilbert Paige's house, which would provide a peaceful, private refuge for Marjo-rie. The more Cindy thought about the idea, the more she liked it.

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind," Pierre said when she told him what she was considering. "After all, he is your close friend." He hesitated, then smiled wistfully. "And while you are gone, maybe you will miss me and have a change of heart." He lifted a hand as Cindy started to reply. "No, say nothing now. Two refusals in as many days would be too much for me to bear."

Cindy took the newspaper with her when she left the restaurant. She found Madame Kirovna in her cluttered workshop at the rear of the gallery.

"Yes, you've told me about her," the old woman said after reading the article. She handed back the paper. "So you intend to go back to the United States to spend time with her?"

Cindy was taken aback. "I—I didn't say that, Madame Kirovna. I am considering it, but I realize it could cause problems. That's why I wanted to discuss it with you."

"What sort of problems?"

"Well, with the gallery. I wouldn't feel right leaving you here with so much work to do."

"Bah! The work can wait." The old woman gave Cindy one of her rare smiles. "Your sense of responsibility is admirable, my dear, especially in one so young. But if you need to go, you should go."

"You mean you don't mind? I—"

"Don't mind? Of course I mind! It will be more work, and I will miss your company, but as long as I know you will be coming back—"

"Of course I'll come back." Cindy hugged the old woman. "I'll be back, as soon as possible, I promise."

On a Sunday after church, Eulalia Blake paid a visit to the Holt ranch. While her husband toured the pastures with Stalking Horse, Eulalia sat in the kitchen, where Clara Hemmings and Janessa were preparing the noon meal. The women were discussing the recent tragedy in New Zealand, and since both Eulalia and Clara had lost husbands, they knew the grief that Marjorie was suffering. Eulalia was about to express the opinion that it was fortunate Marjorie didn't have any children, when a metallic crash and a yelp of pain caused her to exclaim in alarm and hurry to the window. She could see Timmy sprawled in the barnyard, his new bicycle on top of him. Waving to her, Timmy grinned meekly and picked himself up.

"Is that what has taken you so long, Timmy?" Clara said in exasperation as he came in the door. "You could have walked to the house in half the time."

"I thought Grandmama might want to see my bicycle," he explained excitedly. "Don't you want to see my bicycle, Grandmama?"

"No, not right now, my dear," Eulalia replied tightly. "I must leave for home in a few minutes. And about that bicycle—I've been meaning to talk to you."

Timmy knew what was coming, and he glanced at his sister, who purposely ignored him. He forced himself to listen patiently to his grandmother's warnings about being careful. She was interrupted when Lee returned, and little later the two of them left in the carriage. Clara tolc Timmy that dinner was almost ready and to put his bicycle back in the barn, and he did as instructed.

Because the ground in the barnyard was rutted, he pushed the bicycle instead of riding it. Balancing his weight on the seat, he had found, was difficult enough, but wher one of the steel wheels hit a rock or a rut, it was impossible to keep from tumbling over. And, unfortunately, the

road to Portland was just as bad as the barnyard. He had found a few smooth stretches, where he had learned to balance himself with confidence, but they were all too short for him to build up adequate speed. Calvin Rogers had not viewed that as a particular disadvantage and had expressed the opinion that speed itself was not important. But Timmy wanted to find out how fast the bicycle could

go-

Until that very morning, he had searched in vain for a long, smooth stretch of road. On the way to the new church in town, he had spied the perfect place, a straight, unrutted stretch on a steep hill.

The fact that there was no brake on the bicycle did not concern Timmy because he was certain he could figure out some way to stop himself at the bottom. He was willing to accept a certain amount of risk, as long as the bicycle did not get broken, and in any case there would be little or no traffic on a Sunday.

He went back into the house, and as he ate, he planned the exact place where he would start the ride and tried to imagine how fast he would go.

Janessa's voice broke into his thoughts. "Are you up to something, Timmy?"

"No! All I'm doing is eating." He could never figure out how his sister could virtually read his mind. "You can see that, cant you?"

"I can see you're thinking about something. And when you're thinking about something, that usually means trouble."

Clara came to Timmy's defense. "Now, Janessa, the boy is behaving himself perfectly."

Janessa continued eyeing him suspiciously, while Timmy, grateful for his narrow escape, turned his attention to his food with renewed vigor.

Dinner seemed to last forever, but finally it was over, and Janessa left to join Dr. Martin at the hospital. Timmy ran to the barn, got his bicycle, and set out for town. He was able to ride down some stretches of the road, but in many places he had to walk. A farmer passing in a wagon called out jokingly, telling him to get a pony.

Finally reaching his destination, Timmy looked down

the hill in glee. The road was completely empty of traffic, and nothing was moving anywhere, except for a few children playing with a ball about halfway down. Just to be safe, Timmy shouted to the children, motioning them to one side. Then he pushed and hopped onto his bicycle, gripping the handlebars tightly. It weaved as he pedaled and gained his balance, then straightened out as the hill grew steeper.

The bicycle picked up speed so quickly that Timmy no longer had to pedal. Standing on the pedals to absorb the bumps, he was tense with excitement as the bicycle bounced over the uneven spots and continued accelerating.

The road became steeper still, and his shirt and hair whipped back in the wind as he picked up more speed. The children watching were jumping around and cheering, urging him to go faster. Their excitement drew the attention of a family sitting on its front porch, and a woman called out for him to be careful, while a young man stepped to the railing to laugh and shout encouragement. The bicycle hit an unexpected rut and, without warning, became airborne. Timmys instant of panic changed to exhilaration as the bicycle slammed back down on its wheels, still under control.

Other people came out to watch, and the road rang with cheers and laughter. Leaning over the handlebars, Timmy shot past the children, delirious with joy in his moment of glory. Then, at an intersection near the bottom, he saw a farm dray starting across the road in front of him.

The team was plodding along, pulling a heavy load, and Timmy recognized the driver, old Isaiah Hogg. Over his own shouting and the wind keening past his ears, Timmy could hear the children screaming and people bellowing at Hogg, who was hard of hearing. Oblivious to the uproar, the old man stared straight ahead.

Something finally drew his attention, and he slowly turned his head. But it was too late. He gaped wide-eyed at Timmy speeding toward him on the bicycle, then snapped the reins and shouted at the team. The jaded horses walked a bit faster, drawing the wagon to the center of the road.

Timmy was unable to turn, and he steeled himself for the collision, thankful at least that the dray was low and sideless and he could probably land atop it. But then, aghast, he saw what was in the dray.

In the treatment room at the charity hospital, Janessa held out a steel basin for Dr. Martin, who dropped a buckshot pellet into it. She handed him a swab dripping with diluted phenol, which he applied to the place where he had extracted the pellet. Then he began rooting out another pellet with a pair of tweezers.

"Ouch!" Chauncey Lathams handsome face was crimson. He was lying prone on the table, with his shirt gathered up to his waist and his trousers down around his knees. He had already had at least a dozen of the lead pellets removed, but he appeared more distressed by Janessa's presence than by the pain. 'Whatever happened to Mr. Bingham, Doc?" he asked.

"Luther is at medical school in Chicago," the doctor replied, working the tweezers. "I know you don't like Janessa to be here, and I don't like it either. It goes against an agreement I made with her father for her to treat only women and children. But this being Sunday, she was the only capable assistant available."

"This has been a truly mortifying experience in every way," Latham observed, wincing as the doctor probed deeper. "I've been waiting here for hours, you know."

"And you couldn't even sit down." The doctor clucked his tongue. "Well, I was at church, and so was Janessa, which meant that those who lead less righteous lives had to wait. It's unfortunate this happened when Dr. Wizneuski was out of town, and you were forced to wait for me, but it could have been worse, Mr. Latham. If Bud Hensley had used a rifle, it would have been all over except for your funeral."

"There would also have been a murder trial," Latham grumbled. "As it is, I'm considering whether or not to bring charges against Hensley for assault with a deadly weapon."

The doctor dropped another pellet into the basin. "You can bring charges, of course, but I don't think they'd

go far. After all, he did find you with his wife in the bushes in his own backyard. I don't think I'd go to court with a case like that."

"I wasn't in his backyard," Latham objected. "I was in a field that happens to be behind his house, and I was attending to the call of nature."

"Is that so?" The doctor did not pause in his work. "Well, I've noticed that you don't have any holes in the tail of your shirt, and one of your socks is wrong side out. Did you have to take off all your clothes to answer nature's call?"

Latham muttered under his breath, then fell silent as the doctor removed the remainder of the pellets and disinfected the wounds.

Latham had left, and Janessa was cleaning up when an orderly stuck his head in and told her that Isaiah Hogg was outside in the waiting room, wanting to see her about her brother. Janessa dropped what she was doing and hurried out of the room.

The aged, bearded Hogg, who was holding his ragged hat, touched his forehead in greeting. "Howdy, Miss Holt," he said in the loud voice of those with impaired hearing. "Your brother run into my wagon with his bicycle machine."

"Is he injured?" Janessa asked in concern.

The old man cupped a hand behind an ear, then shook his head in perplexity. "No, he's not in here. He's outside, by my wagon."

Deciding it would be quicker to go see for herself than try to find out from the old man, Janessa ran to the front door. Hogg followed her, and Dr. Martin was close behind.

Outside, Janessa stopped on the step. Timmy had no broken bones or serious injuries, she could see at a glance, but that was about all she could see.

A crowd had followed from the scene of the accident, but they were keeping their distance from Timmy and the wagon as they looked on.

"I was hauling away the compost pile at Murphy's Stable," Hogg boomed in explanation. "The boy landed right in the middle of it. It's all my fault, Miss Holt. Like my wife says, I shouldn't have been working on the Sabbath."

Timmy was standing beside the dray, and he was covered from head to toe with glistening black manure. Unlike Dr. Martin, who was chuckling at the sight, Janessa was unamused. "Are you all right?"

The boy nodded, but it was obvious he did not want to open his mouth. "Go around to the standpipe behind the hospital," she ordered. 'Til hook up a hose and wash you off."

The boy did as he was told, and Janessa turned back to Hogg. "Where's his bicycle?" she asked.

The old man again looked perplexed. "He didn't have one, far as I know. Where would he get an icicle this time of year?"

"His machine!" Janessa shouted. "What happened to it?"

"Oh, I have it right here." Hogg went to the dray. "What there is left of it, anyway. It got busted up pretty bad."

The old man stepped onto the low bed and threw down parts of the bicycle, and Janessa surveyed the manure-encrusted wreckage in satisfaction.

The old man shook his head apologetically as he stepped back down. "There's all that was left of it, Miss Holt. Like I told you, it got busted up pretty bad."

