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Indians–'
    Pearce said protestingly : 'Easy on. Reverend, easy on. Not scores, just a handful and even then only when I had to. And there was hardly an Indian among them, mostly white renegades and outlaws – and that was years ago. Today, I'm like you – I'm a man of peace. Ask the Governor – he'll bear me out.'
    Peabody steeled himself. 'Then why do you carry two guns. Marshal?'
    'Because if I don't, I'm dead. There are at least a dozen men, most of them recently released from the prisons to which I sent them, who would dearly love to have my head on a platter. None of them will pull a gun on me, because I have acquired a certain reputation in the use of a hand gun. But my reputation would offer me as much protection as a sheet of paper if any of them ever found me without a gun.' Pearce tapped his guns. 'Those aren't offensive weapons. Reverend. Those are my insurance policies.'
    Peabody carefully hid his disbelief. 'A man of peace?'
    'Now? Yes. I was an army scout once, an Indian fighter, if you like. There are still plenty around. But a man gets sick of killing.'
    'A man?' Despite what he probably imagined as his poker face, the preacher was manifestly still unconvinced. 'You?'
    'There are more ways of pacifying Indians than shooting holes in them. I asked the Governor here to appoint me Indian agent for the territory. I settle differences between Indians and whites, allocate reservations, try and stop the traffic in guns and whisky and see to it that the undesirable whites are removed from the territory.' He smiled. 'Which is part of my job as Marshal anyway. It's slow work, but I'm making a little progress. I think the Paiutes almost trust me now. Which reminds me.' He looked at the other table. Colonel.'
    Claremont lifted an enquiring eyebrow.
    'Might be a good idea to have the curtains pulled about now, sir. We're running into hostile territory, and there's no point in drawing unnecessary attention to ourselves.'
    'So soon? Well, you should know. Henry! You heard? Then go tell Sergeant Bellew to do the same.'
    Peabody tugged Pearce's sleeve. His face was a mask of apprehension. 'Hostile territory, did you say? Hostile Indians?'
    'Mainly we just call them hostiles.'
    Pearce's indifference served only to deepen Peabody's fears. 'But – but you said they trusted you!'
    'That's right. They trust me.'
    'Ah!' What this meant was not clear, nor did Peabody care to elaborate. He just swallowed several times in rapid succession and lapsed into silence.
    Henry served them coffee in the day compartment while O'Brien displayed considerable efficiency in dispensing brandy and liqueurs from the liquor cabinet. With all windows tightly closed and the top of the stove beginning to glow a dull red, the temperature in the compartment had risen into the eighties, but no one seemed unduly perturbed about this. On the frontier, extremes of heat and cold were an inevitable part of the way of life and phlegmatically accepted as such. The green velvet curtains were closely drawn. Deakin had his eyes open and, propped on one elbow, seemed more uncomfortable than ever, but because discomfort, like heat and cold, was also an integral part of the frontier, he received, apart from the occasional vexed glance from Marica, scant attention and even less sympathy. After some desultory small-talk, Dr Molyneux put his glass on the table, rose, stretched his arms and patted a yawn to discreet extinction.
    He said: 'If you will excuse me. I have a hard day ahead tomorrow and an oldster like me needs his sleep.'
    Marica said politely: 'A hard day, Dr Molyneux?'
    'I'm afraid so. Most of our medical stores in the supply wagon were loaded at Ogden only yesterday. Must have them all checked before we get to Fort Humboldt.'
    Marica looked at him in amused curiosity. 'Why all the great hurry, Dr Molyneux? Couldn't it wait till you get there?' When he made no immediate answer she said smilingly: 'Or is this epidemic at Fort Humboldt,