Ferrell turned to Blake.
"You asked for trouble, Jeff," he said tersely. "You've got it. These are the same Silver Masks that have practically ruined my business. Looks as though this might do it. Wade was told to clean out this tribe of black devils six months ago. I detailed fifty men to work with him. I'll bet you a ten spot that at this moment Wade Blake is at South Station watering his flower bed, or some equally insane occupation."
Dauna was on her feet, arms akimbo, cheeks blazing.
"That's not fair, Dad," she flared. "He just isn't the type of boy to handle this problem. You saw what happened to Jeff...."
"Wait a minute," Blake begged. "O'Toole is all for knocking Wade's head against his garden wall. Ferrell, you want him to keep us out of trouble when he's eight thousand miles away, and Dauna is protecting him when I'm not altogether sure he deserves it. For the time being let's worry about what is to become of us. Later, there'll be time to fight over Wade."
Ferrell looked abashed.
"You're right," he admitted more quietly. "But you're a better man than I am if you can make sense out of this. Why don't they take what they want, kill us and be on their way?"
Blake looked out of the window. The sky was clear now. The rain had stopped and the moon and stars were visible.
"I think I can answer that," he said. "From my following the stars, we are now heading directly east, into the heart of the mountain country. If I'm correct on directions, the monoline runs directly north and south. Right?"
O'Toole pushed past him and strained his face to the glass. He turned, face shining.