Ben didn't have to order the ambush site cleaned up. Ike's people were probably hard at work doing that right this moment. Either that or they had moved the ambush site farther west.

"No sign of anyone else coming up behind Khamsin?"

"Nothing. The trail is clear all the way back to Villar's old CP."

"And Villar and Ashley have been gone at least two hours."

"Yes, sir. That's when the rec team came up on the lodge."

Ben thought about that for a moment. "They're not taking the bait. The cease-fire spooked them off."

Dan had ridden over the mountain on a horse -- trying to ride English-style, which some people, unfamiliar with equestrianship, have compared to the mating dance of certain large species of crane comin a western saddle.

"If they really want to hide from us," Dan said, "we'll never find them."

"True," Ben replied. "So I'm not going to look for them. It would take months to flush them out; that's providing they didn't slip out last night.

We just don't have the time. Once Malone is finished, we're pulling out." Ben hand-rolled a cigarette and said, "Corrie, order all units to harvest what they can from the gardens they run across and then plow them up. Villar and Ashley can't stay here without food."

That hard smile once more crossed Doctor Chase's lips. Ben never missed a trick.

Khamsin had been a terrorist for years, considered one of the best. But as a commander of great armies, he had proved to be a bust. He had arrived in this country with thousands of men and the finest of equipment to be found anywhere in the world.

Then the Hot Wind ran smack into Ben Raines.

And over the years comthey were only a few but seemed like a lifetime -- Raines had steadily stomped him into the ground. Now he was walking out of a wilderness with little more than the clothes on his back.

Pitiful.

Khamsin's feet were wet and his boots were rubbing a blister on one side of his foot. He stopped to take off his boots and rub his feet. Then he slipped into dry socks and almost cried with relief.

He laced up his boots and picked up his heavy pack, slipping his arms into the straps.

Abu, he spoke to his mentor in terrorism comnow long dead comif you are watching me now, please turn away. I will recover from this humiliation. When or how, I cannot say, but I will recover.

Providing, he bitterly amended that, someone with more luck than I can kill Ben Raines.

Khamsin picked up his rifle just as the trail before him burst into a firestorm of death. Mangled bodies were blown a dozen yards in all directions as Claymores spread h.e.l.lish death, rockets exploded against flesh, fired at almost point-blank range. The yammer of machine guns began putting the finishing touches on the scene of b.l.o.o.d.y destruction.

Khamsin flung himself off the hiking trail. He ran wildly through the thick brush and timber, ignoring the limbs that smacked and bruised and tore at his face and the thorns that ripped through his battle dress and lashed at the flesh of his legs. The Hot Wind ran until his chest was heaving, his vision blurred, and his legs rubbery and weak and he could run no more.

Khamsin dropped to the cool earth and buried his face against the vegetation. He wanted to weep and had to struggle to fight back the tears. Khamsin, self-proclaimed The Hot Wind, was now a commander of a nonexistent army. What was left of his army now lay broken and still, in cooling, b.l.o.o.d.y chunks along the narrow trail of this G.o.dforsaken wilderness.

For a wild moment he thought of suicide as a way out of the deep humiliation he felt. He quickly rejected that. If by killing himself he could also kill Ben Raines, he would not hesitate to do so.

But that devil, Raines, was far away.

Khamsin regained his composure and took stock of his surroundings. All in all, he concluded, he was in a lousy position.

And all in all, he thought, I have been in a lousy position ever since I landed in America and discovered Ben Raines. He contented himself by silently cursing Ben Raines for a long moment.

He pulled himself to his boots and walked on, carefully measuring the terrain after each few slow steps. After walking about a mile, Khamsin found a blow-down: a wild jumble of trees that had been felled during some savage mountain storm. He slowly picked his way into the maze, being careful not to leave any sign of his entrance. One freshly broken off branch would have those devil Rebels on him like wild animals on a blood scent. And they were animals, Khamsin thought. They fought like animals, without the slightest shred of decency. The Rebels were savages led by the most savage of them all: Ben Raines.

Khamsin had food for several days, if he rationed himself. He could hear a spring bubbling, so water was nearby. If he kept his wits about him, he might survive to fight again.

