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investigatory agency, I mean?"
        "No, sir. Not yet."
        "Here comes Morgan," someone said from behind me. A long, trailing funnel of dust from the direction in which we'd come heralded the return of the first jeep.
        "I'll do the talking," Harris said, and said nothing more until the jeep arrived. Deputy Morgan stared from the buses to the limousine to our little group, then swung down from the jeep and walked over to us.
        "This is Neal Harris, Deputy Morgan," Tom Weston said.
        "I know Mr. Harris," Morgan replied. Respect dripped from each syllable.
        "What did you find?" Harris demanded.
        Morgan drew a deep breath and flung his hands wide. "Bodies till hell wouldn't have it," he declared. "The plane crew includin' the stewardess with their throats cut, plus two foreign-lookin' guys on the ground outside, one of 'em sliced up like you wouldn't believe. I never saw-"
        "I'm correct in assuming that the basic situation is that the plane was hijacked and the passengers-ah- retaliated?" Harris interrupted him.
        "They sure as hell did," Morgan said grimly. "I been in the department a long time but I never-"
        "It's not the image we wish to promote of the state of Nevada," Harris cut him off again. "So there will be no report of a hijack."
        Morgan's eyes swiveled to the sheriff, who nodded. "Yes, sir," Morgan said.
        "Send the airline people to me, Sheriff Courtney," Harris continued smoothly. "For once our concern about poor publicity should coincide. I'll depend upon you to arrange for inconspicuous disposal of the bodies other than those of the plane crew. Have I made myself clear?"
        "Yes, sir," the sheriff replied.
        "I'll expect you to impress the need for silence upon deputies and other personnel on the scene here, Sheriff."
        "Take care of that, Morgan," the sheriff said. Morgan strode to the jeeps. The sheriff's gaze swept the gamblers, lingering upon Candy Kane's lime-green-and-shocking-pink ensemble. "Of course you realize I don't have any control over these people, sir."
        "I'm about to give you control, Sheriff. You have two buses here. I want this group split between the buses with deputies aboard each. I want one bus driven to Reno and the other to Salt Lake City. I'll arrange to have a charter flight at each municipal airport to take these men back to New York. These men are to communicate with no one before they leave, and there are to be no exceptions to the fact that they do leave. I'll hold you personally responsible. I intend that any stories floating back to Nevada in connection with this-ah-episode will be strictly in the nature of rumors."
        "Yes, sir," the sheriff said again.
        "These men lost a hell of a lot of cash, Mr. Harris," Duke Conboy spoke up. "What about that?"
        Harris' flat gaze examined him coolly. "You've all had a bad day at the tables, sir. Better luck next time."
        "You mean you're not going to-"
        "I mean I've already pushed myself dangerously close to the limit of my authority. Please get your men aboard the buses." He walked toward the black limousine.
        "Maybe we can get a line on something, Duke," Tom Weston muttered. "I'll call you in New York." He hurried after Neal Harris.
        "I wonder if the Lord realizes he's been outflanked in this area of the world?" Duke said in a reflective tone as we watched the limousine make a sweeping turn in the sand and move away.
        It so nearly reflected my own sentiment that I found it unnecessary to comment.
        
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        "You mean you were within two hundred miles when you were on the ground but you had to make another five-thousand-mile round trip to New York to get back here to the ranch?" Hazel demanded.
        "That's what I mean." We were sitting in the kitchen of the Rancho Dolorosa, Hazel's spread twenty miles north of Ely, Nevada. I had just finished