THE CARPETBAGGERS - 03

THE CARPETBAGGERS
HAROLD ROBBINS

(  INSTALMENT 3  )


NINE 


"MY GOD!" THE WARDEN HAD SAID WHEN THEY brought Max into his office. "What do they think they're doin' down there? This is a prison, not a reform school!"

"Don't let his looks fool you none, Warden," the tobacco-chewing deputy said, throwing the papers on the desk for the warden to sign. "He's a mean one, all right. He killed a man down in New Orleans."

The warden picked up the papers. "What's he up for? Murder?"

"Nope," the deputy replied. "Unlawful use of a weapon. He beat the murder rap—self-defense." He let go a wad into the spittoon. "This guy caught him in some fancy lady's bedroom."

"I was the lady's bodyguard, Warden," Max said.

The warden looked up at him shrewdly. "That didn't give you the right to kill a man."

"I had to, Warden," Max said. "He was comin' at me with a knife an' I had to defend myself. I had no clothes on."

"That's right, Warden." The deputy cackled lewdly. "Naked as a jaybird he was."

"Sounds like a genuine case of self-defense to me," the warden said. "How come they hang a bum one like this on him?"

"It was a cousin of the Darcys he croaked," the deputy said quickly.

"Oh," the warden said. That explained everything. The Darcys were pretty important people in New Orleans. "In that case, you're lucky you didn't get the book." He signed the papers and pushed them across the desk. "Here y'are, Deputy."

The deputy picked up the papers and unlocked Max's handcuffs. "So long, rooster."

The warden got to his feet heavily. "How old are you, boy?"

" 'Bout nineteen, I reckon," Max answered.

"That's kinda young to be bodyguardin' one of them fancy women down in New Orleans," the warden said. "How'd you come to that?"

"I needed a job when I got out of the Army," Max answered. "An' she wanted someone who was fast with a gun. I was fast enough, I reckon."

"Too fast," the warden said. He walked around the desk. "I'm a fair man but I don't hold with no trouble-makers. You-all just get up every mornin', do your work like you're tol' an' you'll have no trouble with me."

"I understand, Warden," Max said.

The warden walked to the door of his office. "Mike!" he roared.

A giant Negro trusty stuck his head in the door. "Yassuh, Warden."

"Take this new man out and give him ten lashes."

The surprise showed on Max's face.

"There's nothin' personal in it," the warden said quickly. "An ounce of prevention, I always say. It kinda sticks in your mind if you ever think about makin' any trouble." He walked back around his desk.

"C'mon, boy," the Negro said.

The door closed behind them and they started down the corridor. The trusty's voice was warm and comforting. "Don' you worry none about them lashes, boy," he said. "I knocks you out with the first one an' you never feels the other nine!"

Max had reached New Orleans about Mardi Gras time early that year. The streets were filled with laughing, shoving people and somehow he absorbed the warmth of their mood. Something about the whole town got inside him and he decided to stay over a day or two before riding on to West Texas.

He put his horse in a livery stable, checked into a small hotel and went down into the Latin Quarter, looking for excitement.

Six hours later, he threw down a pair of tens to three sevens and that was that. He had lost his money, his horse, everything but the clothes on his back. He pushed his chair back and got to his feet.

"That cleans me, gents," he said. "I’ll go roun' to the stable an' fetch my hoss."

One of the gamblers looked up at him. "May I be so bold as to inquire, suh, what you intend to do after that?" he asked in his soft Southern accent.

Max shrugged and grinned. "I dunno. Get a job, I reckon."

"What kind of job?"

"Any kind. I'm pretty good with hosses. Punch cattle. Anything."

The gambler gestured at Max's gun. "Any good with that?"

"Some."

The gambler got to his feet casually. "Lady Luck wasn't very kind to you tonight."

"You didn' help her much," Max said.

The gambler's hand streaked toward his coat. He froze, staring into the muzzle of Max's gun. It had come out so fast that he hadn't even sensed the motion.

"A man can get killed doin' foolish things like that," Max said softly.

The gambler's face relaxed into a smile. "You are good," he said respectfully.

Max slipped his gun back into the holster. "I think I've got a job for you," the gambler said. "That is if you don't mind working for a lady."

"A job's a job," Max said. "This ain't no time to be gettin' choosy."

The next morning, Max and the gambler sat in the parlor of the fanciest house in New Orleans. A Creole maid came into the room. "Miss Pluvier will see you now." She curtsied. "If you will please follow me."

They followed her up a long, gracious staircase. The maid opened a door and curtsied as they walked through, then closed the door after them. Max took two steps into the room and stopped in his tracks, gawking.

He had never seen a room like this. Everything was white. The silk-covered walls, the drapes at the windows, the woodwork, the furniture, the canopy of shimmering silk over the bed. Even the carpet that spread lushly over the floor was white.

"Is this the young man?" a soft voice asked.

Max turned in the direction of the voice. The woman surprised him even more than the room. She was tall, almost as tall as he was, and her face was young, very young; but her hair was what did it more than anything else. It was long, almost to her waist, and white, blue-white like strands of glistening satin.

The gambler spoke in a respectful voice. "Miss Pluvier, may I present Max Sand."

Miss Pluvier studied Max for a moment. "How do you do?"

Max nodded his head. "Ma'am."

Miss Pluvier walked around him, looking at him from all angles. "He seems rather young," she said doubtfully.

"He's extremely capable, I assure you," the gambler said. "He's a veteran of the recent war with Spain."

She raised her hand carelessly, interrupting his speech. "I'm sure his qualifications are satisfactory if you recommend him," she said. "But he does seem rather dirty."

"I just rode in from Florida, ma'am," Max said, finding his voice.

"His figure is rather good, though." She continued as if he hadn't spoken. She walked around him again. "Very broad shoulders, almost no hips at all. He should wear clothes well. I think he'll do."

She walked back to the dressing table where she had been standing. She turned to face them. "Young man," she asked, "do you know what you're supposed to do?"

Max shook his head. "No, ma'am."

"You're to be my bodyguard," she said matter-of-factly. "I have a rather large establishment here. Downstairs, we have several gaming rooms for gentlemen. Of course, we provide other discreet entertainments. Our house enjoys the highest reputation in the South and as a result, many people are envious of us. Sometimes, these people go to extremes in their desire to cause trouble. My friends have persuaded me to seek protection."

"I see, ma'am," Max said.

Her voice became more businesslike. "My hours will be your hours," she said, "and you will live here with us. Your wages will be a hundred dollars a month. Twenty dollars a month will be deducted for room and board. And under no circumstances are you to have anything to do with any of the young ladies who reside here."

Max nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Miss Pluvier smiled. She turned to the gambler. "Now, if you will be kind enough to take him to your tailor and have six suits made for him—three white and three black—I think everything will be in order."

The gambler smiled. "I’ll attend to it right away."

Max followed him. At the door, he stopped and looked back. She was seated at the dressing table in front of the mirror, brushing her hair. Her eyes glanced up and caught his. "Thank you, ma'am," he said.

"Please call me Miss Pluvier," she said coldly.

******

It was after three o'clock one morning when Max came into the foyer from the gaming rooms on his nightly tour of inspection. Already, the cleaning women were busy in the downstairs rooms. He paused at the front door.

"Everythin' locked up, Jacob?" he asked the tall Negro doorman.

"Tighter'n a drum, Mistuh Sand."

"Good," Max smiled as he started for the staircase, then stopped and looked back. "Did Mr. Darcy leave?"

"No, suh," the Negro replied. "He spendin' the night with Miss Eleanor. You don' have to worry, though. I move 'em to the gol' room."

Max nodded and started up the staircase. Darcy had been his only problem the last few months. The young man was determined not to be satisfied until he had spent a night with the mistress of the house. And tonight he had been rather unpleasant about it.

Max stopped at the top of the stairway. He knocked at a door and went in. His employer was seated at her dressing table, a maid brushing her hair. Her eyes met his in the mirror.

"Everythin's locked up, Miss Pluvier," he said.

Her eyebrows raised questioningly. "Darcy?"

"In the gold room with Eleanor at the other end of the house."

"Bon." She nodded.

Max stood there looking at her, his face troubled. She saw his expression in the mirror and waved the maid from the room. "You are disturbed, chéri?"

He nodded. "It's Darcy," he admitted. "I don't like the way he's actin'. I think we ought to bar him."

"La." She laughed. "We can't do that. The family is too important."

She laughed again happily and came toward him. She placed her arms around his neck and kissed him. "My young Indien is jealous." She smiled. "Do not worry about him. He will forget about it soon. All young men do. I have seen it happen before."

A little while later, he lay beside her on the big white bed, his eyes delighting in the wonder of her lovely body. He felt her fingers stroking him gently, reawakening the fires inside him. He closed his eyes.

He felt her soft lips brushing his flesh; her whispering voice seemed to float upward to him. "Mon coeur, mon indien, mon chéri." He heard the soft sounds of her pleasure as she raised her lips from him. Through his almost closed lids he could see the blurred sensuality of her face.

"The weapon you carry has turned into a cannon," she murmured, her fingers still stroking him gently.

His hand reached out and stroked her hair. An expression of almost frightened ecstasy came into her face and he closed his eyes. He could feel the trembling begin deep inside him. How could a woman know so much? From what deep spring could such a fountain of pleasure come? He caught his breath. It was almost unbearable, this strange delight. It was like nothing he had ever known.

There was a soft sound at the door. He turned his head slightly, wondering what it could be. Suddenly, the door burst open and Darcy was there in the room.