"I'm glad it's broken, Mr. Hogg."

"I'm sad too," the old man replied. "But there was nothing I could do. By the time I seen the boy, it was too late. Do you want me to carry them pieces around back, so you can put a hose on them? And if I was you, I'd put a hose on that boy, too."

Janessa started to answer, then merely nodded vigorously in reply.

The hoofbeats of the comancheros , horses were loud on the narrow, dark road approaching Albuquerque, as a double line of close to eighty men rode at a trot behind Toby and Calusa Jim. The outlaw leader was nervous, and he looked closely at each shuttered, silent building they passed. "I don't see a sign of life, Miller," he growled. "You would think there would be some lights and people. ,,

"Not on the first night of the fiesta," Toby assured him. "Everyone will be there, having a good time. I can hear the music now."

Calusa Jim cocked his ear, and even over the hoofbeats, the strains of lively music carried from the city's main plaza. But he was still suspicious and continued looking around. A large church with a walled courtyard loomed up out of the darkness, and Toby pointed to it. "That courtyard would be a good place to leave the horses. Were close enough to town now."

Calusa Jim reined up and halted the column of riders. "It looks to me like we still have distance to go," he said. "We would be a long time getting there and back on foot."

"No, it isn't that far." Toby tried to appear nonchalant and fingered the red kerchief he was wearing around his neck. "But suit yourself."

The man's crafty eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he scrutinized the church and the adjacent buildings. "There are no lights here, either. All the priests would not be at the fiesta, would they?"

"How should I know?" Toby was getting impatient with the man's wariness. "I'm no more a priest than you are. I guess they could go if they wanted to."

228

I

"Maybe so. But I don't like the looks of this. Everything is too quiet."

"Then let's get out of here," Toby suggested with an indifference he did not feel. "I don't see how anyone could know that were within miles, but if you think they're onto us, then let's turn around right now."

Toby waited tensely as Calusa Jim made up his mind. He knew that the man had instincts that matched his cunning, or he would not have eluded capture or death so many times before. Those instincts had been alerted by the unnatural quiet of the area cleared by the cavalry so no innocent bystanders would be endangered.

"I guess I'm just jumpy," Calusa Jim finally decided. "It makes sense that everyone would be at the fiesta, and maybe the priests, too. All right, we leave the horses here."

Toby rode through the wide courtyard gate with him, and the others followed. The men dismounted, and Calusa Jim picked out a half dozen to guard the horses and make certain no one left the church buildings. He and Toby then set out along the street, leading the remainder of the comancheros.

During the next few minutes, Toby listened anxiously for gunshots from behind—a dire possibility if soldiers were waiting in the church, as he expected. But everything remained silent until, when they were a good distance away, several of the horses whinnied shrilly.

Calusa Jim stopped so suddenly that one of the comancheros bumped into him. The outlaw leader snarled an oath and slashed with his hook, but the man alertly ducked. "What was that?"

"Our horses must be sensing the tension among the men who stayed behind," Toby suggested, not knowing what else to say.

The outlaw leader looked at him narrowly, and another tense moment for Toby passed before Calusa Jim turned and they continued along the street.

There were no more sounds from the church, and Toby guessed that the escape route for the comancheros had been successfully closed, with the guards overpowered and the horses now being watched by soldiers. The

plan seemed to be working perfectly so far, but it was not yet completed.

Ahead, a blaze of light from the main square silhouetted the rooftops, and the dance music was loud, punctuated by whoops of revelry. Whatever uneasiness Calusa Jim and the other comancheros had felt was now lost in their savage eagerness to reach their quarry. Approaching the square lined with shuttered buildings on a dark street, the comancheros began running, all impatient to be first. With their spurs jangling and heavy boots thumping, they held their weapons ready and cocked. Brutal grins spread across their rugged faces, and a few outlaws began laughing in anticipation.

Toby winced in regret when he saw a vendor's wagon piled with goods near the end of the street. Apparently it had been left there to make the scene appear more natural, but it would also provide cover for comancheros who were smart enough to use it.

Toby and the first of the comancheros rushed past the wagon and into the square, and suddenly the music and whooping stopped. At the opposite end of the plaza, the musicians and young men providing the whoops and shouts dived for cover, disappearing within seconds into doorways. At the same time, the street behind abruptly was flooded with light from carbide lamps on the roofs, and a squad of blue-coated soldiers wheeled a Gatling gun into position at the far corner.

From a rooftop, Colonel Hamilton shouted through a megaphone: "You are surrounded! Son mis prisioneros! Drop your weapons and put up your hands!"

The scene erupted into pandemonium. Panic-stricken comancheros toward the rear of the group wheeled around and opened fire, but one short burst from the Gatling gun was enough to discourage them. Others raced into the square as more carbide lamps flared to life on the rooftops. A few comancheros fired wildly, immediately provoking awesome retaliation as soldiers concealed on the roofs fired in thunderous unison.

The outlaw leader, with his animal instincts for self-preservation, reacted faster and with better judgment than most. At the first sign of a trap, he raced for the vendor's

wagon and slid under it. Toby attempted to follow, but he was caught in the confused press of men trying to run every which way.

A dozen comancheros made another attempt to charge the Gatling gun, and again the soldiers fired a short warning burst, which this time failed to stop them. Consequently the soldiers reopened fire with a steady, battering roar, the stream of lead ripping into the comancheros and cutting them down with gruesome efficiency.

Tobys red neckerchief was protecting him from rifle fire, but the bullets from the Gatling gun had no eyes. As they whined past him, he dropped to the street, then started crawling toward the wagon. Comancheros stumbled over him as they darted about, and several fell wounded. Hamilton was still shouting into the megaphone for them to surrender, but it had no effect on the outlaws, who were reacting with the blind panic of trapped rats.

More of them fired at the soldiers on the roofs, bringing the same swift, deadly retaliation as before. A young Mexican collapsed to his knees a few yards from Toby, more bullets penetrating his body even as he knelt there. Somehow, through the sheer bedlam surrounding him, Toby got to a spot where he could see the wagon clearly.

A comanchero who was ducking to slide under it suddenly stumbled and rolled on the ground in agony, clutching his chest. Calusa Jim was killing his own men, not wanting them to draw gunfire to him. Another comanchero staggered back from the wagon, shot by his leader, and Toby, using the body as a shield, cocked his pistol and aimed it.

Just as Toby lined his sights on Calusa Jim, the man scrambled from under the wagon, sprinted across an open stretch, and leaped with a crash through a shop display window that had been too big to shutter. Hoping the soldiers would see his neckerchief, Toby jumped up, dashed to the window, and vaulted through the jagged hole, landing in a clutter of sandals and shoes behind an overturned table. In the glare from outside, he saw a shadowy form pause at a doorway near the rear of the store.

Another comanchero crashed through the window behind Toby, obviously intending to escape, too. Outside,

the gunfire from the rooftops had abruptly increased. The soldiers, having been warned not to aim near the man with the red neckerchief, had purposely withheld their fire while Toby raced across the square, but now everyone remaining in the square was fair game. The chatter of gunfire recommenced.

Calusa Jim aimed his pistol at Toby. "I know now what happened, Miller! You tricked us into a trap, but I'll get even with you!"

Toby drew his pistol and ducked behind the overturned table as Calusa Jim's gun discharged with an ear-splitting roar. The comanchero beside Toby, also hearing what his leader had said, swung his rifle, but Toby shot him first, from no more than a foot away. In the smoke and confusion, Calusa Jim disappeared through the back door.

Toby could hear objects clatter and tumble over in the storeroom as the outlaw leader bulled his way through it. Toby ran down the aisle and into the backroom, which was pitch dark, but a rear door was ajar. Stumbling over the shop's inventory and supplies, he ran out to the alley.

A bullet slammed into the door as Toby ducked outside. Calusa Jim, crouching at the far end of the alley, fired again as Toby snapped off a shot. Both of them missed, and the outlaw leader disappeared around the corner. Toby ran after him and slid to a stop at the corner, peering into the darkness, ready to fire.

The narrow street was lined with stables and storerooms belonging to the businesses on the main square. Nothing moved, but Toby suspected that Calusa Jim might be waiting in a doorway with his pistol cocked. Toby slowly started down the street.

A horse burst from a stable, twenty yards ahead. Calusa Jim was riding bareback and leaning low. He fired wildly at Toby, who ducked aside, aimed, and fired. But his target had been too small, and the night had been too dark for his aim to be true. In any case, he told himself, he knew where Calusa Jim was going. Toby started back toward the plaza, replacing the spent bullets in his pistol.

The gunfire had ceased, and when Toby went back through the store, he saw that the soldiers had the situa-

tion well in hand. He shouted through the window to alert them of his presence, then unlatched the door and emerged into the lighted square. Soldiers were dragging dead comancheros into a row under the glare of the carbide lamps, while those who had been wounded or had surrendered were being shackled or led away.

Colonel Hamilton hurried up to congratulate him, but the mans smile faded when he noted Tobys expression. "What's wrong?"

"Calusa Jim got away." Toby pulled off his neckerchief and wiped his powder-stained face. "This wont be ended until we get him because hell just recruit more men. Unless I'm mistaken, he's on his way back to his hideout, so 111 go there and deal with him."

"Are you sure, Toby? He might go somewhere else."

"No, I don't think so, Colonel. It's very secure, and he left a couple of men guarding it. He knows you can't chase him into Mexico, and he wouldn't be worried about just one man."

Walter Stafford, transformed back from the drifter who had met Toby in Mesilla, stepped forward. "There'll be two men," he said. "I'm going with you."

Toby shook his head. "I'm going to Mexico, Walter. You know you can't come along."

Stafford was undeterred. "I have my civilian clothes with me, and I can change and be ready in a few minutes." He came to attention and addressed Hamilton formally. "I request a leave of absence, sir."

"Granted," the colonel promptly replied.

Toby could not help but smile. "I guess I have no choice, then." He slapped Walter on the back. "Go get changed, then, and meet me at that church where the horses are. We'll pick out some spares to lead so we can make good time. Colonel, I'd like the rest of those horses taken to Las Cruces, if you would, because I'm going to need them."

Hamilton hesitated a moment, then, deciding not to question Toby's motives, told him that an escort would leave with the horses the next day.

Dawn was touching the sky in the east as Toby and

his young companion, both armed with rifles, crept up to the entrance of the comancheros , hideout. Under cover of darkness the previous night, they had ridden the last few miles to the opposite end of the mountain, where they had rested for several hours. Hobbling the horses, they had set out on foot for the ravine well before dawn.

Peering around a boulder, Toby saw no one in the brush that concealed the narrow opening, but he was certain that a guard was nearby. His own choice would have been to place one man at the entrance and the second farther back in the brushy ravine, and he suspected that Calusa Jim would do the same.

