Part 2

Gonzales was on his way back to the long bend in the road. Cutlass watched him detachedly as he turned his bronc loose, then sprawled full length and face down in the road so the Wells Fargo drivers couldn't miss him. The big splotch of red paint on the back of his shirt was visible even from where Cutlass and the Kid waited.

The Kid shifted uneasily in his saddle.

"Relax," Cutlass said. "Five minutes maybe. That ain't long to sweat."

Five minutes for a Dallas to Fort Worth payroll shipment that was supposed to be worth a hundred thousand. Travelling just like any other stage, if you could believe Toady. So as not to draw attention: Just two drivers, a couple of rifles, and maybe two or three regular passengers.

Hell. Gonzales and the Kid could have the hundred thousand. He had his pile. Robbin Cutlass couldn't remember where the rest of it had come from exactly--the watch with the initials that weren't his had puzzled him some. But he knew more by instinct than by memory how he'd got it, and that he had plenty more junk like it stashed in a bank safe-deposit box in--yeah, Abilene, what the hell was the matter with him.

Sure, he had his pile. But it makes a man sore as hell when all the tin badges in Texas gang together just to hunt him down like a coyote and then hold up his hide for every gawk to hoot at. Who the hell did they think they were to give Robbin Cutlass any back-talk? When the Wells Fargo rig slowed up to have a look at Chico, noise or no noise, by God....

The Kid heard it when he did, took his hands from his moist gun butts in a play at nonchalance and adjusted the black kerchief over his thin nose.

Cutlass didn't say anything until the stage had come tearing hell for leather around the long bend, started spurting little plumes of dust from under its iron-rimmed wheels as it ground to a halt. One of the drivers started getting down.

"OK," Cutlass said.

* * * * *

Only it wasn't OK. Even before they'd covered half the fifty yards, Cutlass saw the driver who had gotten down to go over for a look at Chico pull out his Colt and deliberately gunwhip the possum-playing Mexican across the head. Then he flopped flat on his belly and the doors of the stage slammed open even as the other driver was dropping from his perch, Winchester coming up as his boots slammed dust from the road.

Two full squads of U.S. cavalry were firing even before the Kid had been able to get his guns out. He went down with five holes in him before he could cry out. Cutlass was already out of his saddle and choking on sand. Before his first Colt was empty three soldiers and one of the drivers were dead.

But they were too damn many--

Cutlass cursed through the dust in his teeth and lunged for the Winchester still holstered on his pony's flank. The animal screamed as a slug tore through one of its legs but Cutlass had half emptied the Winchester's clip before the big corporal had got a slug through the pony's head and put it out of its misery.

There were two quick pains in his right arm, so he had to aim and fire the rifle with his left, pump the best he could with his right. There wasn't any getting away.

"Yer all through, Cutlass! Stand up and toss yer guns down or we'll save the state the cost of a trial!"

"Start savin', blue-coat!"

Cutlass groped at his belt to claw another handful of cartridges from it. His bleeding fingers felt a hard, square object. Something stirred somewhere deep inside his boiling brain. He was supposed to--_press it_!

* * * * *

_Far away, in another Space and in another Time, a smile spread slowly across an old man's wrinkled face. No, you couldn't change the blood in a man's veins! But perhaps--_

_Swiftly, his short thumby fingers played over a row of relays...._

* * * * *

Cutlass swallowed the aspirin, picked up his brief-case and met his man in the spacious lobby.

"Sorry to've kept you waiting, Prescott! Hope you didn't have a late deadline to make?"

"No, sir, that's quite all right. Believe me, I'm pleased to have an opportunity for an interview with you at any time of day or night! You've made the best copy coming out of this town in many a column, sir!"

"Well, thank you, Mr. Prescott. I believe in speaking freely to the press--"

"I've a cab waiting right outside, sir."

"Suppose we take my car? A little more privacy, I think--"

Prescott followed the immaculately attired Cutlass through the Statler's front doors to the sleek black limousine waiting at the curb. Its engine was idled to an inaudible purr, and the tonneau door was opened by a uniformed chauffeur as they approached. Cutlass nodded politely to a couple of alert Secret Service men. The Law. Friends now, of course.

Within soundless seconds the luxurious vehicle had pulled into Washington traffic, and it was Cutlass who opened the conversation.

"I thought perhaps you could better obtain what you'd like in somewhat more pleasant surroundings, Mr. Prescott. I've a little place just outside the city--prefer it, I assure you, to the Embassy room!" They both laughed, Prescott a little self-consciously, wondering just what kind of a write-up Cutlass was expecting. As if he didn't know....

"Well sir, if I could get a little background to what happened on the floor this morning, before I attempt to go into too much detail.... Your new tax bill--I understand there was rather, well--some rather spirited opposition this morning--"

Cutlass laughed easily. "To be expected, Mr. Prescott. They thought my last one was too much to take, but it went through! As this one shall. I can assure you of that."

"I see." Prescott made a brief notation. "What reaction do you expect from the corporations? If, that is, the President--"

"Oh, they've a powerful lobby of course. But, my boy--and of course this is off the record--it's simply a matter of putting the pressu--er, persuasion in the right places. The corporations will--I think they'll come around all right."

Prescott added to his notes.

"Is this new tax bill, Senator, to be your last for this session, or do you contemplate--"

Cutlass' chuckle was as velvety as the silent roll of the limousine's white-walled tires.

"My dear young man," he murmured, "I can't answer that question for the record. It depends to such a large extent on the many--rather personal considerations involved. But of course for a political reporter that should hardly be news."

Mentally, Prescott ground his teeth. "_No, it's never been news, Senator_," he raged silently. "_You--you goddamned old pirate!_"

In another Space, in another Time, an old man waited for a third signal.

But it never came.