"I know him real well," said Keegan flatly. "What d'you say? Let's give it a shot."

Harris shook his head as he climbed back in the car.

"I'll try anything once," he said. "But we got about a twenty-five-degree slope here. I can't promise anything."

"I'm sure you'll do your best," Keegan said.

Trexler drove as fast as his Hudson Terraplane would safely maneuver the road to Dutchman Flat and Soapie Kramer's cabin. He was reviewing his plan, checking it for holes.

The road finally began to level off. He picked up speed, coursing down through the ridge forest until suddenly he burst out onto the flatland, a plateau near the top of the mountain. Snow flurries were just beginning and thick woolly clouds were tumbling over the mountaintops, bringing the big wind with them.

What has nature got against me? he thought to himself. First it was the dust storms. Now this. But he wasn't complaining. Actually the storm would provide his cover. He needed a couple of days and the brewing storm just might provide them. He parked near the cabin, aiming the car out toward the lake that adjoined Kramer's place. Snow flurries danced across the ice surface. He walked directly to the corner of the building. The phone line was stretched down the side of the cabin, entering it through an outlet near the base of the house. Trexler opened his penknife and cut the wire.

He went around to the front, peered through the glass panel.

Thank God! Kramer was still there.

Snow lashed the windshield and Harris leaned forward squinting as he guided the black '35 Ford, twisting and skidding, up the steep dirt road.

"We're not gonna make this, gentlemen," Harris said. "Need chains. All I got's snow tires."

Keegan was also straining his eyes ahead on the road.

"Keep trying," he said.

The car fishtailed as the road turned to slush beneath them. The tires started spinning faster and the Ford began to slow. Then suddenly the rear end jerked to the right. Harris spun the wheel to compensate but he was not quick enough. The rear wheel went off the road.

There was a ten-foot drop beside them.

Harris slammed down the pedal, trying to get traction. The wheel spun feverishly, spewing mud and snow behind it, hit a fallen tree and caught. Smoke billowed from tire and log as Harris continued to spin the wheels. The Ford tilted slightly, felt for a moment like it was going to roll over, then righted itself.

Harris blew out a breath and lowered his head on the steering wheel.

"Phew, that's a ten-footer there," he said. "Long fall in a car."

Keegan opened the door and jumped out. He was closer to the edge than he realized. His feet foundered in the muddy snow and he had to grab the door to keep from falling into the gully. He pulled himself back up slowly and tried to shield his eyes against the frigid snow which, whipped by a deep, mournful wind, swirled through the pine forest and started to drift against the side of the vehicle. He slowly worked his way to the front of the car, then stared down at the half-frozen creek below. It looked more like a hundred feet than ten. His gaze moved to the rear of the vehicle. The left rear wheel of the Ford was half off the road, wedged against a fallen tree.

Harris got out and appraised the situation.

"Maybe I can bully it outa there," he said, cupping his hands and yelling in Keegan's ear. "If I can jockey it back on the trail . . ."

"How long will it take to drive up there from here?" Keegan yelled back, interrupting him.

"We can't get up this road, sir. Not without chains. Even then it'd be hit or miss."

"How much farther is it?" Keegan asked.

"At least a mile."

"We'll walk."

"In this storm?" Harris said with astonishment. He shook his head. "Not a chance. I know this country better'n I know my own bedroom but in this stuff we could miss the cabin. Easy as fallin' off a roof to get lost. Hell, man, you'd freeze to death up here. A mile is forever in a blizzard."

Keegan slammed his fist on the hood.

"Goddamn it, we've got our fingertips on him!" he yelled. "He's only a bloody mile ahead of us!"

"Okay if we get back in the car and think this out?" Harris yelled. They scrambled back inside the car. Keegan pulled off his gloves and breathed on his frozen fingers.

"He's not going anywhere in this weather," Harris said, breathing hard. "He and Soapie will have to hole up there."

"This guy isn't holing up anywhere," Keegan said. "I know him. He's a survivor. He's dedicated. He's on a mission. And he's on the run. Let me tell you something, Duane. When he's on the run he's harder to stop than the Twentieth Century Limited."

"Hey, Trexler's good but nobody could ski through the storm that's brewing."

"He can and will. And we can't stop him because we're stuck in the . . . !"

Keegan suddenly sat bolt upright.

"My God," he said. "I know what he's going to do. Harris, get on the radio. Tell them to get in touch with Soapie Kramer immediately. If Trexler shows up at his station, Kramer is to hold him at gunpoint. He's a very dangerous man."