Crouching low and choosing each step with care to avoid making a sound, Toby moved around the boulder toward the mouth of the ravine. Darkness lingered between the high walls of the narrow cleft, and Toby glanced back to see Walter Stafford following, rifle at the ready.

Toby had taken a few more steps when he heard a cough not far ahead. He froze and listened closely. A moment later, the guard evidently shifted to a more comfortable position, for Toby heard boots scrape against rock. He estimated the man was just around the curve, only yards away. Moving twigs and rocks from his path, Toby inched forward.

At last he spotted the guard, through the screen of brush. The man was perhaps fifteen feet away, leaning against the wall of the ravine and holding a rifle at the ready.

Toby was tempted to rush him, but the distance was too great, and the guard would surely be able to get off a shot, which would alert the other guard and Calusa Jim. Toby was trying to think of a way to get closer without being detected when the man put his rifle under his arm and took out a bag of tobacco to roll a cigarette.

Toby laid his rifle down gently, slid his pistol from its holster, and gripped it by the barrel. He waited until the man was holding the lighted match in cupped hands, then sprang forward. The man dropped the match, and the cigarette fell from his lips as he tried to grip his rifle, but Toby had covered the distance rapidly and slammed the

pistol butt down on the man's head, knocking him to the ground before he could get his finger on the trigger.

Walter rushed in behind Toby. Without having to be told what to do, he ripped off the guard's shirt and belt and used them to gag and bind the man. Toby hid the mans rifle and retrieved his own, then moved on along the ravine.

By now it was full daylight, and Toby peered cautiously around every bend in the twisting chasm, hoping to catch the other guard by surprise. The man was more alert than his fellow, however, for at the next curve Toby ducked back just as a rifle fired with an echoing blast.

Toby knew that Calusa Jim had now been warned. Of more immediate concern, however, he and Walter had to get past the second guard, who was in a protected position behind a boulder near the wall of the ravine.

"I could try rushing him," Walter suggested. "You could cover me and make him keep down."

Toby shook his head. He looked around, then stepped back along the ravine to a clump of dried brush, where he broke off a long branch with a fork at its tip. He trimmed it with his knife in a few quick strokes, then, to Walters puzzlement, began probing under rocks with it.

Only a minute or so later Toby was rewarded with the angry buzz of a disturbed rattlesnake, which he dragged from under the rock with the stick. Almost four feet long and still lethargic from the chill of the night, the reptile moved sluggishly as Toby pinned its head to the ground with the fork, then gripped it firmly just behind the stick.

The thick, heavy snake became wide awake as Toby carried it back to where Walter was waiting. Rattling furiously, it coiled its supple, powerful body around Tobys forearm and squeezed tightly, trying to free its head. Toby unwrapped it, signaled Walter to ready his rifle, then leaned out and heaved the snake over the boulder where the guard was hiding.

Shrieking in fright as the snake landed on him, the guard instinctively leaped out into the open, and the frightened snake slithered away under a boulder. Realizing his mistake, the man started to lift his rifle, but Wal-

ter's weapon was already shouldered and aimed. "Don't try it," the lieutenant warned.

The guard hesitated, as if to surrender, and Toby knew what was running through his mind. At best, a noose awaited him for the crimes he had committed, so he had nothing to lose. As the outlaw started pulling the hammer back, intending to shoot from the hip, Walter fired. At such close range, the bullet killed the man instantly. Toby and Walter hurried onward.

Near the last curve, Toby moved warily, knowing that Calusa Jim could be aiming a rifle toward the mouth of the ravine. The canyon opened into view, and Toby could see the now-dead fires where the comancheros had left many of their belongings. Near one of the fires, a knot of frightened camp women huddled together, wondering what was happening.

More of the canyon came into view, until Toby could see Calusa Jims tent. The outlaw leader was beside it, holding Juanita Zuniga in front of him. The tip of his hook was at her throat, and a pistol was in his left hand. Seeing Toby, he laughed harshly. "I've been waiting for you, Miller! I thought the guards would hold you up longer than they did, but I knew you would be here."

"My name isn't Miller," Toby replied. "It's Toby Holt."

Calusa Jim seemed to stiffen, but then he laughed again. "Well, I will have to admit that you fooled me, Holt. But I vowed that I would get even with you, and I will."

"I'm ready to give you a chance, then. Turn the woman loose, and we'll settle this in any way you choose."

"Turn her loose?" Calusa Jim's amused howl echoed through the canyon. "I will turn her loose, Holt, just as soon as I rip out her throat."

"The woman's done nothing to you. There's no point in harming her."

"Oh, but there is a point. I want you to see her blood gushing down her, Holt."

Toby quickly tried tQ think of a way to rescue Juanita. Calusa Jim was much taller than his hostage, and although the range was long, his head and shoulders made a good

target. But even if Toby got off a lucky shot, the hook would stab into Juanita's throat as the man fell.

The impasse was ended in a way that took both Toby and Calusa Jim by surprise. Juanita, moving with a speed and strength that her previous submission had given no hint of, suddenly gripped the deadly hook with both hands, jerked it away from her throat, and threw herself to the ground.

Toby had a clear shot, and he did not hesitate. Before Calusa Jim could aim his pistol to kill the woman or duck for cover behind the tent, Toby fired, hitting him in the shoulder. In his fury the outlaw leader still got off a shot, but his bullet struck a rock, and a well-aimed shot by Walter Stafford, almost simultaneous with Toby's second shot, reeled Calusa Jim back and spun him around.

Toby quickly recocked his rifle and took careful aim, but Calusa Jim had lost his balance and sprawled heavily on his stomach. His torso suddenly became rigid, his feet thrashing as he shrieked a cry that was something between a human scream and the howl of a wild animal. It was the most hideous sound Toby had ever heard.

Dropping his pistol, the man struggled to his knees and opened his mouth wordlessly. He had fallen on his own hook, which was stuck deep in his throat, and blood spurted down the military tunic. He tried to utter the weird cry once more, a shocked, angry rejection of death, but it could barely be heard, and he toppled and fell on his back, his limbs twitching, then motionless.

Juanita ran to Toby as he walked toward the tent. "I knew you weren't one of them," she said, clutching him and sobbing with relief. "I knew you were different, that you would rescue me."

"I couldn't have helped if you hadn't done what you did." As he held her, Toby stared down at the outlaw leader's lifeless body. "It's a fitting end for a man like him." Toby gestured for Walter to assist Juanita. The other women were rushing forward, some of them crying, too.

Toby turned and scanned all sides of the canyon. "I know you're here, Mosely!" he shouted. "So show yourself. If I have to root you out, you'll wish I hadn't!"

The man emerged, trembling, from behind boulders near where the spare horses were picketed. He walked forward with his hands over his head. Toby kept his rifle trained on him.

"I heard you tell Calusa Jim who you really are, Mr. Holt," Mosely said as he approached, "and Tve heard of you plenty of times. I know you're a man who respects the law, and you're witness to the fact that I've never personally harmed anyone."

Toby ignored the man's effrontery. "All I want to hear from you right now, Mosely, is where are those women who were captured and sold to bordellos? And you'd better tell the truth."

Mosely hesitated. "If I get clemency for cooperating, Til tell you everything. But if it isn't going to do me any good, why should I talk?"

Toby was in no mood to negotiate. "On our way to Santa Fe, we'll pass places where men are still wondering what happened to their wives and daughters. Would you rather be questioned by them?"

Mosely blanched and stepped back. "All right. But remember, I'm being cooperative. They're all at one place. I took them to a dealer in Nogales. Apodaca, his name was. He owns a place on the outskirts of Mexico City. The Casita de Extasis."

Toby looked with disgust at the peddler, then called to Walter Stafford. "Tie him up, Walter."

The lieutenant searched Mosely and then bound him. Juanita, who had been talking with the other women, came up to Toby. "These women would like to know what you want them to do."

"I want them to return to their families. And that goes for you, too, Juanita. All of you can take whatever you like from around the fires and help yourselves to the horses over there."

The women, exclaiming in delight, quickly scattered to rummage through the things around the fires. Juanita did not go with them. "I want nothing from here," she said, "and I have no family or place to go. They were all killed."

"In that case," Toby replied promptly, "you can come

with Walter and me. We're taking Mosely back to Santa Fe. I don't want to stop to buy supplies, so gather up what you can."

A little later, they all rode out of the canyon, and Toby and Walter stopped to tie the still-unconscious guard over the back of one of the spare horses. At the mouth of the ravine, all the Mexican women were profuse in their thanks, and Toby waved to them as they rode off to the south.

The fact that all the women who had been sold to a brothel were in a single place would make their rescue less complicated, Toby reflected, but Mexico City was still a long distance away. In addition, he was certain he would meet with resistance in trying to free them, and even with Walters help it would be a daunting task.

When they camped that night, not far from the Rio Grande, Toby questioned Mosely about the Casita de Extasis. Situated on the road north of the capital city, the establishment catered to a wealthy clientele, and if what Mosely said was true, it was well guarded at all times, both to keep the women from escaping and to discourage bandits who might be tempted to rob the rich patrons.

The men whose wives and daughters had been kidnapped were an obvious source for volunteers, but Toby was reluctant to ask their help, knowing he would have a hard time restraining them. The next day, after the party had crossed the border and was on the road to Santa Fe, Toby discussed the problem with Walter. The lieutenant shared Tobys reservations.

"I agree that the husbands and loved ones will be out for blood. No one can blame them, of course, but they're liable to kill every man in the place.''

"And have army patrols searching for us all the way back," Toby added. "But I can't do this job alone."

Walter looked thoughtful, then brightened. "I have the perfect solution," he said.

"What's that?"

"Army volunteers. While I was getting ready to come down here with you, any number of men asked me if they could change into civilian clothes and come along. They resent not being able to cross the border to stop raids

here, and a quiet word in the garrison at Santa Fe about what you intend to do would bring a stampede of volunteers."

Toby acknowledged that it was a good idea, but he had strong misgivings about taking what amounted to an army patrol deep into Mexico. So far he had completed his mission with signal success, and he was reluctant to end it by creating problems for the government.

They reached Santa Fe in good time, and Toby, ignoring Mosely's bitter protests, handed him and the hideout's guard over to the jailers in charge of the other comancheros. With no urging from Toby, Governor Mills offered Juanita Zuniga the hospitality of his home until permanent arrangements could be made for her, and later, at a meeting with Colonel Hamilton present, he also put forward a suggestion as to how to gain the release of the women who had been captured by the comancheros.