He felt her roll away from him as he sat up; then her voice from the foot of the bed: "Get out of here, you damned idiot!"

Darcy stared at her stupidly. He weaved slightly, his eyes bewildered. His hand came out of his pocket and a shower of bills fell to the floor. "See, I brought a thousand dollars with me," he said drunkenly.

She got out of the bed. She stormed toward him regally, unaware of her nudity. She raised a hand, pointing to the door. "Get out, I said!"

Darcy just stood there staring at her. "My God," he mumbled huskily. "I want you."

Max finally found his voice. "You heard Miss Pluvier," he said. "Get out."

For the first time, Darcy became aware of him. His face began to flush with anger. "You," he said thickly. "You! All the time I was begging, pleading, it was you. You were laughing at me all the time!"

A knife appeared in his hand suddenly. He thrust quickly and Max rolled off the bed to the floor as the knife stabbed the satin sheets. Max snatched a pillow from the bed and held it in front of him as he backed toward the chair from which his gun hung.

Darcy's eyes were glazed with rage. "You were laughing all the time," he mumbled. "Every time you did it you were laughing at me."

"You better get out of here before you get hurt," Max said.

Darcy shook his head. "And have you laugh at me some more? Oh, no. This time I'm going to do the laughing."

He lunged with the knife again. This time it caught in the pillow and he fell against Max, who was shoved against the wall. The gun went off, and a look of surprise came over Darcy's face as he slumped to his knees, then sprawled out on the floor. The naked woman stared at Max. Quickly she knelt beside Darcy. She reached for his pulse, then dropped his hand. "You didn't have to kill him, you fool!" she said angrily.

Max looked at her. Her breasts heaved excitedly and there was a fine moisture in the valley between them. He had never seen her look so beautiful. "What was I supposed to do?" he asked. "He was comin' at me with a knife!"

"You could have knocked him out!" she snapped.

"What was I supposed to hit him with?" he snapped back, feeling the anger rise in him. "My cannon?"

She stood very still for a moment, staring at him. Then she turned and walked to the door. She looked out into the hallway. The house was quiet. The shot had been muffled by the pillow. Slowly she closed the door and came back toward him.

He stood there watching the blurred, sensual look come back into her face. She sank to her knees before him, and he felt her lips press against his thighs. "Do not be angry with Anne-Louise, my stalwart, wild stallion," she whispered. "Make love to me."

He reached down to lift her to the bed. But she held his arms. "No," she said, pulling him down to the floor beside her. "Here."

They made love for the last time on the floor, lying next to a dead man. In the morning, Anne-Louise Pluvier calmly turned him over to the police.


TEN 


THE EAST, WEST AND SOUTH OF THE PRISON WAS bounded by a swamp, along which the cypresses rose high and spilled their leaves onto the murky surface of the water. The only way out was to the north, across the rice paddies tended by Cajun tenant farmers. There was a small village eighteen miles north of the prison and it was here that most prisoners trying to escape were caught and brought back to the prison by the Cajuns for the ten-dollar bounty offered by the state. Those who were not caught were presumed dead in the swamp. There had been only two such cases reported in the prison's twenty years of operation.

One morning in May, after Max had been there a few months, the guard checking out his hut reported to one of the trusties the absence of a prisoner named Jim Reeves.

The trusty looked around. "He ain't here?"

"He ain't out in the latrines, neither," the guard said. "I looked."

"He's gone, then," the trusty said. "I reckon he went over the wall in the night."

"That Jim Reeves sure is a fool," the guard said softly. He turned on his heel. "I better go tell the warden."

They were lined up in front of the kitchen, getting their coffee and grits, when Max saw one of the guards ride out of the prison and start up the road toward the village.

He sat down against the wall of one of the huts and watched the guard disappear up the road while he ate. Mike, the giant Negro trusty who had given him ten lashes the day he arrived, came over and sat down beside him.

Max looked over at the trusty. "That all the fuss they make over a man gettin' out?"

Mike nodded, his mouth filled with grits. "What you expec' them to do?" he asked.

"They'll git him back. You wait and see."

He was right. The next morning, while they were at breakfast again, Jim Reeves came back. He was sitting in a wagon between two Cajuns, who carried their long rifles in the crooks of their arms. The prisoners looked up at him silently as he rode by.

When they came back from their work in the evening, Jim Reeves was tied naked to the whipping post. Silently the trusties led the prisoners to the compound, so that they could view the punishment before they had their meal.

The warden stood there until all the prisoners were in line. "You men know the penalty for attempted escape—ten lashes and fifteen days in the cage for each day out." He turned to Mike, standing next to him. "I don't want him knocked out. He must be conscious so he can rue the folly of his action."

Mike nodded stolidly and stepped forward. The muscles along his back rippled and the long snake wrapped itself lightly around the prisoner. It seemed to caress him almost gently, but when Mike lifted it from the victim's back, a long red welt of blood bubbled and rose to the surface.

A moment later, the prisoner screamed. The snake rippled around him again. This time, his scream was pure agony. The prisoner fainted three times before the lashing was completed. Each time, the warden stepped forward and had a pail of water thrown into his face to revive him, then ordered the lashing continued.

At the end, Jim Reeves hung there from the post, unconscious. Blood dripped down his back from his shoulders, across his buttocks and the top of his thighs.

"Cut him down and put him in the cage," the warden said.

Silently the men broke ranks and formed a food line. Max looked at the cage as he got on the line. The cage was exactly that — steel bars forming a four-foot cubicle. There was room to neither walk, stand or even stretch out full length. There was only space enough to sit or crouch on all fours like an animal. There was no shelter from the sun or the elements.

For the next thirty days, Jim Reeves would live there like an animal—without clothing, without medical attention, with only bread and water for his food. He would live there in the midst of his pain and his excrement and there was no one who would speak to him or dare give him aid, under penalty of the same punishment.

Max took his plate of meat and beans around to the side of the hut, where he would not have to look at the cage. He sank to the ground and began to eat slowly.

Mike sat down next to him. The big Negro's face was sweating. He began to eat silently. Max looked at him and couldn't eat any more. He pushed his plate away from him, rolled a
cigarette and lit it.

"You ain't hungry, man?" Mike asked. "I'll eat that there food."

Max stared at him for a moment, then silently turned the plate over, spilling the contents on the ground.

Mike stared at him in surprise. "What for you do that, man?" he asked.

"Now I know why you stay here as a trusty instead of leavin' like you should," Max said.
"You're evenin' up with the whole world when you swing that snake."

A look of understanding came into the trusty's eyes. "So that's what you' thinkin'," he said softly.

"That's what I'm thinkin'," Max said coldly.

The Negro looked into Max's eyes. "You don' know nothin'," he said slowly. "Years ago, when I first got here, I seen a man git a beatin' like that. When they cut him down, he was all tore up, front an' back. He died less'n two days after. Ain't a man died since I took the rope. Tha's more'n twelve years now. An' if you looked close, you would have seen they ain't a mark on the front of him, nor one lash laid over the other. I know they's lots of things wrong about my job, but somebody's gotta do it. An' it mought as well be me, because I don' like hurtin' folks. Not even pricks like Jim Reeves."

Max stared down at the ground, thinking about what he had just heard. A glimmer of understanding began to lighten the sourness in his stomach. Silently he pushed his sack of makings toward the trusty. Without speaking, Mike took it and rolled himself a cigarette. Quietly the two men leaned their heads back against the hut, smoking.

Jim Reeves came into the hut. It was a month since he had been carried out of the cage, encrusted in his own filth, bent over, his eyes wild like an animal's. Now his eyes searched the dark, then he came over to the bunk where Max lay stretched out and tapped him on the shoulder. Max sat up.

"I got to get outa here," he said.

Max stared at him in the dark. "Don't we all?"

"Don't joke with me, Injun," Reeves said harshly. "I mean it."

"I mean it, too," Max said. "But ain't nobody made it yet."

"I got a way figured out," Reeves said. "But it takes two men to do it. That's why I come to you."

"Why me?" Max asked. "Why not one of the men on a long stretch?"

"Because most of them are city men," Reeves said, "and we wouldn' last two days in the swamp."

Max swung into a sitting position. "Now I know you're crazy," he said. "Nobody can get th'ough that swamp. It's forty miles of quicksand, alligators, moccasins an' razorbacks. The only way is north, past the village."

A bitter smile crossed Reeves's face. "That's what I thought," he said. "It was easy, over the fence and up the road. Easy, I thought. They didn' even call out the dogs. They didn' have to. Every damn Cajun in the neighborhood was out lookin' for me."

He knelt by the side of Max's bunk. "The swamp," he said. "That's the only way. I got it figured out. We get a boat an'—"

"A boat!" Max said. "Where in hell we goin' to get a boat?"

"It'll take time," Reeves said cautiously. "But ricin' time is comin' up. Warden leases us out to the big planters then. Prison labor is cheap an' the warden pockets the money. Them rice paddies is half filled with water. There's always boats around."

"I don't know," Max said doubtfully.

Reeves's eyes were glowing like an animal's. "You want to lose two whole years of your life in this prison, boy? You got that much time just to throw away?"

"Let me think about it," Max said hesitantly. "I’ll let you know."

Reeves slipped away in the dark as Mike came into the hut. The trusty made his way directly to Max's bunk. "He been at you to go th'ough the swamp with him?" he asked.

The surprise showed in Max's voice. "How'd you know?"

"He's been at ev'ybody in the place an' they all turned him down. I figgered he'd be gettin' to you soon."

"Oh," Max said.