"They won't believe me!"

"Then I'll tell them. Do it! Your man Soapie's life depends on it."

"Kee . . ." Dryman started.

"Can it, Dry."

"But . . ."

Keegan whirled in the front seat and glared at Dryman.

"What?"

He knew what concerned Dryman. Supposing they were wrong about Trexler? Hold him at gunpoint? Dryman was having trouble with that.

"The man's life could be at stake, Dry," Keegan said quietly.

Harris raised base station but the reception was poor. Static crackled from the speaker.

"Base, this is Harris. Mr. Keegan of the White House staff says you should radio Soapie Kramer pronto and tell him John Trexler is dangerous and to arrest him."

The radio popped and snapped and then: ". . . reception. Please repeat . . ."

"Christ, they can't read us," Keegan said.

The ranger repeated the message. Static and a fluctuating signal obscured part of the response but they picked up enough of it.

". . . ler left for Leadville an hour . . . Soapie . . . to Copperhead Ridge . . . camp . . . radio shut down."

Keegan's shoulders sagged.

"He's doing it again," Keegan said half aloud.

"Doing what?" Harris asked.

Just like Drew City, he thought. It worked once, he's going to do it again.

I know you, you bastard. I know how you think. Always ready to run. Always got a back door.

"Doing what?" Harris repeated.

"Getting away," Keegan answered.

Soapie Kramer was leaning over the large Mercator projection, pinned by its corners to a drawing table. He traced a trail with his finger, east, then south.

"I got the mountain between me and the wind most of the way," he said. "It's only six miles up there. The last . . . two hundred yards'll be the worst. I ought to be able to make it before dark."

"Well, far be it from me to argue but base says this one's gonna be a pistol," said Trexler.

"All the more reason for me to be up there," said Kramer, then he snapped his fingers. "Hey, what's the matter with us? I can radio down there, tell 'em not to worry."

Trexler hesitated for only a moment. He had forgotten about the radio. A mistake, but not a serious one. It was time to make his move. Kramer walked into the adjoining room. Large glass windows on three sides of the room overlooked the valley, now obscured by windswept snow. The radio was on a table in front of the center window.

"I already shut 'er down," he said, flipping on the power.

Trexler walked up behind him, leaned over, and reaching under his pants leg, pulled the SS dagger from the sheath strapped to his ankle.

"I don't think I'd do that, Soapie," he said.

The ranger turned to him.

"Why n . . . ?"

Trexler's arm was already making a powerful underhand swing. It arched upward almost from the floor and buried in Kramer's stomach just under the rib cage. The long blade sliced deep and up and pierced Kramer's heart.

"Oh," he cried out, his eyes bulging with surprise.

Trexler grabbed Kramer by the collar, spun him around and dropped him on his back on the rug. Kramer sighed once as Trexler slammed his foot against his chest and pulled the knife out. He stuck the point of the long knife into Kramer's throat just under one ear and slashed it. Blood gushed like a fountain from under Kramer's chin. Trexler quickly rolled him up in the rug before the blood could spread.

A mile away, Ranger Harris was getting fidgety. They had to do something.

"What the hell," Harris said finally, "I'll try to back down to Trexler's place. Least we won't freeze to death."

Shifting quickly between first and reverse, he rocked the car back and forth. The tire dug into the fallen tree, started to jog back onto the road, but as it did the tree gave way and dropped into the gully. The front end of the Ford lifted straight up and twisted sideways.

"Jesus, we're goin' over!" Harris screamed as the Ford's rear end dropped over the precipice and the car rolled over and plunged upside down into the gulch.

At Kramer's cabin, Trexler dragged the ranger's rug-wrapped body down the front steps of the cabin and dropped it beside the trunk of his car. He opened the trunk, stuffed Kramer's body in it, then hurried back inside the cabin. He went through Kramer's rucksack, found an army Colt .45 and a box of cartridges and stuffed them in his own knapsack. He went back outside and threw Kramer's rucksack in beside him. He slammed the lid down, got in and drove to the edge of the lake. He parked, walked out on the ice with a stick and tried to punch a hole in the ice. Too thick. Leaning over, he carefully worked his way around the lake until he spotted a large clear space below the ice, an air bubble about five feet across. He jabbed the stick into the ice until it punched through. An inch thick, he figured.