Toby frowned when he heard the suggestion, which was to proceed through normal diplomatic channels. Both he and Hamilton objected strongly, citing a variety of reasons. Apodaca, the owner of the bordello, undoubtedly wielded enough political influence at least to delay any action, and in the meantime, a mob of furious husbands and fathers would find out what was happening and go charging into Mexico, creating a multitude of problems. Most importantly, the innocent women had suffered enough, and to prolong their captivity and sexual exploitation was, in Tobys opinion, inhuman.

When Colonel Hamilton, who had already spoken to Lieutenant Stafford, made a pointed reference to "other possible solutions," the governor set his jaw in obvious displeasure, but he had the sense to know that he had little choice in the matter. Getting up to leave the room, he directed Toby and the soldiers to discuss it in private.

With the colonel's blessing, Stafford had already talked with several of the soldiers, and the arrangements were quickly concluded. Two days after arriving in Santa Fe, Toby set out for Las Cruces to get the horses that had been taken from the comancheros and to continue on southward into Mexico. With him were fourteen cavalrymen commanded by Walter Stafford and a sergeant named Lyons.

Even in civilian clothes, the men were unmistakably military as they rode in two neat, orderly columns. But Toby voiced no objections because he knew that for the perilous mission that lay ahead, these were the best possible men.

As his train rolled into the outskirts of Vienna, Andrew Brentwood gazed in regret at the scenic skyline of church spires, domes, and slate roofs. Two weeks before, while passing through Vienna en route to the Carpathian Mountains, where the Austro-Hungarian army maneuvers had been held, he had been fascinated by his glimpse of the elegant, ancient city and had wanted to stop, but he had not had the time. And now, with Ambassador Ely eagerly awaiting his return, he once again would have time enough only to change trains. In his bags were the answers to nearly all the questions Washington had posed, as well as a wealth of other information, and Ely would never understand a delay.

As soon as Andrew stepped off the train, however, a well-dressed, middle-aged man spotted his uniform, approached him, and introduced himself as a representative of Count von Lautzenberg at the Ministry of Internal Affairs. "The count apologizes for any inconvenience that it may cause you," the man pronounced summarily in a heavy accent, "but he would like to talk with you at once, Colonel Brentwood."

The mans attitude left no room for a refusal, and Andrew told himself that Ambassador Ely would simply have to wait. In any case, Andrew had puzzled for weeks over the lack of reaction from the count concerning Lyd-ia's pregnancy, as well as the unexpected invitation to observe the maneuvers. Whatever was going to happen, Andrew wanted only to get it over with as soon as possible.

Ironically, he found himself too preoccupied to enjoy the sights of the city as he rode in a state carriage to a grandiose government building. The counts representative, as uncommunicative as a stone, led him to an opulent baroque anteroom, where a private secretary immediately went through a door and reappeared, holding it open for Andrew.

Count von Lautzenbergs private office was lavishly furnished, but overwhelming everything else were, on one wall, portraits of the emperor and empress, and on another, a huge map of the empire.

The count, in an oversize chair behind an immense table, nodded in response to Andrew's bow. "Please forgive me for not standing," he said in a soft voice, "but I must plead age and infirmity, which require me to conserve my strength."

"I understand," Andrew replied shortly.

"Sit down." The count pointed to a chair beside a window.

Andrew did as he was told, and the count commenced the interview by asking him if he had found the maneuvers informative.

"Yes, to say the least, sir. I presume that I have you to thank for the invitation."

"Yes, I did arrange it, and I was pleased to do so." The count smiled enigmatically. "You are a friend of a family that values its friends, Colonel Brentwood. I trust that you left Her Grace in good health and spirits?"

His failure to include the duke spoke volumes, but Andrew maintained his self-control and replied that both von Hofstettens had been well. The questioning moved on to innocuous subjects, and Andrew, who was still waiting for the ax to fall, was nonetheless taken by surprise when it did.

"By the way, when you escort the duchess on outings and other amusements," the count said, jumping back to the subject, "you must make certain she never overtires herself and is careful about her health. I'm sure that you do, but I mention it only because now that she and the duke are in the fortunate position of expecting an heir, we must be doubly cautious about Her Grace's health."

The matter-of-fact reference to Lydias pregnancy took Andrew aback, but after only an instant of confusion, everything became sickeningly clear to him. The whole scheme was so obvious that he could hardly believe he had not thought of it before. The count wanted an heir to the ducal title, and Andrew had unwittingly obliged him.

Andrew felt like a naive fool, but most of all he was

gripped by indignation. "We both know," he said, standing up defiantly, "that the duke had nothing whatsoever to do with Her Grace's present condition."

The count stiffened, his predatory eyes gleaming. "Young man," he rasped in his hoarse whisper, "the most infuriating thing about dealing with you is that, despite your intelligence, you are given to puerile, senseless outbursts."

"But it's true!" Andrew insisted hotly.

"What is truth?" the count snarled. "It is what people collectively believe, which can easily be manipulated. If people believe the child to be a von Hofstetten, then it will be!"

"It will not! I absolutely reject such an absurd notion!"

The count dismissed the subject with an impatient wave. "If you must act like a schoolboy, then I shall deal with you accordingly and explain the punishment you may-incur. It is within my power to have you cashiered from your army. It is also within my power to have a bill of divorcement enacted and to return Her Grace to her family in dishonor. If you persist in this attitude or make a comment like that again, then I shall do so. Do you understand, Colonel Brentwood?"

The anger had completely left the man's voice, making the threat all the more ruthless. Andrew knew the count could and would do precisely what he had threatened. Andrew controlled his own anger.

"I take your silence as assent," the count continued, suddenly cordial. "And now that we understand each other, there is no cause for us to be unpleasant. After all, everyone involved in this matter has more than ample reason to be content, if not perfectly happy. The child, a von Hofstetten, will be born in the best circumstances. You and the duchess will still have the liberty to enjoy your affection for each other. And both the duke and I will have what we want—an heir for the family." He picked up a small bell and rang it. "Let us have refreshments while we discuss other things, Colonel Brentwood."

The secretary appeared with glasses and a decanter, and the count mentioned that the Austro-Hungarian Army would have more maneuvers during the coming autumn

and that he would look forward to having Andrew observe them again.

Still in a turmoil, Andrew scarcely heard what was being said. Beyond the fact that he had been cold-bloodedly manipulated, the child born to Lydia would be a Brentwood. It would be a grandchild of Samuel Brentwood, who had devoted his life to building a nation. Andrew wanted the child born of his and Lydias love to know its heritage, yet that appeared impossible. He seemed to be trapped by circumstances he was unable to change.

Only after taking a sip from the glass that the secretary had left him did Andrew realize what was in it. It was the same sweet, purplish liqueur that he and Lydia often shared during their private, special moments. That the count knew about it was yet another demonstration of his limitless knowledge and power.

The old man's piercing eyes reflected the satisfaction of victory as he stared wordlessly at his guest, and Andrew put the glass down, unable to drink its contents.

The famous spa and resort city of Bad Kissingen was crowded with summer tourists, and the platform in front of the railroad station w r as shoulder-to-shoulder with onlookers awaiting the arrival of Chancellor Bismarck, the most important man in Germany. At the edge of the crowd, Henry Blake, inconspicuous in a dark business suit, scanned the roofs of nearby buildings and the faces on the platform.

Just down the track, a freight train was chugging into the switching yards, and a thrill of expectation rippled through the crowd. People began shouting and pointing. At the rear of the train, just visible because of the curve of the tracks, was a private railcar, its doors emblazoned with Chancellor Bismarck's coat of arms. Henry ignored the train and continued watching the crowd and the roofs.

Bismarck traditionally vacationed at Bad Kissingen, and for several years now he had arrived in this same manner, with his private railcar pulled by a freight. The car was customarily parked on this sidetrack, and the Chancellor would greet well-wishers, then proceed by carriage to his vacation house in the forested hills outside town.

This year, however, Bismarck was not on the train—a fact of which the tourists were unaware. Weeks ago, Henry had pointed out to General Fremmel that it was an invitation to disaster for the Chancellor to follow the same routine again this year, and consequently Fremmel had persuaded Bismarck to take the precaution of leaving the train before it reached the city. A troop of dragoons, under the command of Major Richard Koehler, had al-

245

ready escorted Bismarck without incident to his vacation house.

The train stopped, and a brakeman stepped along the tracks to throw a switch so the private car could be backed onto the siding. Henry searched for faces he would recognize from Bern, while taking note of anyone who was not sharing in the general excitement. He saw nothing suspicious, however. The locomotives engine had just puffed into reverse when a thunderous clap rang out, causing the earth to shake and sending a heavy concussion through the air. The private car had exploded into a mass of flying debris, and windows in the station showered glass onto the platform. People screamed and darted every which way in panic, and some who had been injured by the glass or debris staggered about. Policemen charged from the station and ran toward the sidetrack.

Henry waited until the police had passed, then, seeing no one suspicious lurking about, he walked into the station, edged his way through the frantic crowds in the waiting room, and went out to the street, where a uniformed dragoon was struggling to control two horses. Henry took the reins of one of the horses, mounted up, and rode with the man at a gallop away from the station.

At the outskirts of the city, the street became a narrow country lane, and Henry and the dragoon turned off onto the road to the Chancellor's vacation house. In the distance a troop of dragoons was approaching at a run, and Henry recognized Richard Koehler leading the cluster of horsemen in their gleaming, spiked helmets and bright uniforms.

When Richard saw Henry, he reined up, and the others stopped at his command. Richards tanned, handsome face was pale and drawn as he took off his helmet and wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

"What's wrong, Richard?" Henry asked as he drew near. "You look ill.

"I thought you were on that train!" Richard's anxiety quickly changed to annoyance. "But obviously you weren't. When I heard that explosion, I thought—" He put his helmet back on. "Well, I jumped to the wrong conclusion."

"It was only a mine under the tracks," Henry said

with a shrug. He pulled up to ride beside his friend as Richard turned back toward the house.

"Oh, is that all?" Richard smiled thinly. "I was concerned, of course, that if you were injured, there would be no one left to keep the baroness content. My aunt is difficult enough as it is."

Henry chuckled appreciatively, then described what had happened at the station while Richard listened intently. "Undoubtedly," he said when Henry had finished, "our troubles have only begun. Other attacks could come at any time."

Henry agreed. "Once they realize the Chancellor is still alive, there's no question about that. Well have to remain on guard constantly until we find the conspirators and deal with them."

A few minutes later, the forest road emerged into a meadow, at the rear of which stood Bismarck's vacation house. A large, two-story stone structure, it was surrounded by dragoon guards, but the distance from the edge of the meadow to the house was well within rifle range, Henry noted. Worse still, behind the house rose a steep, wooded hillside with scattered outcroppings of rock, several of which offered perfect cover for would-be assassins.

