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 the northwest was a pair of headlights, so distant that she watched for several seconds before she made sure that they moved, whereupon she retreated toward the wreck, but returned to the road, after a minute, and was rewarded by the sight of the high, broad bulk of a truck in nowise resembling the vehicle of gunmen; so she hid her revolver and stepped to the middle of the road, stopping the truck, which proved to have a crew of two strong men, to whom the weight of a wrecked Ford was no unyielding obstacle.

She sat on the floor of the truck beside Neski, who lay upon a pallet improvised from old burlap and pads, with which the van was provided. Calvin Clarke reclined, propped up by pads, against the side opposite her. An oil lantern swayed and bumped on a hook overhead, giving them light; for the tailboard of the truck was drawn up tightly against the cold and also against the eyes of overtaking cars.

The scurry of tires and the drone of an approaching motor set Joan Daisy shaking with fright; it drew Mr. Clarke's attention to the tailboard; and it interrupted Neski's talk. The car passed and Joan Daisy relapsed to quieter quivering; Mr. Clarke's gaze again rested upon her, while now and then he agreed, monosyllabically, with Neski, who had become voluble of opinion under his pain.

There was no doubt, to Neski's way of thinking, that she had hit the leader of the gunmen, who would be Zenn, if Baretta himself had not been present; otherwise it was Baretta. Upon no alternate theory could Neski account for the prompt abandonment of the field and the failure of the car to return.

"You bumped the bird that was interested, personal," Neski complimented her.

She glanced at Mr. Clarke in the eerie, swaying light and saw that he had no thought for Neski's talk because