ad. All except
one, and he's--" She paused. "He's dying," she finished. "He can't hurt
you."

There was no need for further battle. Malone reholstered his .44 and
turned to Boyd. "Tom, call the State Police," he said. "Get 'em down
here fast."

He waited while Boyd climbed back under the wheel and began punching
buttons on the dashboard. Then Malone went toward the burning Buick.

He tried to drag the men out, but it wasn't any use. The first two, in
the front seat, had the kind of holes in them people talked about
throwing elephants through. Head and chest had been hit.

Malone couldn't get close enough to the fiercely blazing automobile to
make even a try for the men in the back seat.

* * * * *

He was sitting quietly on the edge of the rear seat when the Nevada
Highway Patrol cars drove up next to them. Barbara Wilson had stopped
screaming, but she was still sobbing on Malone's shoulder. "It's all
right," he told her, feeling ineffectual.

"I never saw anybody killed before," she said.

"It's all right," Malone said. "Nothing's going to hurt you. I'll
protect you."

He wondered if he meant it, and found, to his surprise, that he did.
Barbara Wilson sniffled and looked up at him. "Mr. Malone--"

"Ken," he said.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Ken--I'm so afraid. I saw the hole in one of the
men's heads, when you fired ... it was--"

"Don't think about it," Malone said. To him, the job had been an
unpleasant occurrence, but a job, that was all. He could see, though,
how it might affect people who were new to it.

"You're so brave," she said.

Malone tightened his arm around the girl's shoulder. "Just depend on
me," he said. "You'll be all right if you--"

The State Trooper walked up then, and looked at them. "Mr. Malone?" he
said. He seemed to be taken slightly aback at the costuming.

"That's right," Malone said. He pulled out his ID card and the little
golden badge. The State Patrolman looked at them, and looked back at
Malone.

"What's with the getup?" he said.

"FBI," Malone said, hoping his voice carried conviction. "Official
business."

"In costume?"

"Never mind about the details," Malone snapped.

"He's an FBI agent, sir," Barbara said.

"And what are you?" the Patrolman said. "Lady Jane Grey?"

"I'm a nurse," Barbara said. "A psychiatric nurse."

"For nuts?"

"For disturbed patients."

The patrolman thought that over. "You've got the identity cards a