He waited, knowing that Waverly would send him out of this chrome, steel and glass office—that no matter what the command, he would try to execute it.
Waverly tapped his unlighted pipe.
"I don't have to spell it out for you, Mr. Solo," he said. "I'm sure the same thought has occurred to both of us."
Solo nodded.
"I know, sir. The pattern has suddenly changed."
He looked out the window, summoning up his thoughts.
"Yes," he said, "Before this it at least was one at a time. Isolated, mysterious disappearances. Buddy Evans, a second-string Red Sox catcher, vanished on his way to spring training. Never seen again. Just went off the face of the earth—and on his way to collect a fat bonus for signing."
Waverly said, "The Jeanne Lynch case. A premiere danseuse with the Sadler Wells ballet. Never showed up for a sold-out performance of Swan Lake. Never seen again."
"There was quite a few of them," Solo said.
"Eleven hundred and thirty-six," Waverly said grimly. "Plus three unconfirmed. Most of them were not celebrities, so the cases got no great national notice, Mr. Solo."
Napoleon said, "I see what you mean, sir. It was as though they—whoever they are—had been trying out some devilish abduction plan, testing it on individuals until they were sure it would work. Now they're sure. Now—entire train."
Solo sighed. "And tomorrow—God knows."
Alexander Waverly said gravely, "You said 'They—whoever they are.' I think we—er—have a pretty good idea, Mr. Solo. Only one organization in the world would have the audacity, the powerful scope, the sheer tenacity of evil to dare this monstrous thing."
THRUSH!
Neither of them had to say it. The thought hung over them like a deadly, unseen nimbus of doom.
Solo drew a deep breath. "What are my orders, sir?"
Waverly allowed a faint smile, "I'm sending you to the Maynard Ranch in the Sawtooth ranges of Wyoming—"
"The place where the cattle disappeared?"
Waverly nodded. "Without a trace, without a hoof-print, or any other sign."
Solo frowned. "But you said we had no proof these two incidents were in any way related."
"I want you to get that proof."
Solo nodded. "You have some reason to believe there is a link, sir?"
Waverly thumbed through taped reports before him. "We have our computers' estimates that the incidents of missing train and vanished cattle are related." Waverly shrugged. "It's up to you, Mr. Solo, because I confess to you that's all we have to go on—the computers and my instinct."
Solo frowned because he'd never heard Waverly make just such a remark before. Waverly eschewed anything unscientific. "Instinct, sir?"
Waverly nodded. "That's how helpless we are, Mr. Solo. I'm placing my hopes on instinct now. My instinct tells me that the missing cattle and disappearing trains are all part of the same plan. How? I don't know. Nor does any one, except—THRUSH."
FOUR
Napoleon Solo stepped out of the station wagon that transported him from the Union Pacific station at Cripple Bend to the Maynard Bar-M Ranch.
A sense of unnatural silence was oppressive in the Wyoming afternoon. The ranch house looked to be at least seventy years old, built of fieldstones and mountain spruce, reconditioned with central heating and every luxury for dude ranchers.
It was a working ranch, too, deep in the rocky foothills of the inaccessible Sawtooth mountains.
Carlos Maynard prowled his littered office like a hobbled mustang. He stared at Solo, sitting in a straight chair tilted against the wall.
"It isn't that you aren't welcome here, Solo. You are! A very distinguished visitor, and I'm glad to know somebody is doing something! You're not a cop, are you?"
Solo shrugged. "You have somebody you want arrested, Mr. Maynard?"
The harried rancher grinned despite himself. "No. But maybe I'd feel better if you could make an arrest if we need one."
"First, we better find out what really happened," Solo suggested mildly.
Maynard shrugged. "I'll buy that. You can count on me for all the help I can give you. Only I can tell you, I feel pretty helpless about now."
"We all do."
"I just want you to understand. I'll do anything I can to help you people, but my first interest has got to be getting my cattle back."
Solo watched him. "If we can solve why they disappeared, Mr. Maynard, we should be able to find them."
Maynard nodded. "I hope so. Frankly, I stand to be ruined. No sense trying to hide that from you. People are scared. Scared to come here. Scared to stay after they do get here. We got some pretty wild rumors going around, I can tell you. Ghost riders. No matter how much I warn the men who work for me to knock off that kind of talk, it persists. And who are we to say? Maybe ghost riders did just drive my cattle out into the sky. They sure didn't leave any tracks behind them."
"Just hang on, Mr. Maynard. I think the ghosts will be real enough, once we track them down."
"I hope so. Because it won't take much more to put me out of business. People come here, and they hear about those cattle. Then they get scared, and they take off! Any way you look at it, I stand to lose. First my customers, and even some of my men are afraid to ride up there in the Sawtooth Mountains. The worst part of it is, I can't blame them."
Solo stood up. "People clearing out fast, eh?"
"Right. They come in, hear some of the stories and the rumors, get scared, and clear out soon as they hear about it."
"Not all of them," Solo said. He walked past the puzzled rancher, grabbed the doorknob and jerked the door open.
A girl sprawled forward into the den. She landed on her knees, awkwardly.
"Why, Miss Finnish!" Carlos stared at her.
The girl caught herself. She stayed a moment on all fours, then got up alone when neither Solo nor Maynard moved to aid her. Her eyes were unafraid.
Solo stared at her. The looks of her were as heady as brandy. From profile to brand new riding boots she was like something tailored by angels. Her shoulder-length hair seemed to have the sun roosting in it, even in the darkened office. She wasn't tall but she looked as if nothing had been stinted in perfect packaging. She wore buckskin skirt, frilly vest, a pale green shirt with matching neckerchief at her throat.
Her cheeks were fiery red. She stared from Solo to Maynard, shaking her head.
She straightened, heeled around and almost ran from the room.
Maynard stood, mouth ajar, staring after her.
Solo couldn't blame him. She even looked exciting going away from you.
"Not all of them are running away from what they can hear," Solo said.
Maynard gazed through the opened door. "Yeah. Mabel Finnish. She arrived here two days after the cattle disappeared. Come to think of it, she's been here ever since. Nothing has scared her away."
"As a matter of fact, she can't seem to hear enough," Solo suggested.
Maynard didn't answer, only stood, frowning, puzzled.
Pete Wasson went over his story again for Solo.
They sat on the bunkhouse stoop, along with Marty Nichelson and Maynard.
Pete said, "That's right, I rode northwest up into the Sawtooth ranges—"
"There was a pretty clear trail in the foothills," Maynard said. "Then, up in the lava spikes, we lost them. But Pete and Marty are good trackers. We sent Marty up there first, then Pete. But they lost any trace of the cattle."