General Fremmel was waiting in the entry. Henry dismounted and began to explain to him what had happened, when a door opened and the Chancellor himself, in his shirt-sleeves, came down the hall toward them.

Henry and the other two men stood at attention. Approaching sixty, Bismarck was a tall, heavy man with craggy features that were splotched with broken veins. Even though he had a paunch from overeating, he still had the unmistakable bearing of a leader. His alert blue eyes seemed to miss nothing.

Henry briefly repeated for his sake what had happened. "Was anyone injured?" Bismarck asked.

"There were injuries, Your Excellency, but I don't think anyone was killed."

"Did you see anyone who might have done it?"

"No, sir."

"The mine could have been set days ago, Your Excellency," General Fremmel explained. "It was—"

"Of course it could have been," Bismarck interrupted. "I am familiar with mines. Does this mean I will be unable to take the waters this evening?"

"I consider that highly inadvisable," the general replied. "You should stay inside the house at present."

Bismarck eyed him coldly. "Very well. But tomorrow I will be going out. I did not come here to be a virtual prisoner in my own house." He turned and left without another word.

A little while afterward, a carriage rumbled up outside and deposited on the steps the burgomaster and the chief of police of Bad Kissingen. Bismarck granted them a short interview, to convince them that he was unharmed, and later that evening, after dinner, Henry and Richard went outside to inspect the defenses around the house.

Henry paused a long while to survey the rock out-croppings on the hill behind the house. "Do you have any men posted up there, Richard?"

"No. I sent a platoon up the hill this morning to look around, but they saw nothing suspicious—not even footprints or places where the leaves had been disturbed. If someone intended to use that hill as a vantage point, he would look it over first."

Henrys silence indicated he was not convinced.

Richard became defensive. "I can't put a man on every rock up there, Heinrich! In my opinion, the greatest danger is the road between here and town, and I've posted men in the trees at intervals, to make certain no one hides there in ambush. That leaves me with less than two platoons to guard the house. One does what one can."

"I suppose you're right." Henry walked to the back door with his friend. Complete protection against an assassin was virtually impossible, he knew, especially when the intended victim refused to remain in seclusion. Still, before he reentered the house, Henry looked back at the hill. Attempts on his own life had made him doubly cautious and suspicious of places where danger might be lurking. And he knew that if he were in charge of the conspiracy against Bismarck, he would choose the hill as the best place from which to attack.

Early the next morning, when Henry went downstairs, he found that Richard had already been up for hours. While the two of them shared breakfast in the kitchen, Richard explained that he had checked all his guards, and since nothing had happened on the road during the night, he had withdrawn several men from there and sent them to check the edges of the meadow around the house.

After finishing their breakfast, Richard and Henry went outside, and the sergeants of the guard reported they had seen nothing out of the ordinary. Henry was standing on the flagstone terrace near the back door when several servants walked past him, carrying linen and tableware. He watched as they set a single place on a lawn table in a corner of the garden.

"That doesn't ^seem very wise," he commented to Richard. "Couldn't he have breakfast inside?"

"I heartily agree." Richard called over one of the servants and spoke to him, but the man insisted that the Chancellor always had breakfast in the garden. When Richard suggested the routine might be changed, the man looked panic-stricken and retreated inside, calling over his shoulder that the Chancellor would never permit it.

Henry and Richard went inside, to see General Fremmel coming down the hall, his eyes bleary' and his temper short from too little sleep and too much brandy the previous night. He listened impatiently as Richard tried to explain what he and Henry had been discussing, then cut him off brusquely. "Must I tell you a solution that would be obvious to a recruit, Major?" he barked. "Post men at the edge of the meadow and on that hill up there! And be quick about it—the Chancellor will be downstairs presently!"

Richard was red-faced. "There may be some delay, sir," he replied evenly. "I don't have sufficient men to anticipate and provide protection for the Chancellor's every movement."

"I've never met a commander who did have sufficient men," the general returned with ill temper. "You are fully aware that the Chancellor refuses to be guarded by more

than a company. It would give the impression that he lacks courage or that Germany is a lawless nation."

"Perhaps," Henry put in, "the Chancellor could have breakfast in the dining room, at least for this morning."

Fremmel was about to reply when Bismarck appeared. The three military men stiffened to attention, and Bismarck, who always slept poorly, muttered something grumpily and started to push past.

"I beg your pardon, Your Excellency," the general said apologetically, "but it is inadvisable for you to dine outside. I believe it would be safer to—"

"I will have my breakfast where I always do!" Bismarck shot back. "I told you that I refuse to be made a prisoner in my own house!"

"Then please allow me to post dragoons around your table, Your Excellency," Richard pleaded.

"No!" Bismarck threw up his hands in exasperation. "How can I enjoy my breakfast with soldiers hovering about?" He turned to Henry. "Could you enjoy breakfast under such circumstances, Captain Blake?"

"With all respect, Your Excellency," Henry replied, "I would prefer that to being shot. But if you don't wish to dine inside, sir, at least let me put on your coat and go outside before you do."

The Chancellor blinked in surprise, then eyed Henry's trim, muscular build. "If an assassin has such poor eyesight as to mistake you for me, Captain, then he couldn't hit his target in the first place."

General Fremmel laughed dutifully. "The point is well taken, Your Excellency, but the suggestion is worthwhile. You and I are more of a size, so please allow me to wear your coat outside."

"Very well—but do it now." Bismarck unfastened his coat and handed it to the general, who took off his own coat.

Henry preceded Fremmel to the door. "It isn't necessary for you to go outside as well, Captain Blake," the general said.

"It was my idea, sir," Henry replied. "And two pairs of eyes are better than one."

The garden was colorful with flowers in the bright

morning sunshine. Birds were singing cheerfully, and two white-coated servants were standing at readiness near the table. Yet despite the peaceful scene, Henry felt uneasy. As he followed General Fremmel toward the table, he gazed up from under his hat brim at the rocks on the hill. Immediately knowing his earlier instincts had been correct, he swore under his breath as a movement caught his eye and he saw the glint of sunshine on metal.

Reacting instantly, Henry shoved the general to one side and threw himself to the ground as puffs of gunpowder smoke rose among the rocks. The generals grunt of surprise was choked off as bullets ricocheted from the flagstones and, an instant later, the solid boom of Mauser rifles carried across the distance. Henrys cheek was stung by a sharp fragment of slate, but both he and the general managed to scramble to the shelter of a row of hedges. Richard stormed out the door, bellowing orders at the dragoons who were rushing around both sides of the house.

He ran toward Henry in alarm and knelt behind the hedge with him and the general. "Is it a serious wound, Heinrich?" he asked worriedly.

Henry dabbed his bleeding cheek with his handkerchief. "No, its only a scratch. I've counted five rifles."

Richard shouted to a platoon that had taken up position behind a stone wall. "Keep them pinned down! Don't let them escape! First squad, remain where you are. The rest of you prepare to follow me!"

Richard drew his saber and pistol, then jumped up and ran toward the trees at the base of the hill. "Follow me!" he shouted, beckoning with his sword. "Fire at will!"

A thunderous fusillade of rifle fire erupted, and the men began running after Richard. Henry and the general joined them. From the rate of the return fire, Henry estimated that the riflemen on the hill were indeed pinned down. But although they could not flee, they had chosen a well-protected place and were not giving up without a struggle.

They seemed to be concentrating their fire on Richard, for bullets slammed into the ground all around him. One struck his plumed helmet with a metallic clang, knock-

ing it off his head, but he staggered only momentarily and reached the temporary shelter of the trees.

The gunfire took its toll of the other dragoons, however, and three of them fell. Henry dragged to safety a man who was shot through the leg, and the general helped another.

After relieving the man of his rifle, Henry climbed the hill with the dragoons, holding his fire until he was close enough to make every shot count. The hidden gunmen kept up a withering fire, and bullets ricocheted through the trees on the slope.

From behind, Henry could hear General Fremmel puffing heavily, trying to keep pace. Ahead, he caught sight of Richard and sprinted to catch up with him, then passed him. Bullets were whizzing down the slope to his right, and Henry finally had a clear view of one side of the rocks where the assailants were hiding. He steadied his rifle against a tree, drawing a bead to where he could see a rifle barrel protruding. He fired and quickly worked the bolt to reload.

Fragments exploded from the edge of the rock where his bullet struck, and as the rifle barrel swung toward him, a man's head momentarily came into view. Henry squeezed the trigger again, and the bullet hit the man in the neck, knocking him back out of sight.

Henry reloaded and darted up the hill to another tree. Richard blew his whistle as a signal to the squad back at the house to cease firing, then shouted at his men to spread out and encircle the rocks.

At the same moment, one of the assassins suddenly stood and aimed at Richard. With certain capture or death only moments away, the man was determined to take someone with him, but Henry fired first and shot the conspirator through the heart. The man's rifle discharged into the air as he sprawled backward.

The general, still far down the slope, shouted breathlessly at Richard that he wanted some of the gunmen taken alive. As Richard called to the soldiers to cease fire, Henry kept his rifle aimed. The dragoons quickly obeyed, and the gunfire from the rocks also stopped.

Richard cupped his hands around his mouth and called

to the gunmen to give up. A moment later, a frightened voice that Henry recognized as Bauer's replied that he surrendered, and a rifle was tossed over the rocks. Henry and Richard started forward cautiously, with several of the dragoons following them and others closing in from all sides.

They found Bauer huddled behind the rock, trembling in terror. Mueller was lying near him, wounded, and the other three were dead. Recognizing Henry, Bauer gaped at him in astonishment. "Kauptmann!" he exclaimed.

"Hoffmann!" Mueller said in surprise at almost the same instant.

The dragoons seized the men and began to search them. Richard said dryly to his friend, "It appears that you are well-known here, although I didn't realize you had so many names."

General Fremmel, panting and sweating profusely, finally appeared, and the dragoons moved aside so that he could look at the prisoners. "Are these the ones you saw in Bern, Captain?"

"Yes, sir." Henry turned to Bauer. "You told me once that you and the others were being assisted by a high German official. What was his name?"

"Hermann Bluecher,'' Bauer answered promptly, glancing in fright from Henry to the general. "He sent information and instructions to Herr Gessell, who—"

"That will do for now," Henry interrupted. "Mueller, you work for Bluecher, is that not so?"

Mueller stared stonily at Henry before he answered. "Yes, that is so. I will confess everything."

"Good!" Fremmel took Henry's arm and drew him aside. "We will quickly have an end to this affair now, and I shall see to it that your government is made aware of your vital contribution, Captain. But we had better get a doctor to attend to that wound on your face. Major Koehler"—he beckoned to Richard—"have your men bring the prisoners and those bodies to the rear of the house."

