Dante shook his head.
Frederick, all-knowing, snapped his fingers; one of the men opened the door from the corridor outside and in walked a plump, attractive young woman, a strawberry blonde, provocatively dressed, carrying a small valise.
"Yes?" said Frederick to the woman.
"Pardon me, gentlemen, I don't mean to intrude," said the woman, obviously nervous.
"How can we help you, miss?" asked Frederick politely.
"I found this case, you see, under my seat in the next car over?" she said, in a grating midwestern drawl. "And the fella outside—your friend, I guess, he was sitting across from me— he said he thought it belonged to one of you gents in here. So he asked if I wouldn't mind bringing it back myself."
"How very kind of you," said Frederick. "Did our friend offer you anything for its safe return?"
"Sort of," said the woman, blushing.
"How do you mean?"
"He said one of you fellas would give me ten dollars if I did it."
"He would be right," said Frederick, taking out his billfold. "Forgive my manners, won't you join us for a moment, miss? It must be more comfortable in here and we really are most grateful."
"All right," she said, still standing, awkwardly holding the valise.
The man in the hall closed the door behind her, leaving her alone with Dante and Frederick.
"Here then, Mr. Johnson," said Frederick to Dante, "why don't you take your case back from the young lady?"
Dante glanced at Frederick in confusion.
"Oh, is it yours?" said the woman, holding it out to him.
"Thank you," said Dante. He accepted the case from her, holding it stiffly in his lap.
Frederick patted the seat beside him and the young woman sat down, as he slipped a ten-dollar bill from his billfold.
"As promised," said Frederick.
"Thank you very much, sir," said the woman, taking the money, eyes downcast, embarrassed.
"No, thank you, my dear," said Frederick. "Mr. Johnson, perhaps you should examine your case and make sure everything is in order."
Dante nodded, set the case flat across his knees, and carefully unfastened the twin clasps.
"If you don't mind my asking, are you traveling alone, miss?" asked Frederick. "What is your name, by the way?"
"Rowena. Rowena Jenkis. No, I don't mind. And yes, I am," she said. "Traveling alone, that is."
"I see," said Frederick, smiling warmly. "You're a very pretty girl, if you don't mind my remarking."
"No, I don't mind at all."
"Are you a prostitute, by any chance, Rowena?"
The girl looked stricken; her hands tensed into fists and she (•lanced nervously at the door. Frederick studied her reaction carefully.
"Please, I don't mean any offense by the question," said Frederick pleasantly. "And I certainly hold no ill feeling towards you if you are. We're all very open-minded here. It's only an observation. To satisfy my curiosity."
She looked rapidly back and forth between them. "I guess I done some of that, yeah," she said, her hands relaxing, stroking the silky mohair seat.
Dante opened the case; inside, laid out meticulously on a bed of black velvet were arrayed two rows of new, gleaming, stainless steel surgical instruments; scalpers, spreaders, saws.
"Is everything in order, Mr. Johnson?" asked Frederick.
"Oh yes."
"Nothing missing?"
"No," said Dante. "Everything's fine."
"Good."
Dante slowly fastened the case and looked up at the girl.
She smiled at him; the one with the accent seemed a bit sophisticated and intimidating for her taste, but she liked this boyish-looking blond. She thought she could have some fun with this one, bringing that little boy out in him. He had a real friendly face—she was severely nearsighted but hated wearing glasses—but there was something funny about his left eye: What was it?
"May I offer you a drink, Rowena?" asked Frederick, bringing down the picnic basket. "Perhaps something to eat. We've brought along some lovely sandwiches."
"That'd be just wonderful, thanks," said Rowena, snuggling back into her first-class seat.
Rowena hadn't been looking forward to moving to Kansas City one little bit; she knew the house she was going to work in there was nowhere near as nice as the one she'd just left in Chicago, and she hated having to get to know a whole bunch of new girls all over again.
But judging by the size of the bankroll in this fancy gent's billfold, she had a feeling this trip might turn out all right after all.
By midafternoon, Buckskin Frank had made up the actors' head start. For all his years riding through the region, he'd never been out this far before; not even Apaches had much use for the place. The heat was brutal once you hit the sand, but he knew how to pace a horse through it; he'd done it a hundred times in other wastelands, and he stopped every hour to water both himself and the horse; he'd always taken good care of his animals. They seemed more deserving of kindness than most people he'd known and returned it more faithfully.
The road was easy to follow and their tracks were fresh. He stopped on top of the last bluff before the road dipped down for good into the flats; another fork intersected with the road a quarter mile below, the only other one he'd come across since Skull Canyon, snaking off to the southwest.
There: Dust kicking up on the main road ahead; Frank took out his field glasses.
His first sight of the actors, five wagons rolling out of a cluster of tall rock. The last wagon had its flap open but he couldn't see any—What was that?
He swung the glasses back from the theatrical troupe and focused in: Looked like a gate across the road, this side of the wagons, about a mile off. Small cabin; telegraph lines running off, following the road ahead. Figures moving, but he was unable to pick out any details from this distance through the heat waves.
His eye caught another cloud rising from that secondary road to his left; he moved the glasses over.
Conestoga wagons, a longer string, maybe ten of them, closer than the other group, heading toward the intersection beneath his position. Drivers wearing white shirts, a second white shirt riding shotgun.
What was in the wagons?
Crates, long crates, piled high in every one.
He knew that shape.
But it made no sense; these were clearly civilian drivers. Couldn't be, could it? To be sure of it, he'd need a closer look.
Not that this was his business, he reminded himself, but if anything was going to complicate taking down the Chinaman, he had to make it his business.
Frank figured ten minutes before the wagons reached the intersection. He kicked into a gallop to the bottom of the bluff, then left the road and picked his way through the sand to the first outcroppings of rock formation. Strange shapes rising, a maze of twisted pink and white columns like a stand of petrified trees. He tied off his horse out of sight, took his rifle, and went looking for high ground.
The wagons were still a few minutes away, approaching along the main road from the left. As he advanced, he heard movement echoing ahead out of the rocks, then a rhythmic beating sound, followed by voices.
Singing?
Frank crept onto a large boulder and edged over to its rim, giving him a view of a small natural clearing set in the middle ol the formation.
A dozen of those same white-shirted people he'd spotted on the wagons, sitting in a circle in the clearing, clapping their hands and singing "Rock My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham."
Young faces. Smiling to beat the band. Two of them black, one Mexican, at least one Indian. Half of them women. Bandoliers around their waists, sidearms. Rifles stacked against the rocks; repeaters, serious guns.
What the hell sort of Sunday school outing was this supposed to be?