"Don' do it, boy," the giant trusty said softly. "No matter how good it looks, don' do it. Reeves is so full of hate, he don' care who gets hurt so long as he gets out."

Max stretched out on the bunk. His eyes stared up into the dark. The only thing that made sense in what Reeves had said was the two years. Max didn't have two years to throw away. Why, in two years, he'd be twenty-one.


ELEVEN



"MAN, THIS IS REAL FOOD," MIKE SAID ENTHUSIASTICALLY AS HE SAT DOWN BESIDE MAX, his plate piled high with fat back, chitterlings, collard greens and potatoes.

Max looked over at him wearily. Stolidly he pushed the food into his mouth. It was better than the prison food, all right. They didn't see as much meat in a week as they had on their plates right now. But he wasn't hungry. He was tired, bent-over tired from pulling at the rice all day. He didn't think he'd ever straighten out.

Reeves and another prisoner sat down on the other side of him. Reeves looked over his plate at him, his mouth working over the fat meat. "Picked yourself a gal yet, boy?"

Max shook his head. They were there all right. Cajun girls, young and strong, with their short skirts and muscular thighs and legs. Plenty of them, all over the fields, working side by side with the men, their hair flying and their teeth flashing and the female smell of them always in your nostrils. It didn't seem to matter to them that the men were prisoners. Only that they were men and for once there were enough of them to go around.

"I'm too tired," Max said. He put his plate down and rubbed his ankle. It was sore from the leg iron and walking in the water all day.

"I'm not," the prisoner next to Reeves said. "I been savin' up my hump a whole year for this week. I'm gonna git me enough to last me till nex' yeah."

"Better not pass it up, Injun," Reeves said. "There ain't nothin' in this world like Cajun girls."

"Man, that's the truth," the other prisoner said excitedly.

"You got one picked out?" Reeves asked across Max to Mike. His eyes were cold and baleful.

Mike didn't answer. He just kept eating.

Reeves's face darkened. "I seen you out there on the field. Walkin' up an' down with that rifle in your hands. Showin' the girls what you got in them tight pants."

Mike still didn't reply. He began to wipe up the gravy in his plate with pieces of bread.

Reeves's laugh was nasty. "There's always some half-wit girl lookin' for a big buck nigger with a cock as long as my arm. An' I bet you just can't wait to stick it into some white girl. That's all you niggers think of, stickin' it in white women."

Mike stuck the last piece of bread into his mouth and swallowed it. Regretfully he looked down at the empty plate and got to his feet. "Man, that was sho' good."

"I’m talkin' to you, nigger," Reeves said.

For the first time, Mike looked down at him. Almost lazily he bent over Max and with one hand picked Reeves up by the throat. He held him writhing in the air at the level of his head. "You talkin' to me, jailbird?"

Reeves quaked, his voice choking in his throat.

Mike began to shake Reeves gently. "Remember one thing, jailbird," he said. "I'm a trusty an' you' jus' a prisoner. You likes stayin' healthy, you better learn to shut you' mouth."

Reeves's arms flailed helplessly in the air. His face was almost purple. Mike shook him a few more times, then casually flung him at the wall of the bunkhouse, about five feet away.

Reeves crashed against the wall and slid down it to the floor. His eyes glared at Mike. His lips moved but no sound escaped them.

Mike smiled at him. "You' learnin', jailbird," he said. "You' learnin'." He picked up his empty plate. "I'm goin' see if I can't scrounge me some more of these eats. I swear if they ain't the best I ever tasted."

Reeves struggled to his feet as the trusty walked away. "I'll kill him!" he swore tightly. "Honest to God, someday before I get out of here, I'll kill that nigger!"

There was an air of expectancy in the bunkhouse that night. Max was stretched out on his bunk and the feeling was contagious. Suddenly, he wasn't tired any more. He couldn't sleep.

The guard had come and checked the leg irons, fastening each man to the bed post. He had gone to the door and stood there for a moment. Then he laughed into the dark and went out.

Almost immediately, Max heard the scratch of a match, then a faint glow spread through the darkness. Max turned toward the light. Somehow one of the men had got a candle. It burned almost gaily at the head of his bed.

There was a subdued sound of laughter in the room. Max heard a voice say, "At leas' this time we can see what they look like."

"I don't care what they look like," another voice answered quickly, "as long as they got big tits."

Still another voice said raucously, "Your pecker won't know what to do, it's so used to yoh lily-white hand."

A soft laughter rippled through the room. About a half hour passed. Max could hear the sounds of restless movements, men twisting anxiously in their bunks.

"You reckon maybe they won't show up?" a voice asked nervously.

"They'll show up, all right," another prisoner replied. "They been waitin' for this as long as we have."

"Sweet Jesus." An anguished voice came from the far end of the room. "I can't hold it no more. All day long I been thinkin' about them women, about tonight— " His voice trailed off in a hoarse moan.

For a moment, the room filled with the sounds of the men turning restlessly in their bunks. Max felt the sweat come out on his forehead and his heart began to beat heavily. He rolled over on his stomach, feeling the sweet, heavy warmth suddenly spread into his loins. For a moment he writhed, caught in the fire of a wild desire, then angrily he forced himself to turn over. He rolled a cigarette with trembling fingers. He felt shreds of the tobacco fall around him but he finally lit it and dragged the smoke deep into his lungs.

"They ain't comin'," a voice cried, almost on the verge of tears.

"They ain't nothin' but a bunch of cock-teasers!" another voice said angrily. "T’ hell with them."

Max lay quietly in his bunk, letting the smoke trickle through his nostrils. The candle sputtered and flickered out and now the bunkhouse was pitch black. Mike's voice came softly from the next bunk. "How you doin' boy?"

"All right."

"Gimme a drag of that there butt."

Their hands touched briefly as Max silently held the cigarette out. The cigarette glowed and cast a faint shine over Mike's face as he dragged on it.

"Don' worry, boy." His voice was soft and reassuring. "They'll show up any moment now the candle's out. What those damn fools can't seem to understan' is them women don' want to see 'em, anymore'n they want theyselves to be seen."

A moment later, the bunkhouse door opened and the women began to come in. They entered silently, their bare feet making the faintest whisper on the floor.

Max turned in his bunk, hoping he could catch a glimpse of the one that would come to him. But all he could see were shadows that entered and then were lost in the dark. A hand touched his face. He started.

"Are you young or old?" a voice whispered.

"Young," he whispered back.

Her hand found his and brought it to her cheek. For a moment, his fingers explored her face gently. Her skin was soft and warm. He felt her lips tremble beneath his fingers. "Do you want me to stay with you?" she whispered.

"Yes."

Swiftly she came into the bunk beside him and he buried his head to the softness of her bosom. A great warmth and gentleness welled up inside him.

As if from a great distance, he heard a man across the room begin to cry softly. "My darling," he said, "my darling wife. You don't know how I've missed you."

Max turned his face up to the woman. As she bent to kiss his lips, he felt the tears rolling down her cheeks and he knew that she also had heard.

He closed his eyes. How could he tell this woman he couldn't even see what he felt? How could he tell her she brought kindness and love into this room?

"Thank you," he whispered gratefully. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

******

On the fourth day at the rice fields, Reeves came over to him. "I been wanting to talk to you," he said quickly. "But I had to wait until that damn nigger wasn't around. I got a boat!"

"What?"

"Keep yer voice down," Reeves said harshly. "It's all arranged. It'll be in that big clump of cypresses south of the prison the day after we get back."

"How d'you know?"

"I got it fixed with my girl," Reeves said.

"You sure she ain't jobbin' you?"

"I'm sure," Reeves answered quickly. "These Cajun girls all want the same thing. I told her I'd take her to New Orleans with me if she helped me escape. The boat'll be there. Her place is out to the middle of nowhere. It'll be a perfect place to hide out until they stop lookin' for us."

He glanced up quickly and began to move off.

That evening, Mike sat down next to Max at chow. For a long time, there were only the sounds of eating, the scraping of spoons on plates.

"You goin' with Reeves now that he got his boat?" Mike asked suddenly.

Max stared at him. "You know that already?"

Mike smiled. "Ain' no secrets in a place like this."

"I don' know," Max said.

"Believe me, boy," the Negro said sincerely, "thirty days in the cage is a lot longer than the year an' a half you got to go."

"But maybe we’ll make it."

"You won't make it," Mike said sadly. "Fust thing the warden does is get out the dogs. They don' get you, the swamp will."

"How would he know we went by the swamp?" Max asked quickly. "You wouldn' tell him?"

The Negro's eyes had a hurt expression. "You knows better'n that, boy. I may be a trusty, but I ain't no fink. The warden's gonna know all by himself. One man allus goes by the road. Two men allus goes by the swamp. It's like it was the rule."

Max was silent as he dragged on his cigarette.

"Please don' go, boy," Mike said. "Don' do nothin' to make me have to hurt you. I want to be you' friend."

Max looked at him, then smiled slowly. He reached out his hand and rested it on the big man's shoulder. "No matter what," he said seriously, "you're my friend."

"You goin'," Mike said. "You' mind's made up." Mike got to his feet and walked off slowly.

Max looked after him, puzzled. How could Mike know what he himself didn't know? He got to his feet and scraped off his plate.

But it wasn't until he was over the fence the next night and racing madly toward the clump of cypresses with Reeves at his side that he knew how right Mike had been.

Then Reeves was scrambling around at the foot of the cypresses, sunk half to his knees to the murky swamp water, swearing. "The bitch! The no-good lying Cajun whore!"

There was no boat there.


