considerable
trouble, while the Penutian would be just about a blank."

I stopped there, and shrugged. "Sorry. I didn't mean to turn this into
a lecture."

Kramer's weathered face stayed expressionless. "Are you familiar with
the customs of Indians of, say, two hundred years ago?"

"With their customs, clothing, religions, food, taboos, cultures,
weapons, or anything else you can think of."

Franklin McClave, the Secretary of War, cut in on us at this point. "I
think, Bob," he said to Kramer, "that Mr. Quinlan qualifies for the
job." His glance turned to me. "I'd like for you to meet a man waiting
in the next room, Quinlan. I want you to hear his story, talk to him,
ask him questions, then give us your opinion of the results. Do you
mind?"

I spread my hands. "Whatever you say."

Kramer got to his feet and went over to a side door. He pushed it
open, said something I didn't hear, then stepped rather quickly out of
the way.

A moment later young Daniel Boone came out!

* * * * *

Of course, it wasn't really Daniel Boone at all. Leaving out the fact
that the "dark and bloody ground" frontiersman had been dead nearly a
hundred and fifty years, this man was a lot handsomer, with entirely
different features. But he was wearing the fringed buckskin trousers
and shirt, the beaded moccasins, the coonskin cap, and his coarse
black hair hung almost to his shoulders. A powderhorn swung from his
neck by a greasy cord, and he was holding on to a six-foot
muzzle-loader as though it were his only contact with reality.

I stood there with my chin two inches from the rug and gawked at him.
He was scared to death. His deep-set brown eyes rolled fearfully from
side to side, with too much white showing around the irises. His
clutch on the gun grew even tighter, whitening the knuckles of his
hand.

Muscles crawled on my scalp. A strange tension seemed to fill the
room. Kramer cleared his throat. "This man's name is Enoch Wetzel, Mr.
Quinlan. I want him to tell you exactly what he told us earlier
tonight."

I felt the tendons in my legs tighten, pulling me into a slight
crouch. I was back a hundred and seventy years in the past, with a
dull anger starting to move around in me. "Wetzel," I said, making it
sound like a dirty word. "Any relation to Lewis Wetzel?"

* * * * *

The young man's eyes widened with astonishment and obvious relief.
"Well, now, I reckon s