Henry started down the slope with the general. "I will immediately go into town," Fremmel told him, still half out of breath, "and telegraph Berlin. Herr Bluecher will be put under arrest and tried for conspiracy in an

assassination attempt against the Chancellor. He will never bother us again."

"Let us hope so" was Henry's cautious reply.

But Hermann Bluecher was not at his house, nor even in Berlin. Having Mueller take part in the assassination, instead of only guiding the others, had been an all-or-nothing gamble, and Bluecher was prepared for the consequences should the bet fail.

Wearing nondescript, slightly seedy clothing, he was seated in a train station telegraph office in a small town north of Berlin. At his feet was a scuffed valise that contained a fortune in gold and precious gems, documents on his Swiss bank accounts, and other indispensable papers. Bluecher was waiting for a telegram from an informant in Bad Kissingen, a message that would send him either back to Berlin in triumph or on his way out of Germany.

Never a patient man, Bluecher had found his temper tried severely by the wait in the telegraph office. He had endured hunger, discomfort, and humiliation, for in this provincial town people were quick to ridicule a fat stranger. Bluecher had to keep reminding himself that, for the moment at least, he was not a powerful government official but a simple business traveler, waiting for instructions from his company.

The telegraph machine began clacking, as it had many times during the past hours, and Bluecher craned his neck and looked hopefully toward the source of the sound. The hunger pangs he felt were almost overcome by the agonizing tension that gripped him. At length the machine stopped, and the clerk processed the telegram with the well-practiced indolence of minor officialdom.

"Beutler!" the man said at last, stepping to the counter.

Relief flooded through Bluecher, and as he hefted himself from his seat, children in the room laughed and pointed. Ignoring them, he stepped across the room and reached for the telegram. The clerk jerked it back. "Identification!"

Bluecher produced forged papers, and the man studied them suspiciously before handing them back. But when Bluecher reached for the telegram again, the man jerked

it away once more. With deliberately slow, insolent movements, the clerk folded the telegram, put it in an envelope, sealed it, then opened the register book, which he pushed in front of Bluecher. "Sign here.''

Taking the pen, Bluecher resolved that if the telegram contained the news he hoped for, he would delay celebrating his victory until he saw to it that the telegraph clerk was put to a slow, painful death.

At last Bluecher ripped open the telegram. After reading the sentences several times and turning paler each time, he clutched his valise and shuffled out, having forgotten entirely about the clerk.

In the waiting room, Bluecher passed the restaurant entrance, oblivious to the scent of food wafting through the doorway. He went straight to the train schedule posted on the wall.

His pursuers would first block the border crossings, then alert the police in Bremerhaven and Hamburg, the main ports. They might also have Kiel and Lubeck watched because passenger ships called there as well. But Bluecher meant to head northeast, to Stettin, a freight port and the last place that would be considered as an escape route.

After checking the train schedule, he sat down and reread the telegram. It was long and detailed and named those who had been involved in foiling the plan. With sickening precision, all the facts now fitted together. Bluecher knew that the man in Bern who had called himself Kauptmann was the same man who, the previous year in Darmstadt, had called himself Hoffmann.

That man, Henry Blake, had become Bluecher's nemesis. Not only had he twice survived attacks by skilled assassins, he had also turned the tables and killed his intended killers. Too many times he thwarted plans that Bluecher had carefully devised, and now he had even made Bluecher a fugitive in his own country. And the man wasn't even a German, but an American!

Sitting there with the telegram in his hand, Bluecher wondered where he had gone wrong. Not until his train pulled into the station was he brought back sharply to reality. He had forgotten to buy a ticket, and he would have to purchase one on board. Puffing heavily, he wedged

himself through the door of a dirty third-class carriage and found a seat on an uncomfortable wooden bench.

The distance to Stettin was relatively short, but the trip seemed to take forever, with the train stopping at every small village. By the time he had found a grimy room near the city's waterfront, Bluecher was light-headed with hunger. He ate a greasy meal in a tavern crowded with noisy, drunken sailors, and before going to bed he bought a newspaper to look at the shipping notices. All of Europe was closed to him, for he would inevitably be found and extradited to Germany for trial. He became despondent as he read one scheduled departure after another, all of them listing European ports as destinations.

Only one entry gave him hope: The Seppel, a freighter with limited passenger accommodations, was scheduled to depart the next day for Piraeus, near Athens. From there it would be easy to get anywhere in the eastern Mediterranean.

The next morning, however, Bluecher's slender hopes again faded when he saw the Seppel. An old ironclad steamer with stubby masts, she showed more rust than paint and even from a distance smelled of grease and urine. But Bluecher had no alternative, so he walked up the creaking gangplank.

On deck, a rumpled, unshaven man laughed in his face when he asked for the purser. "I suppose that's me," the man said. "I'm the first officer and the only officer besides the captain. What d'you want?"

"I want passage to Piraeus."

The man fingered his stubbled chin, eyed Bluecher's valise, then beckoned him to follow. He threw open a door and pointed. "There's your cabin, and the fare will be two hundred and twenty-five marks."

Bluecher stuck his head in the door and looked at the tiny, dirty compartment. The money meant little to him, but he resented being cheated. "That's far too much. I could go on a luxury steamer for half the price."

"But you chose to come to Stettin to take passage on a tramp steamer instead." The man gave Bluecher a smug, knowing smile. "Two hundred twenty-five marks, or get off the ship."

Bluecher took out his wallet and counted the money. "When will you leave?"

"This afternoon," the officer replied, pocketing the cash. "Were hauling pig iron, so you should feel right at home." He laughed and ambled away.

Controlling his temper with great difficulty, Bluecher squeezed through the doorway into the airless cabin and sat on the narrow bunk. The food on the vessel would undoubtedly be vile, and even though he had time to go ashore and buy a stock of delicacies, he knew it would be a wasted effort. He always became violently seasick on any vessel, even a riverboat, and the Seppel would shortly be setting out into the stormy Baltic.

Bluecher hugged his valise against his stomach, and it gave him some comfort. At least his escape was now assured, he reflected. And besides money, he still had his most valuable asset—his intelligence. Somewhere and somehow, he would build another life and become more powerful than ever, and then he would seek revenge against the man responsible for all his troubles. The last battle in the war between them had yet to be fought, and Bluecher would not settle for simple victory.

Lanterns flanked the courtyard gate in front of the Casita de Extasis, affording Toby Holt a good view of those coming and going as he lay concealed in brush across the road. He watched a luxurious carriage pause at the gate for a cursory inspection by the two armed guards. It was the fifth carriage Toby had seen in the past hour, and the guards had checked the occupants of each one.

Walter Stafford tapped Toby's shoulder and pointed to a man approaching on a spirited palomino. The silver trim on the saddle and bridle sparkled in the moonlight, and silver studs gleamed on the pistol belt around the man's waist.

The guards stopped the rider at the gate, and a minor argument in Spanish ensued. The horseman sounded drunk, but after a while he unbuckled his pistol belt, pulled his rifle from its scabbard, and handed them to one of the guards, who took the weapons into a gatehouse.

Inside, a small band struck up a gay tune. Toby motioned to Walter that they had seen enough and could leave.

During the day, Toby had carefully examined the compound from a nearby hill through Walter's binoculars. A ten-foot adobe wall, topped with embedded shards of broken glass, encircled the grounds, which comprised a rambling, two-story building, stables set off to one side, and a courtyard. Besides the stable hands, Toby had observed four armed guards—the two at the front gate and two posted at the rear wall. Apodaca had a lucrative business and was taking no chances on being robbed.

The lights of Mexico City glowed brightly to the

258

south as Toby and Walter crept back to where they would meet Sergeant Lyons, who had been watching the guards at the rear of the compound. He was waiting for them.

"They haven't budged," Lyons reported with a grin. "They're still sitting there, smoking and talking. If one of my troopers ever acted like that on guard duty, I'd have him court-martialed. Like I said, a saddle blanket and a boost is all I need to get over that wall."

"Good," Toby approved. "Let's go back to the men and get started."

After the three of them had crossed the wooded hills to the valley where they had left the others, about a mile away, the men gathered around Toby in the moonlight. He explained his plan.

"Just remember," he emphasized in conclusion, "there will be no unnecessary gunplay. We're here to get those women out, not to kill people, so shoot only in self-defense. I'll personally deal with Senor Apodaca, the owner. Any questions?"

The men shook their heads, and Toby exchanged a few words with Sergeant Lyons, who picked two men and rode off. Toby gave them a ten-minute head start before he and Walter rode with the rest of the men out of the valley. The troopers at the rear of the column led the extra horses for the women.

When they reached the road, about a quarter mile from the bordello, Toby halted the men and continued ahead with Walter. The music from inside was louder now. Riding side by side, Toby and Walter laughed and acted drunk as they approached the gate. The two guards stepped forward, and one of them spoke curtly in Spanish, saying something about weapons.

Edging their horses closer, Toby and Walter fumbled with the buckles on their gunbelts. Before the guards knew what was happening, Toby had slipped his Colt from its holster and leaped off his horse, slamming the pistol down on the nearer guard's head and knocking him unconscious. The other guard cursed and raised his rifle, but Walter jumped on him, quickly dealing with him as Toby had done.

Wasting no time, they dragged the guards behind the

gatehouse, where they bound and gagged them. Sergeant Lyons and the other two soldiers appeared only moments later, to report that the guards at the rear wall had been similarly taken care of. As agreed, Walter led Lyons and the two other soldiers to the stable, where the customers' horses and carriages were kept, while Toby took one of the lanterns from the gate and swung it in a circle, as a signal to the other men.

Soon he heard the distant rumble of hoofbeats, which was joined by the sound of the horses being shooed from the stable and courtyard. Walter, Lyons, and the other two soldiers dodged and waved their arms until all the horses had been herded out the gate and scattered down the road. All the while, the music from the building continued uninterrupted, those inside totally unaware of what was happening. Toby and Walter silently directed the arriving troopers to tether their horses outside the front wall, and guards were posted.

Toby extinguished the gate lanterns to discourage any additional customers, and after repeating his warning about avoiding unnecessary gunplay, he led the way to the front door. He knocked and stepped aside, and as soon as the door swung open, he barged in, bowling over the heavyset bouncer before the man could reach into his shoulder holster. Toby barely kept out of the way of the avalanche of soldiers behind him, who finished subduing the bouncer with pistol handles and rifle butts.

The soldiers followed Toby through the vestibule to the inner door, which opened into a lavishly furnished reception room, where the bored-looking musicians, occupying a small stage, were still playing. Some twenty scantily clad American women were seated on couches or dancing with men in front of the stage.