TWELVE 


THEY PUSHED THEIR WAY THROUGH THE REEDS, sloshing in the water up to their waist, and up onto a hummock. They sank to their haunches, their chests heaving, their lungs gulping in great mouthfuls of air. From a great distance, they could hear the baying of a hound.

Reeves slapped at the insects around his head. "They're gaining on us," he mumbled through swollen lips.

Max looked at his companion. Reeves's face was swollen and distorted from insect bites, his clothing torn. Reeves stared back at him balefully. "How do you know we ain't been goin' in circles? Three days now and we ain't seen nothing."

"That's how I know. If we was goin' in circles, we woulda run into them sure."

"I can't keep this up much longer," Reeves said. "I'm goin' crazy from bug bites. I'm ready to let 'em take me."

"Maybe you are," Max said, "but I ain't. I ain't got this far to go back an' sit in a cage." He got to his feet. "Come on. We rested enough."

Reeves looked over at him. "How come them bugs don't bother you?" he asked resentfully. "It mus' be your Injun blood or somethin'."

"Might be," Max said. "Also might be that I don't scratch at 'em. Come on."

"Can't we stay here for the night?" Reeves complained.

"Uh-uh," Max said. "We got another two hours of daylight. That's another mile. Let's go."

He pushed off into the water. He didn't look back, but a moment later, he heard Reeves splash into the water behind him. It was almost dark when he found another hummock.

Reeves sprawled flat on the ground. Max looked down at him. For a moment, he felt almost sorry for him, then he remembered the fierce hatreds that flamed in Reeves and he wasn't sorry any more. He'd known what he was doing.

Max took out his knife and hacked swiftly at one of the long canes. He sharpened the end to a pointed spear. Then he sloshed out into the water. He stood there motionlessly for almost fifteen minutes, until he saw an indistinct shape swimming under the surface. He held his breath, waiting for it to come closer. It did and he moved swiftly. The spear flashed into the water.

He felt the pull against his arms as he lifted the spear free of the water. A large, squirming catfish was impaled on the tip.

"We got a good one this time," he said, returning to Reeves. He squatted down beside him and began to skin the fish.

Reeves sat up. "Start a fire," he said. "We'll cook this one."

Max was already chewing on a piece. He shook his head. "The smell of a fire carries for miles."

Reeves got to his feet angrily. "I don't give a damn," he snarled, his face flushing. "I ain't no damn Injun like you. I'm cookin' my fish."

He scrambled around, gathering twigs. At last, he had enough to start a small fixe. His hand groped in his pocket for matches. He found one and scraped it on a log. It didn't light. Angrily he scraped it again. He stared at the match. "They're still wet," he said.

"Yeah," Max answered, still chewing stolidly on the fish. It was rubbery and oily but he chewed it slowly, swallowing only a little at a time.

"You c'n start a fire," Reeves snapped.

Max looked up at him. "How?"

"Injun style," Reeves said, "rubbin’ two sticks together."

Max laughed. "It won't work. The wood's too damp." He picked up a piece of the fish and held it up toward Reeves. "Here, eat it. It ain't so bad if you chew it slow."

Reeves took the fish and squatted down beside Max, then began to chew on it. After a moment, he spat it out. "I can't eat it." He was silent for a moment, his arms wrapped around himself. "It's gettin' damn cold out here," he said, shivering slightly.

Max looked at him. It wasn't that cold. Faint beads of perspiration stood out on Reeves's face and he was beginning to tremble.

"Lay down," Max said. "I’ll cover you with grass—that'll keep you warm."

Reeves stretched out and Max bent down and touched his face. It was hot with fever.
Max straightened up slowly and went to cut some more grass.

It was a hell of a time for Reeves to come down with malaria. Reluctantly he took one of his matches from its oilskin wrapping and lighted a fire.

Reeves continued to shake spastically beneath the blanket of swamp grass and moan through his chattering teeth. Max glanced up at the sky. The night was almost gone. Unconsciously he sighed. He wondered how long it would take for the warden to catch up with them now.

He dozed, swaying slightly, as he sat. A strange sound hit his subconscious and suddenly he was awake.

He reached for his fishing spear and crouched down. The sound came again. Whatever it was, it was large. He heard the sound again, closer this time. His legs drew up beneath him. He was set to lunge the spear. It wasn't much but it was the only weapon he had.

Then Mike was standing there casually, his rifle crooked in his arm. "You' a damn fool, boy," he said. "Shoulda knowed better'n to light a fire out here."

Max got to his feet. He could feel fatigue spread over him now that it was over. He gestured to the sick man. "He got the fever."

Mike walked over to Reeves. "Sure 'nough," he said, his voice marveling. "That warden, he was right. He figgered Reeves would get it after three days in the swamp."

Mike sat down next to the fire and warmed his hands. "Man but that fire sure do feel good," he said. "You should'n'a waited aroun'."

"What else could I do?"

"He would'n'a waited if it was you."

"But it wasn' me," Max said.

The Negro looked down at the ground. "Maybe you better git goin' now, boy."

Max stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Git goin'," Mike said harshly.

"But the rest of the posse?"

"They won' catch up fo' a couple of hours," Mike said. "They be satisfied catchin' Reeves."

Max stared at him, then looked off into the swamp. After a moment, he shook his head. "I can't do it," he said.

"You' a bigger fool than I thought, boy," Mike said heavily. " 'Twas him, he'd be off in the swamp now."

"We busted out together," Max answered. "It's only fittin' we go back together."

"All right, boy," Mike said in a resigned voice. He got to his feet. "Drown that fire."

Max kicked the fire into the water, where it sputtered and died. He glanced back and saw Mike pick up Reeves as if he were a baby and sling him over his shoulder. Max started back into the swamp toward the prison.

"Where at you goin', boy?" Mike's voice came from behind him.

Max turned around and stared.

Mike pointed in the opposite direction. "The end o' the swamp about twenty-fi' miles that way."

Sudden comprehension came to Max. "You can't do it, Mike. You ain't even officially a prisoner no more."

The big man's head nodded. "You' right, boy. I ain't a prisoner. That means I kin go where I wants an' if I don't want to go back, they can't say nothin' about it."

"But it's different if they catch you helpin' me."

"If they catch us, they catch us," Mike said simply. "Anyway, I don't wanta be the one who lays the snake on you. I can't do it. You see, we's really frien's."

Eight days later, they came out of the swamp. They stretched out on the hard, dry ground, gasping for breath. Max raised his head. Far in the distance, he could see smoke rising on the horizon.

"There's a town there," he said excitedly, scrambling to his feet. "We'll be able to git some decent grub."

"Not so fast," Reeves said, pulling him down. Reeves was still yellow from the fever but it had passed. "If it's a town, there's a general store. We'll hit it tonight. No use takin' any chances. They might be expectin' us."

Max looked over at Mike. The big Negro nodded.

They hit the store at two in the morning. When they came out, they all wore fresh clothing, had guns tucked in their belt and almost eighteen dollars they had found in the till.

Max wanted to steal three horses from the livery stable and ride out. "Ain't that just like an Injun?" Reeves said sarcastically. "They'll trace horses faster'n us. We'll keep off the road two or three days, then we'll worry about horses."

Two days later, they had their horses. Four days later, they knocked off a bank in a small town and came out with eighteen hundred dollars. Ten minutes later, they were on their way to Texas.


THIRTEEN


MAX CAME INTO FORT WORTH TO MEET THE TRAIN that was to bring Jim Reeves's daughter from New Orleans. He sat in the barber chair and stared at himself in the mirror. The face that looked back was no longer the face of a boy. The trim black beard served to disguise the high cheekbones. He no longer looked like an Indian.

Max got out of the chair. "How much do I owe you?"

"Fifty cents for the haircut, two bits for the beard trim."

Max threw him a silver dollar.

Mike came off the side of the building against which he had been leaning and fell into step. "It's about time fer the train to be comin' in," Max said. "I reckon we might as well walk down to the station."

Three and a half years before, they had come into Fort Worth one night with seven thousand dollars in their saddlebags. Behind them they had left two empty banks and two dead men. But they had been lucky. Not one of them had been identified as other than an unknown person.

"This looks like a good town," Max had said enthusiastically. "I counted two banks comin' in."

Reeves had looked up at him from a chair in the cheap hotel room. "We're through with that," he said.

Max stared at him. "Why? They look like setups."

Reeves shook his head. "That's where I made my mistake last time. I didn't know when to quit." He stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

"What we goin’ to do, then?" Max asked.

Reeves lit the cigarette. "Look aroun' for a good legitimate business. There's lots of opportunity out here. Land is cheap and Texas is growin'."

Reeves found the business he was looking for in a little town sixty-five miles south of Fort Worth. A saloon and gambling hall. In less than two years, he had become the most important man in town. Then he started a bank in a corner of the gambling house and, a little time later, began to acquire land. There was even talk of electing him mayor.

He bought a small ranch outside of town, fixed up the house and moved out of the rooms over the saloon. A little while after that, he moved the bank out of the saloon, which Max then operated, and ensconced it in a small building on the main street. In less than a year, people began to forget that he had ever owned the saloon and began to think of him as the town banker. He began to grow quietly rich.

He needed but one thing more to complete his guise of respectability. A family. He sent discreet inquiries back to New Orleans. He learned that his wife was dead and his daughter was living with her mother's relatives. He sent her a telegram and received one in return, saying that she would arrive at Fort Worth on the fifth of March.

Max stood looking down the platform at the disembarking passengers. "You know what she looks like?" Mike asked.

"Just what Jim tol' me and it's been ten years since he saw her."