Khamsin pulled himself into the darkness of the wild tangle and spread his ground sheet just as it began to rain, a cold falling of thick drops.

Raindrops began dripping down the back of Khamsin's jacket, running down his spine.

Water collected on his nose and dripped off, puddling on the ground sheet.

He hadn't felt this miserable since those d.a.m.nable Jews kicked his a.s.s during a fight in Palestine, years back.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n you, Ben Raines!" Khamsin whispered, as his a.s.s got wet.

"Ihateyoulhateyoulhateyou!"

Meg Callahan had left Malone's side to strike out on her own. Malone was in an unreachable blue funk; so crazied thinking about his racist empire being pulled down around his nose, he was unbearable to be around. Meg had a strong suspicion that Malone, never all that stable, was having some sort of mental breakdown.

She had heard intercepted radio transmissions from the Rebels, deliberately broadcast uncoded, about the slaughter of Parr and Khamsin's troops, and about the hundreds of Malone's men surrendering; just throwing down their guns and giving up.

She knew, too, that the Rebels were now all over the vastness of the park. Malone might last a day, perhaps only a few more hours. Meg wisely wanted some distance between them.

What to do? was the question.

She entertained no thoughts of immediate revenge toward Ben Raines. That was so stupid it did not even enter her mind. What she had to do was hunt a hole and bury herself for several days. And she had that hole all picked out comif she could just make it.

It took her most of the morning, hiking through wilderness, but she made it, and crawled into the cave near the Continental Divide. She would be cold for a time, for she could not risk a fire, but she would survive.

Now she began entertaining thoughts of revenge - at a much later date, of course.

Ben sat with his immediate staff and a few guests at the banquet table of the chalet, all of them enjoying fresh vegetables, just plucked from the gardens of Malone's people and cooked late that afternoon for the evening meal.

"The Hot Wind made it out," Ben said. "So did Kenny Parr. Villar and Ashley and their people have dug themselves a hole and pulled the earth in over them.

We'll have to deal with them again, bet on that. But not during this go-around. What's the latest report on prisoners?"

"Just over eight hundred," Dan told him. "About half of them women and kids."

Ben had never taken eight hundred prisoners at one pop during all the long years of fighting. And he didn't have the foggiest idea what to do with that number.

Looking at the faces seated around the table, Ben knew that they didn't know what to do with those people, either.

"Malone?" he directed the question at Corrie who was busy b.u.t.tering an ear of corn.

"Five Battalion moved across the line as General Striganov and his people pushed south, Buddy and Tina's teams on a parallel with them. Ike and West pushed in with West linking up with General Jef-ferys. Malone and what is left of his people are believed to have left the park and to be at that old lodge in the Lolo National Forest just west of the Indian reservation."

Ben nodded, thinking: It's almost over.

The body count of enemy dead had reached almost two thousand. Many of the prisoners were now being used to dig holes and bury their dead comrades in hatred. The Rebels had been very lucky, suffering far less casualties than anyone could have predicted: ten dead and so far, just over forty wounded.

"We'll start interviewing the prisoners first thing in the morning," Ben said. "Well see what we can salvage."

Not very d.a.m.n much, was the general conclusion among the Rebels.

The prisoners, even though they had surrendered, were die-hard, hard-core racists and hate mongers.

Ben had shifted his CP over to the more easily accessible Many Glacier Hotel. The old lodge, built back in the 1920's by the Great Northern Railway, was huge, with rambling corridors and rough-hewn wood beams. It offered an impressive view of Swift-current Lake.

The children of the surrendered, those kids still young enough to be taught comor reprogrammed as the Rebel doctors put it comwere already being trucked out of the park, on their way to staging areas to be later flown to families in various secure zones and some back to Base Camp One. A dozen of the leaders of Malone's pack of crud were standing at loose attention in front of Ben, who was seated in the lobby of the old hotel.

"I ought to shoot every d.a.m.n one of you," Ben bluntly told the men.

Their faces paled and they sucked in their bellies and their a.s.sholes tightened at that.

"But I can't do it," Ben said.

The men visibly relaxed.

"But I don't really know what the h.e.l.l to do with you."

