Frank Rickard stood up and eased the jacket from his injured shoulder. He winced - pain was kicking in. Visiting a doctor was out of the question and they needed to travel - and quick. Tommy shoved a roll into his own mouth, bit into it, and carried a bag of food and several large bottles of orange juice to the car. Rickard stepped over three bodies without looking at them. He eased into the car, sitting in the rear. "Get back to the room where I shot the woman, Tommy. There's a pistol beside her - bring it, then grab the shot-gun and the shells laying with it." He grinned slightly at Tommy's ashen face. "Don't worry, if somebody trails us we'll have enough guns to hold them off."

     "I've never fired a gun in my life," Tommy whimpered.

     Rickard nodded his head. "Before you've finished this trip, boy, you'll be a crack shot."

     Tommy stepped over the bodies on the veranda, eased past another lying in the doorway, went through to a bedroom and found Mary Clarke. He stared at her sightless eyes and shuddered. A pistol lay by her feet. He picked it up. The body must have been lain in balance - half on the bed and half off it, for it slid and thumped to the carpet. He jumped, sweating fear, hands shaking. He recovered the shotgun and shells on the way out, scrambled into the car and took off as though they were racing the Indianapolis 500.


Sixteen-year-old cyclist, Kevin Mottram, saw Charlie Singleton's Buick pulling away ahead of him, heading for Delmar. Unusual to see Charlie out here, Kevin thought. The boy worked for his parents on a nearby farm and having finished his chores had decided to set off and ride into town. He had not realised the afternoon sun was so powerful. Its rays bore down cruelly on the back of his neck. His left ankle ached. He knew the Clarke family well and was familiar with gunshots coming from their direction. Joe would be out in the fields, throwing himself around as though defending his country. Everybody local knew Joe and his military beliefs. In addition, the boy knew Ma Clarke baked beautiful pastry - including apple pies. He could envisage munching one of the pies now, along with a drink of pure orange juice that she squeezed from fresh fruit. Kevin was thirsty: it was time to give the Clarke family a call.

The Clarke's bamboo veranda roof lay scattered across the steps. Mottram dismounted his cycle and stopped quite sudden. Two bodies lay against the veranda rail. He could see another figure sprawling face down in the kitchen doorway. The air was still, yet he could hear a sound. as though it were an eagle swooping on prey. He could smell fresh baked bread. "Mr Clarke," Kevin whispered, voice failing him. Nothing moved. Nothing answered him. The imagined eagle came closer. Kevin moved up the steps, saw what was left of Joe Clarke's head, and fear welled within him. He could not force himself to step over the body at the kitchen door. He knew a telephone stood on a shelf in the living-room. It could stay there - he would cycle into Delmar and break the news.

                                                        ***

Delmar garage owner Vic Henley was adamant. "I tell you, sheriff; I saw Charlie's Buick come back past my place; it turned off at the junction and headed for Charlie's shack."

     Sheriff Rance Dobie shook his head. "Are you sure?"

     Henley cursed. "I know Charlie's Buick and the sound of the engine. I've serviced it often enough. I tell you, sheriff, those bad guys are in that car. I reckon you should warn..."

     "Don't tell me my duties," Dobie snapped. "Did you see who was driving?"

     "Well, no, I had my head in a Packard's trunk."

     "You were in your garage?"

     "Yeah, right round the back."

     "So you didn't see who was driving the Buick?"

     "No, I did not."

     Sheriff Dobie smiled. His smile stopped abruptly when Kevin Mottram almost fell into the office babbling about a shooting.

                                                      ***

Besides the bullet wound to his left shoulder, Frank Rickard had severe pain in his gut. He drank more chilled orange juice, spilling some as Tommy swerved to avoid a mass of brushwood. Tommy asked where did they go now.

     Rickard wiped sweat from his brow. "Take the trail back to Julienne."

     "Maybe we should hole up for a while and stay in the mountains. The cops will be waiting for us to break cover. They could send a 'copter to find us."

     "That's why we head for Julienne. Drive down to that canyon where we saw the sign directing us up here. Nobody will expect us to double back. Anyway, those dumb cops will think we are heading east."

     "But why to Julienne, Frank? Why don't we go some place else?"

     Rickard passed the orange carton to Wade. "We go there because I have a little girl to do a number on, and I intend bumping off a fat sheriff. Now shut up and drive."


Charlie Singleton, at home in bed, recognised the approaching Buick engine. It roared past the shack, the tyres ripping up dirt. The sounds faded. Labrador Toby came from behind the sofa. Vic Henley had called out a local engineer to fix the phone line and Charlie called Sheriff Dobie's office. There was no answer, for Dobie and two deputies were approaching the Clarke farm, with a doctor and a nurse in attendance.

The Clarke residence reeked death. Sheriff Dobie could feel it hanging in the air. Flies were settling on what remained of Joe Clarke's head. Dobie allowed the medical team to check the scene. One of his deputies recognised Eddy Birch and Lou Levinski. they found Mary Clarke minutes later. Doc Cantrell sighed. "Four people shot down," he told Dobie. "Joe must have let go with his shotgun and Mary could have been armed."

     "So where is the shotgun?" queried a deputy.

     Cantrell shrugged. "I don't know. You men do the theorising while I deal with the dead."