Little by little, the passengers walked away until the only one left was a young woman, surrounded by several valises and a small trunk. She kept looking up and down the platform. Mike looked at Max questioningly. "You reckon that might be her?"

Max shrugged his shoulders.

They walked down to the young woman. Max took off his Stetson. "Miss Reeves?"

A smile of relief appeared on the young woman's face. "I declare, I'm glad to see you," she said warmly. "I was beginnin' to think Daddy never received my telegram."

Max returned her smile. "I'm Max Sand," he said. "Your father sent me to meet you."

A fleeting shadow crossed the girl's face. "I half expected that," she said. "Daddy's been too busy to come home for ten years."

Max guessed that she didn't know her father had been in prison. "Come," he said gently. "I've got a room for you over at the Palace Hotel. You can clean up and sleep there tonight. We got a two-day trip home, so we won't start till morning."

By the time they reached the hotel, twenty minutes later, Max was in love for the first time in his life.

Max tied his horse to the hitching post in front of the Reeves ranch house. He climbed up the steps and knocked at the door. When Reeves's daughter opened it, her face looked tired and strained, as if she'd been weeping, "Oh, it's you,' she said in a low voice. "Come in."

He followed her into the parlor. He reached for her, suddenly concerned. "Betty, what's wrong?"

She slipped away from his hands. "Why didn't you tell me you were an escaped convict?" she asked, not looking at him.

His face settled into cold lines. "Would it have made any diff'rence?"

She met his look honestly. "Yes," she said. "I'd never have let myself get this involved if I'd known."

"Now that you do know," he persisted. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," she said again. "Oh, don't ask me. I’m so confused!"

"What else did your father tell you?"

She looked down at her hands. "He said I couldn't marry you. Not only because of that but because you're—you're half Indian!"

"An' just because of that, you stopped lovin' me?"

She stared down at her twisting hands without answering. "I don't know how I feel," she said finally.

He reached out and pulled her toward him. "Betty, Betty," he said huskily. "Las' night at the dance, you kissed me. You said you loved me. I haven't changed since then."

For a moment, she stood quietly, then pulled herself away from him. "Don't touch me!" she said quickly.

Max stared at her curiously. "You don' have to be afraid of me."

She shrank from his hand. "Don't touch me," she said, and this time the fear in her voice was much too familiar for Max not to recognize it. Without another word, he turned and left the room.

He rode straight into town to the bank and walked into the back room that served Reeves as an office.

Reeves looked up from the big roll-top desk. "What the hell do you mean bustin' in here like this?" he demanded.

Max stared at him. "Don't try to bull-shit me, Reeves. You already done a good job on your daughter."

Reeves leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Is that all?" he asked.

"It's enough," Max said. "Las' night she promised to marry me."

Reeves leaned forward. "I gave you credit for more brains'n that, Max."

"It don't matter now, Reeves. I’m movin' on."

Reeves stared at him for a moment. "You mean that?"

Max nodded. "I mean it."

"You takin' the nigger with you?"

"Yeah," Max said. "When I get our share of the money."

Reeves swung his chair around and took some bills from the safe behind him. He threw them down on the desk in front of Max. "There it is."

Max looked down at it, then at Reeves. He picked up the money and counted it. "There's only five hundred dollars here," he said.

"What did you expect?" Reeves asked.

"We came into Fort Worth with seven thousand. My share of that alone was twenty-three hundred an' we ain't been exactly losin' money in the saloon." Max took a ready-made from Reeves's desk and lit it. "I figger Mike an' me's due at least five thousand."

Reeves shrugged. "I won't argue," he said. "After all, we been through a lot together, you an' me. If that's what you figure, that's what you get."

He counted the money out on the desk. Max picked it up and put it in his pocket. "I didn't think you'd part with it so easy," he said.

He was halfway to the saloon when someone hailed him from the rear. He turned around slowly.

The sheriff and two deputies advanced on him, their guns drawn. Reeves was with them.

"What's up, Sheriff?" Max asked.

"Search him," Reeves said excitedly. "You'll find the money he stole right on him."

"Stole?" Max said. "He's crazy! That money's mine. He owed it to me."

"Keep your hand away from your gun," the sheriff said, moving forward cautiously. He stuck his hand in Max's pocket. It came out with a sheaf of bills.

"See!" Reeves yelled. "What did I tell you?"

"You son of a bitch!" Max exploded. He flung himself toward Reeves. Before he could reach him, the sheriff brought his gun butt down along the side of Max's head. It was just at that moment that Mike looked out the window of the room over the saloon.

Reeves walked over to Max and looked down at him. "I shoulda known better than to trust a half-breed."

"Pick him up, boys, an' tote him over to the jail," the sheriff said.

"Better get over to the saloon and get his nigger friend, too," Reeves said. "He was probably in on it."

Mike saw the sheriff look over at the saloon, then begin to walk toward it. He didn't wait any longer. He went down the back stairs and got the hell out of town.

******

Reeves rode along the road to his ranch, half humming to himself. He was feeling good. For the first time, he was secure. Max wouldn't dare talk; it would only make it worse for him. And the nigger was gone. Leave it to a nigger to run when things got rough. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he never heard the crack of the snake as it whipped out from behind the trees and dragged him down off his horse.

He scrambled to his feet and reached for his gun but the next crack of the snake tore it from his fingers. Mike walked slowly toward him, the big whip coiling slowly back up his arm.

Reeves screamed in terror.

The big snake cracked again and Reeves spun around and tumbled over backward into the dust. He got to his hands and knees and began to crawl, then scrambled to his feet and tried to run. The snake ran down the road after him and crept between his legs, throwing him to the ground. He turned his head and saw Mike's arm go up into the air, the long black whip rising with it.

He screamed as the snake tore into him again.

Sometime early the next morning, the sheriff and his deputies came across a body lying at the side of the road. During the night, someone had torn the bars from the window of the jail's only cell and Max had escaped.

One of the deputies saw the body first. He wheeled his horse over beside it and looked down.

The sheriff and the other deputy wheeled their horses. For a long while, they stared down at the mutilated body. Then one of them took off his hat and wiped the cold, beaded sweat from his forehead. "That looks like Banker Reeves."

The sheriff turned and looked at him. "That was Banker Reeves," he said. He, too, took off his hat and wiped his face. "Funny," he added. "The only thing I know of that can do that to a man is a Louisiana prison snake."

******

THE NAME OF THE VILLAGE IN SPANISH WAS VERY long and difficult for Americans to pronounce, so after a while they gave it their own name. Hideout. It was a place to go when there was nowhere else to turn, when the law was hot on your neck and you were tired of sleeping nights on the cold prairie and eating dry beef and cold beans from a can. It was expensive but it was worth it. Four miles over the border and the law could not reach you.

And it was the only place in Mexico where you could always get American whisky. Even if you had to pay four times the price for it.

The alcalde sat at his table in the rear of the cantina and watched the two americanos come in. They sat down at the table near the door. The smaller one ordered tequila.

The alcalde watched the two with interest. Soon they would be going away. It was always like that. When first they came, they'd have nothing but the best. The finest whisky, the best rooms, the most expensive girls. Then their money would run short and they'd begin to reduce their expenses. First, the room would be changed for a cheaper one; next, the girls would go. Last, the whisky. When they got down to drinking tequila, it meant that before long, they'd be moving on.

He lifted his glass and drank his tequila quickly. That was the way of the world. He looked at the smaller man again. There was something about him that had caught his eye. He sighed, thinking of his youth. Juárez would have liked this one: the Indian blood in the Jefe told him instinctively which ones were the warriors. He sighed again. Poor Juárez, he wanted so much for the people and got so little. He wondered if before the Jefe died, he had realized that the only reason for his failure was that the people didn't want as much for themselves as he had wanted for them. He stared at the americanos, remembering the first time he had seen them. It was almost three years ago.

They had come into the cantina quietly, weary and covered with the dust of their travels. Then, as now, they had sat at the table near the door.

The bottle and glasses were on the table when the big man at the bar had come over to them. He spoke to the smaller man, ignoring the other. "We don't allow niggers in this here saloon."

The smaller man didn't even look up. He filled his friend's glass first, then his own. He lifted it to his lips.

The glass shattered against the floor and silence abruptly fell across the cantina. "Get your nigger outa here," the big man said. He stared at them for a moment, then turned and strode back to the bar.

The Negro started to rise but the smaller man stopped him with a gesture from his eyes. Slowly the Negro sank back into his chair.

It was only when the smaller man left the table to go to the bar that the alcalde realized that he wasn't as small as he had first thought. It was only by comparison to the Negro that he seemed small.

"Who makes the rules here?" he asked the bartender.

The bartender gestured toward the rear. "The alcalde, señor."

The americano turned and came toward the table. His eyes surprised the alcalde; they were a hard, dark blue. He spoke in Spanish, with a trace of Cuban accent. "Does the swine speak the truth, señor?"

"No, señor," the alcalde replied. "All are welcome here who have the money to pay their way."

The man nodded and returned to the bar. He stopped in front of the man who had come over to his table. "The alcalde tells me my friend can stay," he said.

The man turned to him angrily. "Who the hell cares what that greaser thinks? Just because we're across the border, doesn't mean I have to drink with niggers!"

The smaller man's voice was cold. "My friend eats with me, drinks with me, sleeps with me, and he's not goin'." He turned his back calmly and went back to his table.

He was just seating himself again when the angry americano started for him. "If you like niggers so much, nigger-lover, see how you like sleepin' with a dead one!" he shouted, pulling his gun.