The woman nearest the door, a tall, slender redhead, was wearily going through the motions of dancing with an elderly man three or four inches shorter than she. Her air of grim resignation changed to alarm as she saw Toby and the others barge through the door, all heavily armed, and bearded and dusty from the long ride south.

Conversation abruptly ended, and the music faded into broken, discordant notes, then stopped. Toby glanced

around to make certain there were no armed guards in the room, then motioned to Walter and Lyons to block the other doors. "Everyone remain quiet— silencioso"

Despite his orders, however, exclamations of disbelief or exultant joy rose from several of the women, who apparently realized that the newcomers represented their salvation. More than one of the women burst into tears, while others threw themselves at Tobys men and hugged them. "Let's keep order, please," Toby announced more loudly. "We've got to get you ladies out of here quickly, and it'll be a great help if you'll get the others together. I also need to know where Apodaca is and if there are guards anywhere inside the building."

"I'll show you where he is," the tall redhead volunteered. "He always has two guards, but they're the only ones in the building." She put her hand against her dancing partner's chest and sent him reeling across the dance floor. "I'm Amy Harkness."

"Toby Holt—pleased to meet you, ma'am." Toby instinctively tipped his hat, then raised a hand for quiet. "The sooner you ladies gather the others, the sooner we'll leave. You men give them a hand. And round up all the customers in the place and bring them in here."

The women rushed toward the stairs, while Amy Harkness led Toby to the doorway where Walter was standing guard. Sergeant Lyons and some of the men started herding together the customers already in the room.

"I'll give you a hand with Apodaca and the madam," Amy offered, reaching for Toby's Colt. "She's upstairs, and—"

Toby put his hand on the pistol before the woman could get it. "I understand your feelings, ma'am, but you'd better let us handle this."

Amy did not argue but swiftly led the way through the door and down a hall. "Apodaca s office is around the corner," she whispered when they were near the end of the hall. "You'd best be careful. They might be wondering why the music stopped."

Toby drew his pistol and motioned her back. "All right. You rejoin the other ladies."

Amy hurried back to the reception room. Toby handed Walter his rifle, cocked the pistol, and stepped to the corner. As he did so, he heard heavy footsteps approaching, and suddenly a tall, muscular man strode into view. Looking at Toby in shock, he wheeled around and reached into his coat.

Toby leveled his pistol. "Don't try it."

The guard froze only for an instant, then went for the weapon. Toby squeezed his trigger, and the reverberation of the shot was deafening in the hallway. The bullet slammed into the mans shoulder and knocked him to the floor. Toby snatched up the unfired pistol, which had clattered to the floor.

A quick glance around the corner sent Toby ducking back as the second guard, in the doorway beyond, fired. Toby poked his pistol around the corner and squeezed off two shots in reply.

The guard howled in pain, and Toby darted in a crouch around the corner and aimed. But the man had dropped his pistol and fallen, shot through the leg. The door clicked closed behind him, and Toby heard a key turn in the lock.

Not hesitating an instant, Toby rushed the door and slammed into it with his shoulder. It crashed open, and swiftly recovering his balance, he pointed his pistol at a balding man in an expensive suit who was standing behind a desk, reaching into a drawer. No one else was in the room.

"Don't give me an excuse to kill you, Apodaca."

The Mexican wisely lifted his hands, which sparkled with diamond rings. "If you need an excuse," he returned in English, "then I wont give it to you."

"That's too bad." Toby motioned Walter to guard the doorway. "In case you haven't heard, your friend Calusa Jim is dead. Your days of dealing with him are over."

Apodaca actually smiled. "I'm sorry to hear that. Our arrangement was profitable. I'll have to find another supplier."

The Mexican's insolence enraged Toby, and his finger tightened on the trigger. As much as he longed to end the man's life, however, he was unable to kill in cold blood.

Noticing a large safe in a corner, Toby thought of another way of dealing with Apodaca, who no doubt valued money more than human life. "Lets see just how profitable your arrangement with Calusa Jim actually was. Open that safe."

The Mexican's smug smile disappeared, and his steely eyes revealed fear for the first time. "No. You can kill me, but you can't make me open my safe!"

"Yes, I can." Toby glanced back toward the doorway. "If I give those women a few minutes alone with you, you'll be glad to open it. I don't have time to argue with you, so do as I say or I'll get them in here."

Sweat broke out on Apodaca's brow, and Toby could tell he was torn between avarice and terror. He hesitated only a moment, then crossed to the safe and began twirling the combination dial. An uproar from the reception room carried along the hall, and Toby could hear furniture breaking, women shouting in rage, and a harsh female voice—the madam's, he guessed—cursing in Spanish, then screaming before being stifled. Apodaca opened the safe, and Toby shoved him aside.

In addition to a shelf filled with stacks of peso notes, there were two bags of gold coins, worth tens of thousands of dollars. Toby removed the bags and began tossing the bundles of bills onto the floor. From the doorway, Walter commented that Apodaca apparently distrusted banks.

"Yes, it looks that way, doesn't it?" Toby glanced at the bordello manager. "We can divide the gold up among the ladies. It won't make up for what they've been through, but at least it'll be something."

Sergeant Lyons appeared in the doorway. "We got them all collected together and the ladies outside," he reported. "Though I had a bit of trouble getting our womenfolk to keep their hands off the madam. They found her hiding under a bed."

"Yes, I heard." Toby used his foot to sweep a pile of bills toward the curtained window. "Walter, take Apodaca outside, if you will, and get those wounded guards dragged out, too. Mr. Lyons, I'd appreciate it if you'd put these bags of gold in my saddlebags."

The lieutenant handed Toby back his rifle, then seized

Apodacas collar and shoved him out the door. As Lyons hefted the heavy bags, Toby took a match from Apodacas desk, struck it against the safes door, and threw it atop the stacks of bills beneath the curtains. Toby and Lyons watched the flames begin to leap up the draperies.

Then they hurried back to the reception room, where Toby was surprised to see a large pile of trousers, boots, coats, and shirts in front of the stage. From the smell, the mound had already been soaked with liquor. The bordello's patrons, along with the band members, were huddled near the door, barefoot and clad only in their underwear.

Sergeant Lyons put down one of the bags and took a match from his pocket. "We was thinking along the same lines," he explained with a grin. "I just wish I could hear them explain to their wives what happened to their clothes."

Toby laughed appreciatively. "They'll have plenty of time to come up with excuses. It's a long walk back to the city.''

The men were herded out the door, and Lyons lighted the match and tossed it onto the clothes, then picked up the bag and followed Toby to the door.

Outside, the women were already mounted up, and all the employees of the bordello who were not badly wounded, including Apodaca and the madam, had been tied up and locked into the adobe gatehouse.

"It wasn't easy fitting all of them in there, Sergeant—I mean Mr. Lyons,'' one of the troopers reported, pocketing the key. "And we had them take off their clothes, too, seeing as it's so hot. They'll feel right at home, I reckon."

Lyons commended the man for his initiative, and when everyone was mounted up, Toby took his place at the head of the column. "All right, ladies," he announced, "we're headed for home!"

A chorus of cheers rose in reply, and several women called out in derisive farewell to Apodaca and the madam. The disrobed customers and the band members were already nearly out of sight, stepping gingerly down the road in their bare feet.

A half hour later, from atop a hill many miles to the north, the rescue party paused briefly to look back. The bordello was a distant beacon, fully enveloped in flames.

After descending the other side of the hill, Toby turned the column off the road. Following the escape route he had planned, he led them into a gravelly riverbed, where their tracks would be difficult to follow. After several miles, he turned onto a branch of the riverbed that led north.

Toby felt sure that the women would be willing to endure the hard, steady pace he wished to maintain, and they did not disappoint him. The hours wore on and the moon set, but the women remained uncomplaining as the column continued north at a rapid canter. By dawn they had reached the ravine where Toby had left two troopers with spare horses, food, and other supplies.

After a quick meal, most of the party settled down to rest, while Toby and Walter climbed a hill overlooking the route by which they had come. They scanned the countryside with binoculars, but there was no sign of pursuit.

"Well, it appears our worries are over," Walter concluded. "I'm sure you'll be happy when this business is finished, won't you, Toby?"

"Yes, I will." Toby had already determined that Bill Hawkins's wife, Sarah, was among the women, and that knowledge had helped set his mind at ease. His expression became suddenly thoughtful. "For several months, Walter, I've been putting off an important conversation I intend to have with someone. But I reckon I can't put it off any longer."

"What sort of conversation?" Walter asked. "Or is it a personal matter?"

"It's very personal," Toby replied. "But I don't mind talking about it. The someone happens to be an especially beautiful young lady named Alexandra Woodling. And I intend to ask her to marry me."

Standing on the same pier where she had said goodbye to Marjorie White months before, Cindy Kerr watched while a boat was lowered over the side of the steamer John S. Carver, which had just come to anchor. As the small boat drew nearer, Cindy was shocked to see the change in her friend, who looked pale and exhausted.

The moment the boat touched the pier, Cindy was

there to help Marjorie up the ladder and to embrace her. "Thank you so much for being here," Marjorie said, clearly touched by Cindy's presence. "I can't tell you how grateful and pleased I am."

Cindy kept her arm around her friend as one of the sailors in the boat helped a small, well-dressed native boy up the ladder. The boy gazed around, clearly frightened but also curious, and Marjorie introduced him to Cindy as her friend, Harry. He stuck close to Marjorie, who took his hand and explained to Cindy that he spoke little English.

A crowd of reporters and curious onlookers was waiting outside the shipping company office at the foot of the pier. Cindy told Marjorie that she had the use of Gilbert Paige's house and that his carriage was waiting, if they could get to it.

Leading the way, Cindy shouldered a path through the noisy, milling crowd. Marjorie was barraged with questions, and Cindy, trying to protect her, was jostled from side to side. The carriage driver, Paige's gardener, seeing what was happening, elbowed and shoved his way through to help. In the process he bowled two of the reporters off their feet.

A boatload of sailors had come ashore, and the reporters, giving up on Marjorie, turned their attention back to the pier. The driver helped the two women and Harry into the carriage.

During the drive to Paige's house, Harry had his head craned out the window nearly all the way, while Cindy tried to cheer Marjorie. It was late afternoon when they drew up in front of the red cottage, where the housekeeper, Mrs. Carlson, came out to greet them. Cindy helped Marjorie and Harry get settled in their rooms.

At dinner Cindy noticed that Harry, at least, was adjusting quickly to his new surroundings. Unlike Marjorie, he ate heartily, and although he spoke little, he seemed to understand everything that was said to him. Cindy tried to keep up the conversation, but it was a quiet meal.

