Tommy Wade bought two cans of gasoline and hinted he was considering buying an auto. Was the attendant the garage owner? Mike Gilford grinned: this mug from Monterey was an easy touch. "Sure, these are my pumps and I got autos for sale. What deal does you want, straight cash purchase or a partial swap?"

     Wade shrugged. "I'll trade the Buick."

     Gilford studied Wade, trying to assess if there were sharp brains inside such a small head. "Yeah, I can see it's a Buick from here. It's a '49 job so that makes it fifteen or sixteen years old. I could take her off your hands and give you discount on the one you buy. That is the best I can do." The mention of a '49 Buick was niggling Gilford. Why should he specifically recall that year? A radio was playing softly on a shelf behind him. Gilford, a widower of five years had three children from the marriage: they had long gone to New York and he saw little of them. Now, his only interest was running the garage. His workforce - two young local men had gone home hours ago. Anacona was settling quiet this warm evening and not until eight o'clock would anyone venture along the main road to populate the few bars and the late closing shops. Gilford suggested Wade select the car of his choice. Wade reckoned the Buick Riviera the best bet; twelve years old;good tyres - it was the cleanest of the bunch.

     A music program on the radio cut to a news bulletin update. Thieves assaulted Charles Singleton in Delmar and stole his 1949 Buick, said the presenter. Four people were murdered at the Clarke farm on the outskirts of Delmar. The victims are, Joseph and Mary Clarke, Louis Levinski and Edward Birch. The killer or killers are heading west. Do not approach. Pass information to Sheriff Dobie of Delmar. The news hit Gilford hard. He remembered hearing earlier the theft of a '49 Buick and, two hundred yards from the garage; Gilford could see a Buick. He tried to stay casual. Maybe this Buick and the stolen Buick were not the same auto. He said to Wade, "What do you know, huh, people will do anything to own a Buick. Now this Buick I have is a..."

     "It's a 1963 Buick Riviera," said Wade. "She has power steering, power brakes, power windows and air conditioning. She has a V8 engine that can push her along at 110 to 115 miles per hour. She is greedy on gas, giving 13 to 14 miles per gallon. She weighs over four thousand pounds, she is over seventeen feet long and when new she cost just over four thousand dollars. However," Wade smiled. "She is not new. She has probably travelled over two hundred thousand miles. I'll give you one hundred dollars for her - plus my Buick."

     Gilford, his mind on the stolen Buick and the four killings was smart enough to know when not to haggle. "A hundred dollars will be fine," he said. "Leave your Buick where it is, my boys will recover it tomorrow."

     "Forget the one hundred dollars," Rickard said, pushing open the door, the Colt in his right hand. "Give Tommy the Riviera keys."
 
     "The keys are right here," Gilford said, grabbing a set from a wallboard behind him and handing them to Wade. A lot suddenly fell into place for Gilford. He could put numbers together and come up with the right answer. At sixty-three, he had military service in the Second World War as a vehicle mechanic in Washington. His weapon training was minimal but he could see the Colt 44 in Rickard's hand was bad news. "If you want a replacement car, mister, you can take whichever damn model you want. Take 'em all - I don't care. I'll fill your tank with gas - for free, of course."

     Rickard smiled, but only pain showed on his ghastly pale face. "Have you any food, old man?"

     Gilford nodded briskly. "Yeah, I got a fridge out back, there's plenty of stuff in there. Take the fridge if you want it."

     Rickard told Wade to fill bags with supplies. He indicated his injured shoulder and said to Gilford, "Take a look at this, will you?" He slid the jacket sleeve from his arm, wincing as he did so. The shirt beneath was darkened a deep burgundy.

     "That's one hell of a nasty scratch," Gilford said, easing Rickard's shirt away from the wound. "I reckon the slug is still in there. I can clean you up and stick a bandage on it, but I reckon you should see Doc Finnegan."

     "Forget the doctor, you fix it."

     "Yeah, sure, if that's what you want."

     "It is what I want. Make it quick, we got guys chasing us."

     "They put a slug in you?"

     "They did. Maybe you heard about the Delmar murders?"

     Gilford snapped open a bandage roll paper. "Yeah, I heard about them."

     "Four were killed," Rickard said. "This guy also took pot shots at me and my buddy. Hit me in the shoulder. We got out of there using the nearest car we could find." He watched Gilford for a reaction. There was none.

     Gilford, knowing a damn lie when he heard one, opened a packet of plasters, put a wad of bandage on the wound and stuck it down with the plaster. As he did this, Rickard groaned in muted agony. Wade, meanwhile, shuffled to the kitchen in the back and loaded what he found edible in the fridge into two carrier bags. He came back, said to Rickard, "What do we do with him?"

     "Just leave me here," Gilford said, "I know when to keep my mouth shut."

     "You come with us," said Rickard. Gilford stayed silent - bravery was not in his make up. Rickard smiled faintly. "Do you have beer?"