The smaller americano seemed scarcely to move but the gun was in his hand, smoke rising from its barrel, the echo of a shot fading away in the rafters of the cantina. And the loud-mouthed one lay dead on the floor in front of the bar.

"I apologize for the disturbance we have made against the hospitality of your village," he said in his strange Spanish.

The alcalde looked down at the man on the floor, and shrugged. "De nada," he said. "It is nothing. You were right. The swine had no grace."

Now, almost three years later, the alcalde sighed, remembering. The little one had grace, much grace—natural like a panther. And the gun. Caramba! There had never been anything so fast. It seemed almost to have a life of its own. What a pistolera this one would have made. Juárez would have been proud of him.

Several times each year, the two friends would quietly disappear from the village and as quietly reappear — several weeks, sometimes several months later. And each time they came back, they had money to pay for their rooms, their women, their whisky.

But each time, the alcalde could sense a deeper solitude in them, a greater aloneness. There were times he felt a strange kind of pity for them. They were not like the others that came to the village. This way of life held no pleasure for them.

And now they were drinking tequila again. How many times before they would go out like this and never return? Not only to this village but to nowhere on this earth.

Max swallowed the tequila and bit into the lime. The tart juice burst into his throat, giving his mouth a clean, fresh feeling. He looked at Mike. "How much we got left?"

Mike thought for a moment. "Maybe three more weeks."

Max rolled a cigarette and lit it. "What we gotta do is make a big hit. Then maybe we could go up into California or Nevada or someplace where they don' know us an' git ourselves straightened out. Money shore don' last long around this place."

The Negro nodded. "It sho' don'," he agreed. "But that ain' the answer. We gotta split up. They lookin' for us together. When they see me, it's like you carryin’ a big ol’ sign with you' name on it."

Max filled his glass again. "Tryin' to get rid of me?" He smiled, throwing the liquor down his throat and reaching for the lime.

Mike said seriously, "Maybe 'thout me, you could settle down someplace an' make a life fo' yourself. You won' have to run no mor'."

Max spit out a lime seed. "We made us a deal to stick together. We get enough money this time, we'll head for California."

The door opened and a tall, redheaded cowboy came in. He walked over to their table and dropped into an empty chair. "Ol' Charlie Dobbs got here in the nick o' time, I reckon." He laughed. "That there tequila'll eat the linin' off your stomach sure as hell. Bartender, bring us a bottle of whisky."

The bartender put whisky and glasses on the table and walked away. Charlie filled the glasses and they drank.

"What brings you back, Charlie?" Max asked. "I thought you were headin' up Reno way."

"I was. But I run into the biggest thing ever I saw. It was too good to pass up."

"What kinda job?" Max asked, leaning across the table.

Charlie lowered his voice. "A new bank. You remember I tol' you I heard las' year they were minin' for oil up in Texas? I decided to pay them diggin's a visit on my way north." He poured another drink and swallowed it quickly. "Well, they found it all right. It's the craziest thing you ever saw. They sink a well down in the groun' an' instead of water, up comes oil. Then they pipe it off, barrel it an' ship it east. There's oil all over the place an' that bank's just bustin' with money."

"Sounds good to me," Max said. "What's the deal?"

"A local man set up the job but he needs help. He wants two shares, we get one share each."

"Fair enough," Max said. He turned to Mike. "What do you think?"

Mike nodded. "When we pull the job?" he asked.

Charlie looked at him. "Right after the new year. The bank is gettin' in a lot of money then for new diggin'." He refilled all the glasses. "We'll have to start tomorrow. It took me three weeks to ride down here."


FIFTEEN


MAX PUSHED HIS WAY INTO THE SALOON BEHIND Charlie Dobbs. It was crowded with oil-miners and cowboys and the dice table and faro layouts were working full blast. Men were standing three deep around them waiting for a chance at the games.

"What'd I tell you?" Charlie chortled. "This is a real boom town all right." He led the way down the bar to where a man was standing by himself.

The man turned and looked at him. "You took long enough gettin' here," he said in a low voice.

"It's a long ride, Ed," Charlie said.

"Meet me outside," Ed said, throwing a silver dollar on the bar and walking out. He glanced quickly at Max as he passed.

Max caught a glimpse of pale gimlet eyes without expression. The man seemed to be in his late forties, with a long, sandy mustache trailing across his lip. There was something familiar about him but Max couldn't place it. There was only the feeling that he had seen him before.

The man was waiting outside the saloon for them. He walked ahead and they followed him into a dark alley. He turned to face them. "I said we needed four men," he said angrily.

"There's another man, Ed," Charlie said quickly. "He's layin' up just outside of town."

"All right. You got here just in time. Tomorrow night — that's Friday night—the president and the cashier of the bank work late makin' up the riggin' crews' payrolls for Saturday. They usually get through about ten o'clock. We get them as they come out the door an' hustle them back inside. That way, they can open the safe for us; we don't have to blow it."

"All right with me," Charlie said. "What do you think, Max?"

Max looked at Ed. "They carry guns?"

"I reckon. You afraid of gunplay?"

Max shook his head. "No. I jus' like to know what to expect."

"How much you think we'll get?" Charlie interjected.

"Fifty thousand, maybe more."

Charlie whistled. "Fifty thousand!"

"You'll drift over here one at a time. Quiet. I don't want no one to be lookin' at us. We'll meet in back of the bank at nine thirty sharp." Ed looked at them and they nodded again. He started to walk away, then came back. He peered at Max. "Ain't I seen you someplace before?"

Max shrugged his shoulders. "Mebbe. I been aroun'. You look familiar to me, too."

"Maybe it'll come to me tomorrow night." He started to walk down the alley.

Max watched him until he turned into the street. He turned slowly to Charlie. "There's somethin' about that man. I got the feelin' I should know who he is."

Charlie laughed. "Let's go. Mike'll be wonderin' what happened to us."

******

"Set yourself!" Ed whispered hoarsely. "They're comin'!"

Max pressed tightly against the wall near the door. On the other side of the doorway, Ed and Charlie were waiting. He could hear the sound of two men's voices as they approached the door inside the bank.

They all moved at once as the door opened, pushing it inward with sudden force.

"What the hell's goin'—" a voice said from the darkness inside. It was followed by a thud, then the sound of a body falling.

"You keep your mouth shet, mister, if you want to keep livin'!" There was a frightened gasp, then silence. "Git them into the back room." Ed's voice came harshly.

Max bent swiftly and pulled the fallen man along the floor toward the back. There was the sound of a match behind him and then a lamp cast a tiny glow in the back room. He pulled the man into the room. He slumped and lay still when Max let him go.

"Check the front door!" Ed hissed.

Max ran back to the door and peeped out. The street was quiet and deserted. "No one out there," he said.

"Good," Ed said. "Let's get to work." He turned to the other of the two men. "Open the safe."

The man was in his late fifties. He was staring at the man on the floor with a horror-stricken look. "I— I can't," he said. "Only Mr. Gordon can. He's the president, the only one who knows the combination."

Ed turned to Max. "Wake him up."

Max knelt beside the man. He turned his face. The head looked peculiar, the jaw hung slack. Max looked up at Ed. "Ain't nothin' goin' to wake him up. You caved his head in."

"My God!" the other man said. He seemed almost ready to faint.

Ed stepped around to front of him. "I reckon you're goin' to have to open the safe, after all."

"B- but I can't," the bank clerk said. "I don't know the combination."

Ed hit him viciously across the face. The man fell against a desk. "Well, learn it, then!"

"Honest, mister," he sobbed. "I don't know it. Mr. Gordon was the only one. He was— "

Ed hit him again. "Open that safe!"

"Look, mister," the man begged. "There's over four thousand dollars in that desk there! Take it and don't hit me any more, please. I don't know the combination—"

Ed moved around the desk and opened the center drawer. He took out a package of bills and stuffed it into his jacket. He walked around the desk and stood to front of the kneeling bank clerk. "Now, open the safe!" he said, hitting the man again.

The man sprawled out on the floor. "I don't know, mister, I don't know!"

When Ed drew his foot back to kick him, Max touched his shoulder. "Maybe he's tellin' the truth."

Ed stared at him for a moment, then lowered his foot. "Maybe. I know how we can find out fast." He gestured at Max. "Get back on the door."

Max walked back through the bank to the front door and looked out again. The street was still deserted. He stood there, quietly alert.

Ed's voice came to him from the back room. '"Tie the bastard to the chair."

"What are you gonna do?" the bank clerk protested in a weak voice.

Max walked back and looked in the room. Ed was kneeling in front of the potbellied stove, stirring the poker in the live coals. Charlie straightened up from tying the clerk and looked at Ed curiously. "What're you doin?"

'He’ll talk if this red-hot poker gits close enough to his eyes," Ed said grimly.

"Wait a minute," Charlie protested. "You think the guy is lyin', kill him."

Ed got to his feet and turned on Charlie angrily. "That's the trouble with you young ones nowadays. You got no guts, you're too squeamish. He can't open no safe if he's dead!"

"He can't open it if he don't know the combination, either!"

"You don't like it, scram!" Ed said savagely. "There's fifty thousand bucks in that there safe. I’m goin' to git it!"

Max turned from the door and started back toward the front of the bank. He had taken about two steps when he was stopped by Ed's voice, coming from the back room.

"This’ll work, believe me," Ed was saying. " 'Bout ten, twelve years back, Rusty Harris, Tom Dort an' me gave the treatment to an ol' buffalo-skinner an' his squaw—"

Max felt his stomach heave and he reached for the wall to keep from falling. He closed his eyes for a moment and the scene in the cabin came back to him—his father hanging lifelessly, his mother crumpled on the floor, the orange glow of the fire against the night sky.