Marjorie did talk about the boy, briefly explaining why he was with her, and Cindy wondered what she intended to do with him. Certainly he needed a settled home life and an education. Later, when Harry was in bed

and Cindy was sitting with Marjorie on the back porch, she broached the possibility of sending the boy to Tobys ranch in Portland. Marjorie thanked her but declined.

"One of the officers on the whaler took a liking to him," she explained, "and wants to take him in. But the man felt that he should discuss it with his wife first. If she's agreeable, Harry will live with them."

Cindy asked about the whalers officers, and for the first time, Marjorie seemed eager to talk. She described how close she had become to all the Belugas crew and how much she would miss them. She also spoke fondly of Edward Blackstone, who she said had stayed on in New Zealand, with plans eventually to visit an uncle of his in India. When she fell silent and thoughtful again, Cindy asked her about the photographs she had made on the voyage. Ordinarily Marjorie needed little urging to talk about her photography, but to Cindy's surprise, Marjorie merely replied that she had some good pictures. A short time later she excused herself to go to her room. It suddenly occurred to Cindy that, on the ride back from the Carver, Marjorie had not taken her camera cases with her, which was extremely unusual, since she hardly ever traveled without them.

The next day Cindy and Marjorie walked along the shore. The Maine coastline had a primitive beauty in the warm, late summer months, and Marjorie seemed to appreciate it. Cindy was still concerned, however, that her friend appeared to have lost all interest in her work. She hadn't even shown a reaction when her equipment arrived from town in a wagon that morning, and the only topic she had expressed any feeling about was whether the Belugas crew would have another ship.

That point was resolved the following day, when the whaler's captain came to visit Marjorie. Cindy found Isaac Tench a very pleasant man, and Marjorie seemed greatly pleased when he broke the news that the entire crew had been paid a bonus in compensation for the hardship they had suffered and had been offered to sign on another whaler currently being refitted.

Later that same afternoon, Cindy was gathering a bouquet from the flower garden when a buggy drew up in

front of the house. The short, thin man who stepped out of it appeared to be on his way to a funeral. His expression was grim, and he was wearing a high, starched collar and a severe, old-fashioned black suit. He doffed his hat stiffly to Cindy, then turned to help a woman out of the buggy.

Completely unlike her escort, the woman was graceful and statuesque, some three inches taller and at least fifty pounds heavier than he. She was wearing a bright yellow summer dress and a matching hat that was very becoming on her, and with her rosy complexion, smiling lips, and twinkling blue eyes, she fairly radiated a sunny disposition.

The pair stepped along the path to Cindy. The man doffed his hat again and spoke in a commanding voice. "I am Horatio Cade, ma'am, and this is my wife. Is this where Marjorie White is staying?"

"Yes—yes it is." Put off by the mans blunt tone, Cindy wasn't at all sure that Marjorie would wish to see this particular visitor. "I'm Cindy Kerr, Marjorie's friend."

The man looked away stonily and fell silent, but his wife extended a hand. "We're delighted to meet you, my dear," she said warmly, shaking Cindy's hand. "My name is Henrietta, and you must be the young woman who came all the way from Paris to be with Marjorie, isn't that so? She's had a grievous loss, but there can be no greater blessing in life than to have a friend like you."

The sincerity in the woman's voice made her words doubly flattering, and Cindy felt embarrassed. "You're too kind by far, Mrs. Cade."

"Please call me Henrietta. And here, let me help you with those flowers. There's nothing like flowers to brighten the house and dispel sadness, that's what I say. I love flowers so much, don't you?"

"Very much indeed." Cindy politely tried to include Mr. Cade in the conversation. "Do you like flowers, Mr. Cade?"

"No. I've never found any that are fit to eat."

Cindy gave up the attempt to communicate with the man and led Henrietta toward the house. "Marjorie is in the parlor."

Inside, Henrietta did not wait for her husband to

introduce her but greeted Marjorie warmly, hugged her, and graciously expressed her condolences. When at length she fell silent, her husband stepped forward and shook hands with Marjorie. "I hope you're bucking up. It doesn't do a hand any good to mope about."

They all sat down, and Cindy was about to suggest they have refreshments, when the back door slammed and little Harry came running into the room. A wide grin transformed his face the instant he saw Horatio Cade, and Cindy realized, with some surprise, that the Cades were the couple who were considering adopting the boy. She was startled to see that Cades gruff face had thawed to a smile and that his icy blue eyes had become warm. The boy turned anxiously toward Henrietta, who came to him and, kneeling down, hugged him to her. Watching them, Cindy concluded that Harry had indeed found a home.

Refreshments were served by Mrs. Carlson, and the Cades visited for another hour. Henrietta wanted to take the boy home right away, and Marjorie agreed. Cindy's throat felt tight as she listened to Harry give a little farewell speech to Marjorie in his broken English, and for the first time she realized how deeply attached the two of them had become. Outside, both Marjorie and Harry cried as they waved good-bye.

For the rest of the day, Cindy was concerned about how the boys absence would affect Marjorie. Indeed, Marjorie seemed even quieter than usual, and at dinner that evening she hardly spoke, as if she were deep in thought. The next morning, she did not appear for breakfast, nor was she in her room, and Cindy looked for her with growing alarm. She finally found her in the small back room where her photographic equipment had been stored.

She was sitting beside an opened crate of glass negatives, holding one up to the window to examine it. Cindy, relieved that her friend was showing interest in her work again, stepped into the room. Without comment, Marjorie held out the negative so that Cindy could look at it.

Unaccustomed to the dark, reversed image, Cindy studied it in some confusion before she could make it out. Finally she realized it was the portrait of a fearsome Maori

warrior. "He looks like a savage brute. Is he one of those from the village where you were held?"

"He was the chief," Marjorie said, her throat constricted. "His name was Te Pomore, and he was the one who killed Ted."

Cindy did not know what to say. "Perhaps you should put that one aside and look at others, Marjorie," she finally suggested.

Marjorie wrapped the glass plate in waxed paper and replaced it in the crate. "No, looking at it doesn't make me feel worse than I already do," she said, taking another one from the crate. "I detest him, of course, but it's an excellent negative." She unwrapped the second plate and held it up to the light. "This one is, too. Considering the conditions I had for developing, these negatives are exceptionally good."

"They must be very valuable as well. There can't be many photographs made by someone who was captured by Maoris."

"These are the only ones," Marjorie replied absently. She studied the negative, then rewrapped it and replaced it in the crate. "I'm sure the demand for these will be much greater than it was for my slides of the Great Chicago Fire. They're much more exotic. Is breakfast ready?"

"Yes, dear."

Marjorie stood and straightened her dress. "Well, after breakfast, I'd like to go into town, to see if there's a studio in Waverly or Belfast where I can make proofs of these. It's about time for me to get back to work, I suppose. I have a lot to do."

Taking Marjorie's arm, the two young widows walked to the dining room.

After a maddening delay of two full weeks, during which time he met with various German officials and the American ambassador, Henry Blake finally left Berlin. Bluecher's escape remained a bitter disappointment to him, but at least the trouble the man had been causing was finished, and he was not likely to show his face again in Germany.

When Henry reached Grevenburg, the von Kirchberg

carriage was waiting for him. He felt a comfortable sense of homecoming as he was driven up the road to Grevenhof, and he looked forward with eager anticipation to seeing Gisela and little Peter. He would have several free days before returning to his official duties, and he intended to enjoy every hour to the utmost.

The instant he stepped into the mansion, however, he knew that something was wrong. The butler was unusually somber and merely glanced at the bandage on Henrys cheek before informing him grimly that the baroness was in her rooms.

"Is she ill?" Henry asked anxiously.

"Yes, sir."

"Is it—?"

"Yes, it is her illness, sir."

Icy fear gripped Henry as he bounded up the stairs and rushed through the sitting room to her bedroom. Gisela was propped up in bed, and her face was pale and drawn with pain. Dr. MacAlister was standing at the window.

Gisela smiled and lifted her arms as Henry moved to her. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he gently took her into his arms and kissed her. She touched the bandage on his face. "What happened to you, loved one?"

"Its nothing." He looked up at MacAlister. "How long has she been like this?"

The doctor started to reply, but Gisela interrupted him impatiently. "Heinrich, I must know what happened to you!"

Henrys temporary annoyance swiftly faded. "A piece of rock hit me. I was fortunate, however, that it struck my head. I have lived so long among Prussians, you see, that it merely bounced off." He lifted her hand and kissed her palm. "The wound is almost healed, Gisela. Now are you satisfied?"

Still frowning, Gisela fell silent, and the doctor answered Henry's question. "The onset was three days ago, Captain Blake."

"Three days!" Henry could hardly restrain his anger. "I telegraphed yesterday from Berlin that I was returning. Why was I not informed?"

The feisty Scot reddened. "Because, sir, the baroness forbade me to tell you!"

"I thought I would feel better before you arrived," Gisela explained. "And now that you are here, I am so happy that I'm certain my illness will pass quickly. That wound will leave a scar on your handsome face, won't it? That is too bad, but I suppose such things are unavoidable for a soldier."

Henry walked to the window and spoke to the doctor in a lowered voice. "How bad is this attack, compared with other times?"

MacAlister shook his head. "Her condition is not improving. I consider it very serious, Captain Blake."

"The most serious that she's had?"

"Yes, I consider it so."

MacAlister's tone and manner were grim, holding out little hope, and Henry realized that the time he had been dreading for years had finally come. He thought about Dr. Robert Martin and Janessa Holt, and what John Lawrence had told him concerning the operation they had performed.

"Can she travel?"

"It would be unwise." MacAlister frowned, obviously knowing what Henry was contemplating. "She needs undisturbed rest, and a long journey would be very dangerous for her."

Henry was well aware of the obstacles involved, not the least of which was Janessa Holts hatred of him. Yet the old doctor and the girl were his only hope—Gisela's only hope.

He looked at Gisela, who had overheard the doctor's last words. "Long journey?" she repeated. "What long journey? What are you two talking about behind my back?"

Henry had never told Gisela what he had learned from Lawrence, but now, seeing the pallor of her features, he knew that he could no longer withhold the truth. The distance between Germany and Oregon was vast, and not an hour more could be wasted. He only hoped that it wasn't already too late.

Coming in Spring 1989

WAGONS WEST VOLUME XXIII

OKLAHOMA!

by Dana Fuller Ross

The great American epic continues in volume twenty-three of the landmark series that has made publishing history with more than 25,000,000 copies in print.

Intrepid Toby Holt, frontiersman and businessman extraordinaire, is called upon to bring peace to an Oklahoma town torn apart by violence and greed . . .

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