"Turn us a-loose," one man spoke.

"And what would you do?" Ben challenged him. Ben gazed at the mountains across the lake, at the white lillies and the wildflowers growing impossibly next to the snow.

"Why . . . we'd leave!"

"And go where and do what?"

The question seemed to confuse the man. People of his ilk are easily confused.

"Let me put it another way," Ben said. "Perhaps I can somehow penetrate that murk that is called a brain. Believe it or not, you all have one, but in case you don't know where it is, it's located between your ears."

That got Ben some dirty looks but the men wisely kept their mouths shut.

"In case you men haven't heard the news, Malone is dead."

The men closed their eyes and silently cursed.

"He killed his wife, his son, and then stuck the gun in his mouth and blew half his head off. The bodies were found late last night. Now, as to what I'm going to do with you. I'm going to place you all on the old Flathead Indian Reservation. The few Indians that you have left alive will be in charge."

"I ain't takin' orders from no G.o.dd.a.m.n Injun!" one man blurted.

Ben looked at him. "Would you rather die?" he asked softly. "Because that is the only other option you have left."

"I don't believe you would just shoot me standin' here unarmed."

"Then you are a bigger fool than I first thought,"

Ben told him.

"What gives you the right to tell us what to do?"

another challenged.

"Now that is a question I find worthy of a response.

What gives me the right?"

Thermopolis was listening closely, leaning up against a wall in the corridor.

"Many things," Ben said. "Power is one reason I have the right. I have the biggest, finest, best-equipped, best-moraled army anywhere in America. That's one reason and I mention it only because brute force is the only thing people like you really understand.

But the most important reason of all is that the majority of the people we encounter like the Rebel type of law.

Majority is the key word in that statement. And by majority, I mean those people who are trying to live decently, who respect the rights of those who are trying desperately to rebuild this nation; for all people of all races and creeds and religions. Not crud like you."

"So what happens to us?"

"You prove yourselves to me and the other Rebels.

Prove that you can get along with people of all races and creeds . . . like the Indians you'll be living alongside of. And taking orders from."

"Not me," another said. "Oh, I ain't gonna try to walk away from you, Ben Raines. I got more sense than that. I'll go on the reservation. Then I'll leave." Ben shrugged. "That's your business. Once we're gone, you all might try to run. And the Indians won't stop you. I've discussed this with them.

But once you run, you better keep on running, and you'd better constantly keep looking over your shoulder. Because one of us might be gaining on you. And don't go into any Rebel-secured zone asking for help comany kind of help. Food, clothing, medical care. You won't receive it. Within a month, all Rebels and citizens living in Rebel zones will be issued ID cards. Complete with thumbprint and photo. And you asked this morning why we were taking your pictures and fingerprinting you? Here is your answer: we're starting our own criminal file."

Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out several crisp new greenbacks, holding them up for the men to see. "We're back on a limited monetary system. And without ID cards, you can't use money.

You might steal it, but you can't use it. How's that grab you, a.s.shole?"

The man glared hate at Ben Raines. But that was something that Ben was very accustomed to receiv- ing. It didn't bother him a bit.

Malone and his jerks just thought they had killed or enslaved all the Indians. They were very wrong- as usual. The weapons taken from Malone's people were given to the Indians and the zone declared secure. The Indians told Ben they had been praying for some Rebels to show up.

Ben reminded them they had been through the area south of the park just a few months back.

"You were also fighting a war then, General," a subchief reminded him. "And we were unarmed, except for bows and arrows, which most of us couldn't hit a barn with if we were standing inside it, and were afraid we'd get caught up in the middle of the war, with neither side knowing who we were."

"Good point," Ben said. "You're going to have trouble with the people we've saddled you with. Are you sure you want the responsibility?"

"They won't give us much trouble, General. You see, they're afraid of us. It is very a peculiar thing about white people. Most especially the ignorant among you. If they do not understand something, they are fearful of it. They do not understand the animals' way of life, such as the wolf and the coyote, and will make no effort to try and understand them, so they want to kill them.

It is the same with people of another race. Very peculiar."

Ben smiled. "I think you and I will get along very well."

"I think so."