His head began to clear. He shook it. A cold, dead feeling replaced the nausea. He turned toward the back room.

Ed was still kneeling in front of the stove. Charlie stood across the room, his face white and sick. "The ol' miser had gold stashed somewhere aroun' the place. Everybody in Dodge knew it— " Ed looked up and saw Max, who had crossed the room and was standing over him. "What're you doin' here? I tol' you to cover the door!"

Max looked down at him. His voice was hollow. "Did you ever git that gold?"

A puzzled look crossed Ed's face.

"You didn't," Max said, "because there wasn't any to start with."

Ed stared at him. "How do you know?"

"I know," Max said slowly. "I'm Max Sand."

Recognition leaped into Ed's face. He went for his gun, rolling sideways away from Max. Max kicked the gun from his hand and Ed scrambled after it as Max pulled the white-hot poker from the fire. Ed turned, raising the gun toward Max, just as the poker lunged at his eyes.

He screamed in agony as the white metal burned its way through his flesh. The gun went off, the bullet going wild into the ceiling above him, then it fell from his hand.

Max stood there a moment, looking down. The stench of burned flesh reached up to his nostrils. It was over. Twelve years and it was over.

He turned dully as Charlie pulled at his arm. "Let's git outa here!" Charlie shouted. "The whole town'll be down on us in a minute!"

"Yeah," Max said slowly. He let the poker fall from his hand and started for the door. Mike was holding the horses and they leaped into the saddle. They rode out of town in a hail of bullets with a posse less than thirty minutes behind them.

 ******

Three days later, they were holed up in a small cave in the foothills. Max came back from the entrance and looked down at his friend. "How you doin', Mike?"

Mike's usually shiny black face was drawn and gray. "Poorly, boy, poorly."

Max bent over and wiped his face. "I’m sorry," he said. "We ain't got no more water."

Mike shook his head. "It don' really matter, boy. I got it good this time. I's th'ough travelin'."

Charlie's voice came from the back of the cave. "It'll be dawn in another hour. We better git movin'."

"You go, Charlie. I'm stayin' here with Mike."

Mike pushed himself to a sitting position, his back against the wall of the cave. "Don' be a fool, boy," he said.

Max shook his head. "I'm stayin' with you."

Mike smiled. His hand reached for Max's and squeezed it gently. "We's friends, boy, ain't we? Real friends?"

Max nodded.

"An' I never steered you bad, did I?" Mike asked. "I’m goin' to die an' they's nothin' you can do about it."

Max rolled a cigarette, lit it and stuck it in Mike's mouth. "Shut up an' rest."

"Open my belt."

Max leaned across his friend and pulled the buckle. Mike groaned as the belt slid off. "Tha's better," he said. "Now look inside that belt."

Max turned it over. There was a money pouch taped to the inner surface.

Mike smiled. "They's five thousand dollars in that pouch. I been holdin' out for the right time—now. It was for the day we lef' this business."

Max rolled another cigarette and lit it. He watched his friend silently. Mike coughed. "You was born thirty years too late for this business. They ain't no mo' room in this worl' for a gun fighter. We come in at the tail end with nothin' but the leavin's."

Max still sat silently, his eyes on Mike's face. "I'm still not goin'."

Mike looked up at him. "Don' make me feel like I picked the wrong one back there in that prison," he said. "Not now when I’m a dyin' man."

Max's face broke into a sudden smile. "You're full of shit, Mike."

Mike grinned up at him. "I kin hold the posse off all day. By then, you'll be so far no'th, they'll never catch up to you." He started to laugh and suddenly stopped as he began to cough blood. He reached up a hand to Max. "He'p me to my feet, boy."

Max reached out and pulled Mike up. The big man leaned against him as they moved toward the mouth of the cave. They came out into the night and there was a small breeze just picking up at the edge of the cliffs.

For a moment they stood there, savoring the physical closeness of each other, the small things of love that men can share, then slowly Max lowered his friend to the ground.

Mike looked down the ridge. "I can hol' them here forever," he said. "Now, 'member what I said, boy. Go straight. No more thievin'. No more gun fightin'. I got you' word, boy?"

"You got my word, Mike."

"If you breaks it, I sure's hell'll come back an' haunt you!" the big man said. He turned his head away and looked down the ridge. "Now git, boy," he said huskily. "Dawn is breakin'." He reached for the rifle at his side.

Max turned and walked over to his horse. He mounted and sat there for a moment, looking back at Mike. The big colored man never turned to look back. Max dug his spurs into his horse and it leaped away.

It wasn't until an hour later, when the sun was bright and Max was on the next ridge, that he began to wonder about the quiet. By this time, there should have been the sound of gunfire behind him.

He never knew that Mike had died the moment he was out of sight.

******

He felt naked at first without his beard. Rubbing his fingers over his cleanly shaven face, he walked into the kitchen.

Charlie looked up from the kitchen table. "My God," he exclaimed. "I never would've known you!"

Martha, his wife, turned from the stove. She smiled suddenly. "You're much younger than I thought. And handsomer, too."

Max felt a flush of color run up into his cheeks. Awkwardly he sat down. "I figgered it's time for me to be movin' on."

Charlie and his wife exchanged quick looks.

"Why?" Charlie asked. "You own half this spread. You just can't go off an' leave it."

Max studied him. He rolled a cigarette and lit it. "We been here three months now. Let's stop kiddin' ourselves. This place can't carry the both of us."

They were silent. Max was right. Even though he had advanced the money to buy the ranch, there wasn't enough in it yet for all of them.

"What if somebody recognizes you?" Martha asked. "Your poster's in every sheriff's
office in the southwest."

Max smiled and rubbed his chin again. "They won't recognize me. Not without the beard."

"You better think up a new name for yourself," Charlie said.

Max blew out a cloud of smoke. "Yeah. I reckon so. It's time. Everything's gotta change."

But the name hadn't come to him until the day he stood in the hot Nevada sun looking up at old man Cord and young Jonas. Then it came easy. As if it had been his own all his life.

Smith. Nevada Smith.

It was a good name. It told nothing about him.

He looked down at the little boy staring up at him with frightened eyes, then at the cold black gun in his other hand. He saw the child follow his eyes. He dropped the gun back into his holster. He smiled slowly.

"Well, Junior," he said. "You heard your pappy."

He turned to his horse and led it around to the bunkhouse, the boy trotting obediently behind him. The bunkhouse was empty. The boy's voice piped up behind him. "Are you going to live here with Wong Toy?"

He smiled again. "I reckon so."

He picked out one of the bunks and spread his bedroll on it. Quickly he put his things away. When he turned around, the boy was still watching him with wide eyes.

"You're really goin' to stay?" the child asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Really?" the boy insisted. "Forever?" His voice caught slightly. "You're not goin' to go away like the others? Like Mommy did?"

Something in the child's eyes caught inside him. He knelt beside the boy. "I’ll stay jest as long as you want me to."

Suddenly, the boy flung his arms around Nevada's neck and pressed his cheek close to his face. His breath was soft and warm. "I’m glad," he said. "Now you can learn me to ride."

Nevada straightened up, the boy still clinging to his legs. He walked outside and put the boy up on the saddle of his horse. He started to climb up behind him when suddenly the gun was heavy against his thigh.

"I’ll be back in a minute," he said, and went back into the bunkhouse. Quickly he pulled the tie strings and unbuckled the gun belt. He hung it on a nail over his bunk and went out again into the white sunlight.

And he never strapped the gun on again.


SIXTEEN


RINA STEPPED DOWN FROM THE TRAIN INTO the bright, flashing shadows of afternoon sun lacing the platform. A tall uniformed chauffeur stepped forward and touched is hand to his cap. "Miss Marlowe?"

Rina nodded.

"Mr. Smith sends his apologies for not being able to meet you, ma'am. He's tied up at meetings at the studio. He says he'll see you for cocktails."

"Thank you," Rina said. She turned her face away for a moment to hide her disappointment. Three years was a long time.

The chauffeur picked up her valises. "If you’ll follow me to the car, ma'am?"

Rina nodded again. She followed the tall uniform through the station to a shining black Bierce-Arrow limousine. Quickly the chauffeur stowed the bags up front and opened the door for her. The tiny gold insignia emblazoned over the handle shone up at her.

N--S

She settled back and reached for a cigarette. The chauffeur's voice through the speaker startled her. "You'll find them in the container near your right hand, ma'am."

She caught a glimpse of the man's quick smile in the rear-view mirror as he started the big motor. She lit a cigarette and studied the interior of the car. The gold insignia was everywhere, even woven into the upholstery.

She leaned her head back. She didn't know why she should be surprised. She had read enough in the newspapers about him. The forty-acre ranch, and the thirty-room mansion he had built right in the middle of Beverly Hills. But reading about it never made it seem real. She closed her eyes so she could remember how it had become a reality for her.

It had been about five months after she'd come back East. She'd gone down to New York for a week of shopping and a banker friend of her father's had asked her to attend the premiere of a motion picture produced by a company in which he had a substantial interest.

"What's it called?" she had asked.

"The Sheriff of Peaceful Village," the banker had answered. "It's a Norman picture. Bernie Norman says it's the greatest Western ever made."

"Westerns bore me," she'd answered. "I had enough of that when I was out there myself."

"Norman says he has a new star in the man that's playing the lead. Nevada Smith. He says he'll be the biggest—"

"What was that name?" she interrupted. She couldn't have heard right.

