“Sheriff, the Strange People are holding Vladimir’s servant prisoner, as a hostage. They’ll kill him if you raid the hills again.”
Vladimir laughed.
“He is vastly mistaken, sheriff. I had a servant here, it is true. But I sent him to Boston, on a mission. And I had word from him yesterday that he was quite safe and attending to my orders.”
He blinked at Cunningham and moved close to him.
“Fool,” he murmured gently, so that the sheriff could not hear, “do you think his life counts any more than yours?”
The sheriff glared at Cunningham hatefully.
“Tryin’ to scare me, eh?” he rumbled. “I got enough on you to arrest you. You’re in thick with them Strangers, you are. I reckon jail’s the best place for you. You won’t get no chance to talk about bribes there.”
Cunningham felt himself growing white with fury. His threat to Vladimir had been a bluff, and Vladimir had shown complete indifference to the fate of the man he had sent to murder Cunningham. But there was one thing he would not be indifferent to.
“You try to arrest me,” he said softly to the sheriff, “and I’ll blow your head off. And as for you, Vladimir”—he made his tone as convincing as he could—“I just tell you that you’d better call that mob off or I’ll tell them who the Strangers are and where they came from!”
Vladimir’s eyes flamed close to madness, while his cheeks went ashen.