It was also being said that eastern bigshots had taken over the entire top floor of the Gold Duster Hotel and that the whole place had become an armed camp, with much coming and going on the part of the area's criminal element. Those "in the know" whispered about an underworld purge in the western crime capital, and the stories became more persistent as the day wore on.

Bolan himself seemed unperturbed by the commotion. He had gone directly from the dawn strike at the airport to his modest tourist-home accomodations on the north side. After a leisurely meal in his room and a shower, he went to bed for a refreshing six-hour sleep.

At two o'clock he was on the move again, dressed casually in modish flair slacks, sport shirt, and bright blue blazer. He walked through Glitter Gulch, the gambling center of the downtown area, and fed slot machines at several of the joints. He kept his ears open and his nose clean, and after an hour of this "scouting," he invaded the Strip via taxicab and went directly to the hotel where he had met Tommy Anders and the Ranger Girls some hours earlier.

He scouted the parking lot, decided that the watch on his wheels had been lifted, reclaimed his Pontiac and set out on a tour of the neon jungle's high spots.

The Executioner had, many death-waits ago, learned to blend into a given environment and to become a part of the background of almost any situation.

A "watch" could work in more directions than one.

The watchers themselves were being watched.

At nightfall, Bolan returned to his room and again changed clothes. He donned the black skinsuit and covered it with the dark silk tailormade threads favored by big time torpedoes, beneath the coat a pastel shirt with flaring collar and oversized tie and — the trusty Beretta in sideleather.

He fussed with his hair to achieve the just right look, then put a band-aid across the bridge of his nose and another just off the chin along the jawline. Purple tinted lenses in gold wire frames and a black rollbrim hat completed the job to his satisfaction.

Then he went directly to the Gold Duster.

A congregation of hoods and uniformed deputies stood outside, eyeing everyone who passed.

The smirking Bolan flipped them a bird as he swaggered through the cluster. One of the men behind him muttered, "Wise ass."

Bolan jerked around and quietly demanded, "Who said that?"

None responded or even returned the hard stare. He sniggered and proceeded to the lobby.

"Boys" were all over the place, several of them almost identical in appearance to the new arrival. Band-aids sprouted freely, here and there a head-wrap, and a guy going into the lounge was showing a pronounced limp.

Bolan felt right at home.

He went straight to the desk, elbowed an elderly lady out of the way, and commanded the immediate attention of a room clerk.

"Are they still upstairs?" he asked the guy.

The clerk nodded his head uncertainly and replied, "Uh, yes sir, I think so."

"Check!" Bolan demanded.

"Uh, come to think of it," the clerk suddenly remembered, "they are. We just sent up dinner."

The guy started to turn away. Bolan leaned across the desk and grabbed his arm. "Get Hard Mountain for me."

"Sir?"

"I got a friend out there. Make the call, eh?"

The clerk nervously pulled loose from Bolan's grasp and said, "Yes sir." His eyes fled to a corner area of upholstered chairs and mahogany tables. "You can take the call in the telephone lounge, sir. Just pick up the receiver, I'll have the switchboard put you through."

Bolan growled, "Thanks," and threw the guy a fiver.

The light was on when he reached the house phone. He picked it up and said, "Yeah, who's this?"

"I'm ringing, sir," the operator reported.

"Oh yeah. okay. When they answer, honey, you get the hell off. This is private."

"Certainly, sir," the house operator assured him in an offended tone.

"Don't mention it," he said.

A few seconds later she told him, "Go ahead, sir. Fin leaving."

He snickered into the transmitter and said, "Who's this?"

A guarded male voice replied, "This is Desert High Ranch. Who'd you want?"

Bolan chuckled and asked, "Been laid lately?" '

The guy chuckled back. "At this goddam joint? Hey who's this?"

"This is Vinton."

"Who?"

"You know. I came in this morning." Bolan snickered. "By the skin of my teeth, I mean."

The guy laughed. "I know what you mean. That bastard hit up here, too, last night."

"Yeah I heard," Bolan said chattily. "We're at the Duster, you knew that."

"Yeah. Uh, who'd you want?"

"Shit, he didn't say who I should call, he just said call."

"Who said? Joe?"

"Yeh. I guess I oughta talk to the head cock-in-charge, eh?"

The guy laughed again and said, "I guess you're talking to 'im. This's Red Evans."

"That don't sound kosher to me," Bolan said lightly.

"I guess it's about as kosher as Vinton, eh?" The guy was obviously enjoying the conversation. "I could give you about a dozen different calling cards, if you wanted 'em all that bad."

"Listen, I gotta come out there, I guess."

"Yeah sure, you're welcome. Bring about a dozen broads too, huh?"

Bolan laughed and said, "I'm looking at a six foot Swede right now. Legs about four feet long, squeeze you until you scream for mercy. I think I'll lay her 'fore I come out."

"What's her name?"

"Shit, who cares?" Bolan snickered. "All ass and tits. Dumbest looking broad I ever saw."

"Stop it, you're talking to a fuckin' monk. I been up here six days straight. Supposed to get rotated back to town today, then this son of a bitch comes roaring into town. Why're you coming out?"

"That's what I called about. You're supposed to go down and find that shipment." ' "What?"

"That heist that wasn't a heist. It's still out there."

"Bullshit," the guy said calmly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about the shipment this guy was supposed to've lifted. He didn't."

"He didn't what?"

"He didn't get it."

"Bullshit, who says so. Is Joe..."

"Sure, what the hell you think? We got a turkey that ain't shut up for an hour now."

"No shit!"

"Yeah. The stuff's out there, somewhere, on the side of that hill."

"No shit!"

"Yeh. Joe says to send those guys down lookin' for it."

"You mean these… ?"

"Yeh, the figure boys. They didn't up and leave, did they?"

"Course not. When Joe says stay, they stay. Well look…"

"How many boys you got left out there, Red?"

"Well not many. I don't like sorting the joint. I mean, if that guy comes back…"

"Nah, he's holing up somewheres. Hell, we got this town so heavy a guy can't hardly breathe." Bolan chuckled. "Everything's stopped dead 'cept the roll of the dice and slap slap slap of the cardboards."

"When that stops, I'm getting off," the guy replied, laughing.

"Me too."

"Well where are we supposed to look?"

"Straight down the hill from where the hit was. This guy says they just got tossed overboard, so look straight down the hill."

"I guess that turkey's name ain't Bolan, huh?"

"I wish it was."

"Me too," the guy said glumly. "Listen, there's only four of us. I mean, except for the button-down collars."

"They don't count," Bolan agreed.

"They sure don't."

"They try to jump up each other's asses at the first snap of a trigger."

The hardman laughed. "That's right."

"It won't hurt 'em to do a little midnight mountain climbing Right?"

The suggestion broke the guy up. Some seconds later he gasped, "I wish I could go out and watch 'em."

"Don't," Bolan cautioned, "You stay in the joint."