"Nevada Smith," the banker repeated. "An odd name but these movie actors always have fancy names."

"I’ll go," she had said quickly.

She remembered walking into the theater—the crowds, the bright lights outside, the well-groomed men and bejeweled women. And then that world seemed to vanish with the magic of the image on the screen.

It was near the end of the picture now and alone in a dreary room, the sheriff of Peaceful Village was putting on his gun, the gun he had sworn never to touch again.

The camera moved in close to his face, so close that she could almost see the tiny pores in his skin, feel his warm breath. He raised the gun and looked at it.

She could feel the weariness in him, see the torture of decision tighten his lips, set his square jaw, flatten the high, Indian-like cheekbones into the thin lines that etched their way into his cheeks. But his eyes were what held her.

They were the eyes of a man who had known death. Not once but many times. The eyes of a man who understood its futility, who felt its pain and sorrow.

Slowly the sheriff walked to the door and stepped outside. The bright sunlight came down and hit his face. He pulled his dark hat down over his eyes to shield them from the glare and began to walk down the lonely street. Faces of the townspeople peeked out at him from behind shutters and windows and curtains. He didn't return their glances, just walked forward stolidly, his faded shirt beginning to show the sweat pouring from him in the heat, his patched jeans looking threadbare against his lean, slightly bowed legs. The bright metal of his badge shone on his breast.

Death wore soft, expensive clothing. No dust marred the shine of his boots, the gleaming ivory handle of his gun. There was hatred in his face, the pleasurable lust to kill in his eyes, and his hand hovered like a rattlesnake above his holster.

They looked deep into each other's eyes for a moment. Death's eyes glittered with the joy of combat. The sheriff's were weary with sadness.

Death moved first, his hand speeding to his gun, but with a speed almost too quick for the eye to follow, the sheriff's gun seemed to leap into his hand. Death was flung violently backward to the ground, his gun falling from his hand, his eyes already glazing. His body twitched as two more bullets tore in him, and then he lay still.

The sheriff stood there for a moment, then slowly put his gun back into the holster. He turned his back on the dead man and began to walk down the street.

People began to flock out of the buildings. They watched the sheriff, their faces bright with battle lust. He did not return their glances.

The girl came out onto a porch. The sheriff stopped in front of her.

The girl's eyes were dim with tears.

The sheriff's were wide and unblinking. An expression of contempt suddenly came into his face. Disgust with her demand for blood, disgust for a town full of people who wanted nothing but their own form of sacrifice.

His hand moved up to his shirt and tore off the badge. He flung it into the dirt at her feet and turned away.

The girl looked down at the badge in shock, then up at the sheriff's retreating back. She started to move after him, then stopped.

Far down the street, the sheriff was mounting his horse. He turned it toward the hills. His shoulders slumping and head bowed, wearily he moved out of their lives and into the bright, glaring sunlight, as the screen began to fade.

There was silence as the lights came up in the theater. Rina turned to the banker, who smiled embarrassedly at her and cleared his throat. "That's the first time a movie ever did this to me."

Oddly enough, she felt a lump in her own throat. "Me, too," she said huskily.

He took her arm. "There's Bernie Norman over there. I want to go over and congratulate him."

They pushed their way through a crowd of enthusiastic well-wishers. Norman was a heavy-set man with dark jowls; his eyes were bright and elated. "How about that guy, Nevada Smith?" he asked. "Did you ever see anything like it? Still want me to get Tom Mix for a picture?"

The banker laughed and Rina looked up at him. He didn't laugh very often. "Tom Mix?" He chortled. "Who's he?"

Norman hit the banker on the back. "This picture will net two million," he said happily. "And I got Nevada Smith starting another picture right away!"

******

The limousine turned into a driveway at the foot of the hill. It passed under an iron gateway over which the now familiar insignia was emblazoned and began to wind its way up the narrow roadway to the top of the hill. Rina looked out the window and saw the huge house, its white roof turning blood orange in the falling sun.

She began to feel strange. What was she doing here? This wasn't the Nevada she knew. Suddenly, frantically, she opened her purse and began to search through it for Nevada's cablegram. Then it was in her hand and she felt calmer as she read it.

She remembered sending him a wire from Switzerland last month. It had been three years since she had heard from him. Three years in which she had kept on running. The first six months she spent in Boston, then boredom set in. New York was next, then London, Paris, Rome, Madrid, Constantinople, Berlin. There were the parties, the hungers, the fierce affairs, the passionate men, the voracious women. And the more she ran, the more frightened and alone she became.

And then came the morning in Zurich when she awoke with the sun shining in her eyes. She lay naked in bed, a white sheet thrown over her. Her mouth was dry and parched; she felt as if she hadn't had a drink of water in months. She reached for the carafe on the night table and when it wasn't there, she first realized she wasn't in her own room.

She sat up in a room that was furnished in expensive European fashion but wasn't familiar at all. She looked around for her robe but there wasn't a single item of her clothing anywhere. Vaguely she wondered where she was. There were cigarettes and matches on the night table and she lit one. The acrid smoke bit into her lungs as the door opened.

An attractive dark-haired woman came into the room. She paused when she saw Rina sitting up in bed. A smile came to her lips. She came over to the bed. "Ah, you are awake, ma chérie," she said softly, bending and kissing Rina on the mouth.

Rina stared up at her, her eyes wide. "Who are you?"

"Ah, my love, you do not remember me?"

Rina shook her head.

"Maybe this will refresh your memory, my darling," the woman said, dropping her gown and pressing Rina's head to her naked full bosom. "There now, do you remember how much we loved each other?" Her hand caressed Rina's face. Angrily Rina pushed it away.

The door opened again and a man came in. He held a bottle of champagne in one hand and was completely nude. He smiled at them. "Ah," he said. "We are all awake once again. The party was getting dull."

He crossed the room and held the champagne bottle out to Rina. "Have some wine, darling," he said. "The trouble is—one wakes up with such a terrible thirst, no?"

Rina held her hands to her temples. She felt the throbbing pulse beneath her fingers. It was a nightmare. This wasn't real. It couldn't be.

The man stroked her head solicitously. "A headache, no? I will bring some aspirin."

He turned and left the room. Terrified, Rina looked up at the woman. "Please," she begged. "I think I'm going out of my mind. Where are we?"

"In Zurich, of course, at Philippe's place."

"In Zurich?" Rina questioned. "Philippe?" She looked up at the woman. "Was that Philippe?"

"Mais non, of course not. That was Karl, my husband. Don't you remember?"

Rina shook her head. "I don't remember anything."

"We met at the races three weeks ago in Paris," the woman said. "You were alone in the box next to Philippe's. Your friend could not come, remember?"

Rina closed her eyes. She was beginning to remember. She had placed a bet on the beautiful red roan and the man in the adjoining box had leaned over. "A very wise choice," he had said. "That is my horse. I am Le Comte de Chaen."

"The count in the next box!" Rina exclaimed.

The woman nodded. She smiled again. "You remember," she said in a pleased voice. "The party began in Paris but it was too warm there, so we drove here to Philippe's chalet. That was almost two weeks ago."

"Two weeks?"

The woman nodded. "It has been a wonderful party," she said. She sat down on the bed next to Rina. "You're a very beautiful girl."

Rina stared at her, speechless. The door opened again and Karl came in, a bottle of aspirin in one hand, the champagne in the other. A tall blond man wearing a dressing robe followed him. He threw some photographs down on the bed. "How do you like them, Rina?"

She stared down at the pictures. A sick feeling began to come up into her throat. This could not be her. Not like this. Nude. With that woman and those men. She looked up at them helplessly.

The count was smiling. "I should have done better," he said apologetically. "But I think there was something the matter with the timer."

The woman picked them up. "I think you did well enough, Philippe." She laughed. "It was so funny. Making love with that little bulb in your hand so you could take the picture."

Rina was still silent.

Karl bent over her. "Our little Américaine is still sick," he said gently. He held out two aspirins to her. "Here, take these. You will feel better."

Rina stared up at the three of them. "I’d like to get dressed, please," she said in a weak voice.

The woman nodded. "But of course," she said. "Your clothes are in the closet." They turned and left the room.

Rina got out of bed and washed her face quickly. She debated over taking a bath but decided against it. She was in too much of a hurry to leave. She dressed and walked out into the other room.

The woman was still in her peignoir, but the men had changed to soft shirts and white flannels. She started to walk out without looking at them. The man named Karl called, "Mrs. Cord, you forgot your purse."

Silently she turned to take it from him, her eyes avoiding his face.

"I put in a set of the photographs as a memento of our party."

She opened the bag. The pictures stared obscenely up at her. "I don't want them," she said, holding them out.

He waved them aside. "Keep them. We can always make more copies from the negatives."

Slowly she lifted her eyes to his face. He was smiling. "Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee while we talk business?" he asked politely.

The negatives cost her ten thousand dollars and she burned them in an ash tray before she left the room. She sent the cable to Nevada from the hotel, as soon as she had checked in.

I’M LONELY AND MORE FRIGHTENED THAN I EVER WAS BEFORE. ARE YOU STILL MY FRIEND?

His reply reached her the next day, with a credit for five thousand dollars and confirmed reservations from Zurich through to California.

She crinkled the cablegram in her fingers as she read it once more while the limousine climbed to the top of the hill. The cable was typical of the Nevada she remembered. But it didn't seem at all like the Nevada she was coming to see.

I AM STILL YOUR FRIEND.

It was signed "Nevada."


CONTINUED IN
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