He hurried back to the car and put it in gear. Driving with the door open, he steered it out onto the lake and aimed at the air hole. Then he slammed down the gas pedal and rolled out of the car, skidding and rolling across the frozen surface until he slid to a stop. He rose to his knees and scurried on all fours toward shore. The car slowed, rolled out to the middle of the lake. Through the wind, 27 heard the ice groan. He reached hard ground and looked back. The car had almost stopped and had skidded sideways. The ice groaned again, then there was a sharp crack like lightning, and another, even louder than the first, and suddenly the front wheels of the car crashed through the ice. The surface shattered and the front end of the automobile plunged through the frozen surface and the car slid nose down into the lake. A large air bubble burst through the hole.

Then there was only the sound of the wind.

Trexler snapped a pine branch off a tree and walking backwards, dusted the car tracks and his own footprints, smoothing them out. Then he hurried back to the cabin.

Keegan was lying on his back against the door on his side of the Ford. It had flipped three quarters of the way over and jolted to a stop, lodged five feet above the ground against a thick pine tree. Harris was hanging upside down, his head in Keegan's lap. He was unconscious. Keegan cautiously looked over his shoulder and out the window. He was staring straight into the deep gully.

Keegan struggled to get his feet under him. He had cracked his ribs but otherwise was uninjured. Harris's right leg was twisted grotesquely above him, caught between the clutch and brake pedals. In the backseat, Dryman lay on his back with his knees against his chest. A large bruise was beginning to discolor his forehead.

"You okay?" Keegan asked.

"Yeah," said Dryman, gingerly touching his forehead and flinching. "Though I'm gonna have the worst headache in history."

"Harris's out. How's your first aid?"

"I took the army course about ten years ago."

"Well, you're one up on me," said Keegan. Hefting Harris with his shoulder, he carefully dislodged the foot.

"His ankle's broken," Keegan said. "The bone's sticking out. We'll have to tie it up and get him back to Trexler's cabin."

Keegan carefully forced open the door on Harris's side and worked his way out of the sedan. He was sitting on its side, staring up at the road. The car seemed safely wedged in the tree. He stretched out along the length of the Ford and forced open the luggage kit on the back. Inside were a first aid kit, blankets, a coil of rope and a large tool chest. He pulled out the blankets, first aid kit and rope and inched back to the door.

"We're in luck. He's got enough stuff back there to start a hospital," he said. "Tie up that ankle and wrap him in a blanket so he doesn't go into shock. I'm going to wrap this rope around the tree so we can lower him down by rope."

"We ought to be dead, you know that, don't you?" Dryman said. "We ought to be down there in that creek."

"But we're not," Keegan said. He was lying on his stomach, handing the first aid kit and blankets down to Dryman. "That tree's gonna give out if we don't get the hell out of here."

"Then hurry it up, pal."

Dryman stretched out sideways. Reaching between the seats of the wreck, he pulled Harris's leg taut, pushing the shattered bone back with his thumb, and wrapped a bandage around the ruined ankle as tightly as he could to hold the bones in place. Snow fluttered through the open door as he worked.

"Ain't we the lucky ones," Dryman griped as he worked. "Maybe we'll get lucky. Maybe an avalanche'll get us. Or maybe Harris was right. Maybe Trexler's snowed in up there and we can . . ."

"Yeah. Maybe we'll all sprout wings and fly out of here. And maybe we can get the hell off this damn car if you stop talking and fix that ankle."

"I'm fixing it, I'm fixing it!"

At Kramer's cabin, Trexler worked feverishly to get ready for the trek across the mountain to Copperhead Ridge. He carefully checked the cabin, then pulled on an extra sweater and his fleecelined jacket, then a ski mask and goggles and put Kramer's hat on over his own. Important to keep the head warm. If his head got cold, his body temperature would go down accordingly. He strapped on his backpack, pulled on his gloves and headed out into the storm.

The ridge sloped away from him and vanished in the blizzard. He could see twenty, thirty feet around him at best. He knew the trail but not the hot spots, not the drop-offs and the slicks. Half a mile down the mountain there was a sudden fall-off. A three-hundred-footer. He could not afford to drift down the slope, get too close to the cliff.

He slipped his feet through the leather thongs on his wooden skis and tightened the straps around ankle and heel.

The trail ahead was gradual for three or four hundred yards, then it sloped sharply up to the right. The last two hundred yards was a bitch-a forty-degree slope up to the cabin in the open wind. In this wind, a slip there could mean an unrestricted slide-four thousand feet to the bottom of the mountain. Nothing to break it. There wasn't so much as a daisy on that slope.