     "Sure." Gilford nodded to a box near the door. "There are a few bottles in that cooler box."

     "Get 'em."

     As Gilford headed for the box, Rickard sank onto a chair. The wound was giving him trouble. His stomach griped. he said, "Bring me a beer, Tommy and take the rest of the stuff to the car and put them in the trunk. Try out the car. If it rolls, fill it up, if it don't then find one that does so we can leave this dump."

     Gilford concluded that the moment the Buick Riviera was ticking over with a full tank of gasoline - he would die. He tried catching Wade's eye but the man opened a beer for Rickard and then headed for the auto. Rickard drank half the beer, the 44 aimed vaguely at Gilford. "You're thinking I'll shoot you?" Rickard said.

     "No, because folks nearby would hear it. I don't think you'll shoot me. Why should you?"

     "Why should I?" Rickard said, a weird croak in his throat. "I do that because I like shooting people. I love watching them go down. They twitch a little but I like it when they twitch a lot. They groan a while, and kick, and squirm - and then they are gone. It gives me a buzz." The Riviera engine growled into life. Rickard flicked the gun muzzle toward the door. "Go fill her up - and no tricks."

     Wade manoeuvred the Riviera to a pump. Gilford, shirt sweat laden, removed the gasoline cap and filled the tank. Rickard was standing close to him, the 44 waiting for an error. Gilford glanced along the street, wishing somebody would leave home and inform the town sheriff there was trouble at the gas station. He cursed in silence. Miracles did not happen in Anacona: not to him anyway. He replaced the cap, hung the gasoline pump line on its hook and headed for the office.

     "Get into the rear seat," said Rickard.

     Wade revved the engine. He wanted out. It was time to go. They had chanced their luck for too long in this hick town. He stared along the road, which was now a row of streetlights and nightfall. "Come on, Frank," he urged. Rickard glanced at him, then back to Gilford. He told Gilford to get onto the rear seat.

     "I stay here," Gilford said. "If you're shooting me, then do it now, but I'm not travelling with you."

     Rickard raised the 44, pointed it at Gilford's head, smiled, then lowered the Colt, turned Gilford round, shoved the Colt against his back and walked him to the office. Gilford started turning to face Rickard when a blow from the Colt barrel crashed against his head, just behind the ear. Rickard reached down and delivered another half dozen blows to Gilford's skull, then switched off the lights and hopped into the car rear seat. "Okay, Tommy, let's go."

     "East or west?"

     "Head west for Julienne and we'll get us a fat sheriff."

     Wade swung the car in a half circle and put his foot down hard. The Riviera lept away with a growl.

                                                    **** 

At nine o'clock that same night in his room at an Allenby guesthouse, Deputy Sheriff Ganford Raynes checked the contents of his travel bag. He had done this half a dozen times but he checked the bag again. Until this morning, he had had no idea he was travelling to Julienne to liaise with Jim Lennox. Lennox had telephoned Sheriff Webster saying he required help at Julienne and Raynes was selected to supply that help. Webster had given him a complete rundown of the case in hand; how to contact Lennox; how to approach both Sheriff Jones and Deputy Camano regarding the Allenby bank robbery and, if possible, to gain more news of that past event.

     Raynes had also spent an hour questioning old hands on the riverboats; showing them photos of Johnny Benson and Amy Chalmers, but none of the river men could identify either one. Somebody suggested he try Caravan Kingdom. If anybody had news of missing persons in Northern Idaho, then the Kingdom families were top of the information league. He mentioned this to Webster and Webster said Lennox had already visited the caravan site, and had struck out.

     However, there was now a more important search - the manhunt for two killers - Frank Rickard and Tommy Wade. The latest news placed them at Delmar, a small mountain town some seventy miles from Allenby. Raynes had this information and knew that the killers were in a '49 Buick. Webster gave Raynes strict instructions on his Julienne trip - play it safe and watch out for these gunmen.

     The 1960 Allenby bank robbery intrigued Raynes. He mulled over what Sheriff Webster had told him. Billy Radford came to Allenby in '59, Webster said, "and he was taken on as an extra security guard at the Allenby bank, after supplying solid references from previous employers. Radford used his position to set up a robbery which he committed by holding up the staff and locking them in a back room - this after closing the front door at 3pm, the bank's closing time. Radford escaped using a high-powered car and took off along the High Cut Pass. Breaking out of the back room, the bank manager alerted Sheriff Webster by telephone and Webster allocated two officers, already out on motor patrol, to catch Radford.

     Raynes sat back and considered all that Webster had said. Somehow, Radford had escaped, taking the loot with him. Now, Jim Lennox, a Billy Radford double, had turned up fifteen years later and was assisting Webster to re investigate the Allenby robbery and yet Lennox was searching for a young couple. Raynes frowned. Were the missing couple involved with Radford?