The headache returned, stronger than ever, and Graff swayed dizzily. Red roaring fires tore up and down his left side. He'd never make it. Swamp-bait, that's all he was, bait for the mud of the Black.
He straightened then and laughed. Bait? Well, that was one way to hunt.
The hunter strode toward the house, across the creeper of sucking ivy, counting each step. He stopped under cover of a sweeping fern just outside the sandy expanse.
"Pubina!" he yelled. "I've come for the Bergensons."
There was a flicker at one of the windows. "Who are you?"
"Graff Dingle of New Kalamazoo. Listen, Pubina, I'll trade the rest of our lobodin for Greta Bergenson and her father."
A pause while they digested this. Then: "Send one of your men in and we'll talk it over, Dingle."
"Can't. I'm alone. Send one of your men out with the Bergensons, and I'll give you the lobodin."
No reason for Pubina to be certain that the Bergenson lobodin represented the first and only shipment. And what he claimed to have would raise the quantity to the point where all of the outlaws could be vaccinated.
The terry came down behind him and whispered gently: "Three men leave house from rear. Two coming around on left, one on right. Man on right has clearer fath, so will ve here first."