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he felt, a black man in a strange area alone. . . .
    Think, Lincoln. Think.
    He could almost hear the old man speaking to him. Thomas might have been impulsive, but he wasn't foolhardy or unkind. Even if he had been here and gone, he would have left signs.
    Think.
    Lincoln dismounted at the spot indicated between two low hills, hugging the one on the right. There was a ring of cactus nearby, just as on the map, a virtual planter's field of saguaro marching up the shallow hillside. He was sure he was in the right place.
    Think.
    He tethered the horse to a nearby cactus and stood examining the landscape in the failing light. At worst, he would stay here the night and go on in the morning. But go on to where? Thomas had to have left a sign.
    After a frustrating half hour of scouring the patch of land, by the end crawling on his hands and knees, Reeves was ready to give up and settle in for the night. Only a sliver of sun lay above the horizon, and soon that would be gone.
    Lincoln kicked at the ground in frustration.
    Suddenly, the line Thomas was always quoting, from Sherlock Holmes, rose into Lincoln's mind.
    After you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
    "Ah," Lincoln said, to no one in particular, feeling foolish even as he said it.
    But what was impossible?
    Plenty.
    Already growing frustrated, as he did every time he tried to think like Thomas Mullin, Lincoln again kicked the ground.
    After you have eliminated the impossible .. .
    Well, it was impossible that Thomas would have left him out here on his own, wasn't it? Unless there was a damned good reason. What would that reason be?
    He had found Adams.
    But still, he would have left a clue as to his whereabouts. Unless he had found Adams at this exact spot, and was already heading back to Tucson to celebrate.
    No...
    Again Lincoln kicked the ground. His head hurt.
    The sun was almost gone.
    Lincoln raised his eyes to watch the departing light. There in his line of vision was a nest of cactus, three or four in an almost straight line. Lincoln stepped slightly to the left, and now the cactus was in a straight line.
    And something was fluttering from the arm of one of them.
    "Ha!"
    Just as the sun dipped below the west, Lincoln tore the piece of paper, which had been speared on one of the cactus's pricks, and held it out to read. In the glow of twilight, he slowly made out the words, reading them aloud in the way Thomas had first taught him to read:
    DUE WEST ELEVEN MILES, THEN DUE SOUTH THREE. MEET YOU AT THE BASE OF KITT PEAK 2/14. WILL WAIT. MULLIN.
    "Ha!" Lincoln shouted, and this time was filled with pride for his accomplishment, small as it had been. He also felt sure that this area was secure, or Thomas would not have let him stay here on his own.
    So something important had happened, and Thomas had gone off in search of it.
    And tomorrow he would meet up with his old friend.
    Washed in relief, Lincoln broke down his saddlebags and made a simple camp. In a little while, a small fire was crackling, and Lincoln was finishing the remains of canned beans, sitting on his bedroll. It was just like the old days.
    In the night, old desert sounds returned to him, and he felt at home.
    With only a little guilt, Lincoln remembered that he had forgotten to send that telegram, and that there would be hell to pay from Matty when he got back to his real home.

Chapter Eight
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    Under the stretching, infinite, pale blue bowl of the desert sky, Thomas Mullin felt liberated. His mind had not been clearer in years. He thought of Sherlock Holmes, entrenched in his stuffy chambers at 221B Baker Street, and wondered how Conan Doyle could ever fool his readers into thinking Holmes could solve anything. Wreathed in pipe smoke, hemmed in by claustrophobia, Thomas knew that he himself would merely go mad.
    But to each his own.
    Two days in the saddle, and he already felt ten years younger. Boston seemed like a bad dream now, a nightmare