                                                     ***


Sheriff Jones pondered over Webster's phone call, having had no contact with him in several months. Why was Webster sending over Deputy Ganford Raynes to stand in for Camano? How did Webster know Camano was ill? Somebody had informed headquarters, that was obvious. Was Raynes somehow linked with Lennox? Jones thought back down the years to when Webster had been the man responsible for Jones and Camano's relegation to policing backseat ghost town Julienne - and the reasons why.

     The telephone rang suddenly, insistent, demanding. Jones cursed, realising he had been staring at the office walls for some minutes. What the hell did Webster want now? He picked up the phone. "Hello, sheriff's office."

     "Is that you, Ethan?"

     "Yes, it is, Olivia."

     "It's five-thirty. Why are you still there?"

     "Amos is ill and I have sent him home. It's nothing serious, but I've had his paperwork to sort out."

     "I am sorry to hear Amos is ill, but you get right home this minute. I have prepared mixed salad with oodles of sliced salmon. Can you guess what the dessert is?"

     "I don't know, Olivia. I hope it is something cold."

     "It is your favourite, Ethan - sliced pears and peaches, absolutely smothered with ice cream." Olivia chuckled. "I was going to serve you ham on the bone for your main course, but dear Rex looked so hungry that I gave him the ham bone and settled instead on salmon for us."

     Jones thought he had been hit on the head with a large hammer. "Just one little minute, Olivia. We come first - the hound comes last."

     "Well, you brought him home, Ethan, and we cannot starve him, can we?"

     "We will talk about that when I get home." Jones slammed down the receiver and headed for the door. Ham on the bone was the crowning glory of his choosy appetite and Olivia knew he loved ham on the bone. So, what does she do - she gives it to the damn dog! Who came first, the dog or the town sheriff? Jones hurried home, not wanting to answer his own question. He cursed bitterly. things were getting hell of mixed up. A Ganford Raynes was heading this way, Jim Lennox was searching for ghosts, and a damn dog was eating his ham on the bone.

                                                       ***

Tommy Wade pulled over against brushwood at the canyon bottom, engaged the handbrake, turned, and glanced at Rickard laying on the rear seat, sweating profusely, face screwed in pain. The blood still seeping from his shoulder wound was tingeing his jacket lapel a deep reddish purple. "Maybe we should find a doctor, Frank." The sun was sinking behind the mountains. Wade looked at the ancient signpost that showed Anacona 15 miles distant. After Anacona it was Highway 19. "Where do we go, Frank?" There was no answer - only a muffled groan. Wade released the handbrake and made a decision: if Rickard did not receive attention soon, Wade might have a cadaver on his hands. He headed for Anacona, knowing it to be a straggling town of maybe one thousand residents, mostly strung out in groups of homesteads and various light industries.

     Rickard groaned behind him. "We're heading for Anacona, Frank," he said, in case Rickard could hear him. Again, Rickard did not answer, but coughed suddenly, a retching, deep cough, accompanied by more distressed moans. Wade glanced at the fuel gauge: it was showing low. He bounced over fallen tree branches. The gearbox grated. Wade cursed; he must swap this car. Anyway, the cops would have this vehicle's identity so it was time to change transport. He remembered the Anacona gas station to be at this end of the main street. He would hang around the edge of town until dark and steal the best car he could find.


Anacona had changed little since Wade had last seen it, a line of dour houses on either side of a rocky, dusty road that showed road repairs were the last items on the town's financial agenda. He pulled up at a batch of trees two hundred yards from the gasoline station and turned off the engine. He doubted the engine would restart. A middle-age man sitting on a veranda reading a magazine operated the station. Wade studied the cars on sale: a Buick, a Ford, a Chevrolet, two Pontiacs and an old Lincoln. He smiled. In less than ten seconds, he could have any of these cars on the road and running, but obtaining gasoline was one problem - and the middle-age man was another.

     With dusk coming in fast, Wade surprised himself by deciding to use some of the stolen money to barter a sale. He startled himself further by exiting the car and walking toward the station with dollar notes in the left hand pocket of his shirt and the Colt 44 stuffed awkwardly inside the shirt. He stopped. The Colt was rubbing at his ribs. He did not have the physique to hide a gun and, anyway, gun slinging was not his forte. He tossed the Colt onto the driving seat. The station attendant got up as Wade approached. He was much older than Wade had thought - maybe sixty. "Can I help you, mister?" he said.

     "Yeah, I'm outa gas. Could you fill me a couple of cans?"

     "I sure can."

     Wade glanced along the road. Lights were on in most households. "It's been a hot one," he said.

     "It sure has." The attendant picked up two gasoline containers next the office steps. "Which grade do you want?"

     "Make it Regular."

     The hand filled the first can, his eyes eyes taking in the apparent stalled car. "You travelled far?"

     "I'm from Monterrey, going to visit my brother in Duluth."

     "Ah, so you're Minnesota bound, huh?"

     "That's right - I hope the weather stays good."


Frank Rickard groaned. His throat was dry. He looked up at the car roof, wondering where he was. Gradually, he realised the car was stationary and Tommy had gone. Where was he? Surely the little slob had not taken off and left him alone? His left arm was inflexible and almost useless. Encrusted blood lay on his jacket lapel. He wiped sweat from his forehead and sat up slowly, head spinning, pain and stiffness dragging at his limbs. The Colt 44 lay on the front seat. Ahead of him, he could see a gas station. Tommy was in there talking to someone.

     Rickard picked up the Colt.