This, of course, was and is the proper procedure, never to be deviated from under any circumstances. Due to the way the car was parked, however, it would have been bothersome if not impossible to carry it through. And since the vehicle was obviously empty, it seemed unnecessary.

So after a moment's pause, one of them shrugged and the other laughed, and they came on together. Almost shoulder to shoulder. Just that once they violated regulations.

And a split second after Rudy reared up over the seat, both of them were dead.

He took their guns and ammunition. He whipped his car around in a U-turn, running partly over the older man's body, and took to the highway again.

He knew what he had todo now, and the knowledge gave him strength. It also amused him, and he laughed as he had when Max Vonderscheid gave him the tip which he was now about to use.

Now, wasn't that somethin' though? Who'd ever think of a dodge like that?

Getting yourself fixed up by a vet, a horse doctor!

Doc McCoy's greatest vice and major virtue was his sureness. He had been right so often and so long that he could not conceive the possibility of being anything else. Genially, he might charge himself with error, good-naturedly accept the blame for another's mistake. But that was just Doc-part of his masquerade. In his heart he was never wrong-never, that is, about anything that really mattered. And to have a doubt raised as to whether he had actually killed Rudy-a thing at once simple yet vital-made him as near to angry as he ever came.

"I'll tell you, Carol," he said, a trace of fiddle-string tightness in his voice. "I don't know who shot those two cops. I don't care. All I know is that it was not done by Rudy Torrento."

"Well-if you say so, Doc. But…"

"Look at it this way. I wasn't a great deal farther from Rudy than I am from you. Suppose I decided to plug you right now. Do you think I'd kill you or not?"

Carol laughed uneasily. He was smiling at her; joking, of course. No one knew better than she how much Doc thought of her, the lengths he was willing to go to for her sake. But if she hadn't known-if she hadn't been sure that Doc wanted and needed her just as much after the bank robbery as before…

The thought nettled her. She spoke in a tone, a manner, that was almost an identical match for his. "Suppose I decided to plug you right now," she said, smiling, playful-steady-eyed. "Do you think I'd kill you or not?"

"I'm sorry," Doc said warmly. "To answer your question-I wouldn't blame you if you did exactly like that."

"I don't like being shut up, Doc. I don't intend to be."

"And you're quite right, my dear."

"So don't talk to me that way again. Never, ever, understand? I know you didn't mean it like it sounded, but…"

Doc turned the car off onto a country road. Stopping just over the crest of a little hill, he turned silently and took his wife into his arms. He kissed her, drew her more and more tightly to him. He kissed her again, his sure hands pressing and caressing her small hard-soft body.

And afterward, as they drove on, they were again one with each other; each an extension of the other.

Their brief flare-up was forgotten. There was no more mention of Rudy. Carol was glad to be convinced, to be sure that Rudy was dead.

Mostly they were silent, happy and content merely to be together. But as the sun sank lower in the sky, there was more talk of Beynon. The man-his motives, rather-still bothered Doc. It was difficult to believe that the parole chief meant to grab all the bank loot, instead of the relatively small share he had agreed to accept. To think that such a man would commit murder-as he would have to-for any amount of money was nothing short of ridiculous. On the other hand, was it any more ridiculous than his ostensible sellout-at the risk of his career and reputation-for a mere pittance?

Carol was of little help with the riddle. She seemed indifferent to its answer; a little bored, dully withdrawn. Then, a few miles from Beynon's place she brightened, turned almost gaily to her husband. "I've got an idea, Doc. Let me take Beynon his fifteen grand."

"You?" Doc gave her a quick glance. "Without me, you mean?"

"Yes. You take the money satchel, and…"

"And just where would I take it to? Where would I wait? At the side of the road, or at one of these little inland villages-some wide place in the road where every stranger gets the big-eye and maybe an interview by the town clown?"

"We can work it out. Please, Doc. What do you say?"

"That I can't believe you're serious," said Doc evenly. "I appreciate your concern for me, of course, but-" he shook his head. "It just wouldn't do, lamb. As I mentioned before, if Beynon is planning something, we've got to know about it now. We've got to get it settled now."

"I could settle it."

"But he wouldn't bring things to a showdown if you were by yourself. In any event, the kind of settlement-if one is necessary-is something I'd want to decide on myself."

Carol started to say something else, then shrugged and lapsed into silence. Doc lighted a cigarette and extended the package, and she shook her head wordlessly.

They skirted a small village, its church spires poking up through a grove of trees. Doc slowed the car to make a quick study of the road map, then resumed his former speed. A few miles farther on, he turned into a narrow dirt road which stretched ribbonlike up through the hills.

It was less than an hour before sunset now, and a chill southwesterly wind was stirring. Back in the hills, Doc got an occasional glimpse of a ranch house or an outbuilding. He didn't like that. In this isolated area their car could be seen for a very long ways, and one as conspicuous as theirs was certain to be remembered.

The trail met with another. At the rutted intersection, two mailboxes stood catercornered to each other. On one of them, crudely printed in black paint, was the name Beynon. Doc stopped the car and looked carefully around the lonely, rolling terrain.

Apparently the intersection was not visible from either of the two houses which must be nearby. He considered this fact, murmuring absently that Beynon's place should be just over the next hill to their right.

Carol responded with a murmur of agreement. Doc scratched his cheek thoughtfully, then reached into the back of the car and lifted the money satchel into the front seat.

He opened it, sorted out fifteen thousand dollars and put it in the inside pocket of his coat. Then, as long as it was something that needed to be done anyway, he gave Carol a few hundred dollars in small bills, stuffed his wallet with a few hundred more, and assembled a third sheaf totaling perhaps a thousand. This was scat money-dough to be kept readily available. Doc fastened it together with two of the bank's paper money bands, laid it in right at the top of the suitcase and closed and locked it again.

Then he got out, unlocked the trunk and put the suitcase inside. He did not lower the trunk lid immediately; instead, catching Carol's eye in the rearview mirror, he gave her a grin and a wink.

"That idea of yours," he smiled. "If you don't mind a variation of it, along with a little cramping."

Carol's face lit up. She hopped out of the car and came around to the rear; pulling the gun from her belt, she checked its chamber with two crisp metallic clicks before shoving it back into place. The action sent a frown flickering through Doc's eyes. He laid a hand on her arm as she started to climb into the trunk.

She was to take it very easy, he cautioned. To do nothing without his lead. Beynon was not a killer. He was a very prominent man. And they-she and Doc- had a long way to travel.

Carol nodded that she understood. She climbed into the trunk, and Doc lowered the lid, leaving the lock off the latch.