Much of their predicament was Carol's fault. She should have been absolutely frank with him about Beynon. Failing that-having made that one serious error-she should have kept the bag with her at the Kansas City station. That was little enough to expect of her, wasn't it? It was simple enough. But she had had to blunder again, again forcing him to plan extemporaneously, which was another way of saying dangerously. And now, instead of being properly apologetic, willing to look the facts in the face, she had to be cajoled and bolstered up.

If I'd known she was going to be like this, he thought-and left the thought at that. He took another drink of the beer, smiling at her, inwardly grinning the wry, pained grin of a man who has bumped his elbow.

"Doc." She was looking down at the table, idly scratching at the chipped paint with a fingernail. "Doc," she raised her eyes. "I've changed a lot, haven't I? You think I have."

"Oh, well," Doc began. "After all, it's been…"

"You seem the same way to me, Doc. Almost like a stranger at times. I mean-well, I don't mean it as though I was criticizing or blaming you or anything, I've seemed to have done something dopey every time! turned around, and you've been a damn sight nicer about it than you should have been. But…"

"Now, don't feel that way." Doc laid a hand over hers. "We've had some bad luck. We've never been involved in anything quite like this before."

"I don't think that's the trouble. Not the real trouble. We had our difficulties before, and they didn't seem to matter. We were so much closer, and-" she hesitated, thoughtfully. "I guess that's it, isn't it? We kind of are strangers. We aren't the same people we were four years ago."

"Essentially the same," Doc disagreed. "Let's say that perhaps we've forgotten what those people were like. In toto, I mean. We've forgotten their bad times, the occasions when they rubbed each other the wrong way, and remembered only the good."

"Well-maybe. Yes," she added. "I suppose that is it."

"I know it is. Just as soon as we've gotten a little reacquainted-have time for something besides running…"

"Doc." She looked down at the table again, a faint blush spreading over her cheeks. "I think we should, you know, get really acquainted again. I think we've just about got to. Very soon. C-can't we-isn't there some way we could manage to-be together?"

Doc murmured that he was sure they could. Beneath the table, he pressed her ankle with his, and the silken flesh quivered in response.

He began to feel a lot better about her, about everything. His inherent optimism reasserted itself, smothering his worries, re-creating him in the delightful and irresistible image that had burned so bright in Carol's memory.

"I know we can't lay over, stop anywhere," she said. "But, well, do you suppose we could travel together on the train? Take a stateroom or a bedroom, and…"

Doc said he thought so; he was pretty sure of it (although he wasn't sure). "We'll count on it, anyway. I'll count on it, my dear."

And Carol blushed and squirmed deliciously.

In the deceptive half-light of dusk, Doc walked down the highway a couple of hundred yards and took cover behind a hedgerow. Carol, meanwhile, took up a position at the edge of the picnic grounds-protected by the thickening shadows of the driveway but within a quick step of the road.

Doc heard two cars stop for her, then speed on again almost before they had stopped. Soon there was a third car, and the opening and slamming of a door. And Doc came out of his place of concealment.

The car stopped for him jerkily; Carol was holding a gun in the driver's ribs. Doc climbed into the back seat and, putting a gun to the man's head, ordered him to relinquish the wheel. The man did so, fearfully, too frightened for speech, limbs stiff and numb as he slid over in the seat. With Carol driving, they moved on again.

Naturally, the car was from out-of-state; had it borne local license plates, Carol would never have gotten into it. The owner was a salesman, a man of about thirty-five with a plump well-fed face and a wide good-natured mouth. Doc spoke to him soothingly, putting him as much at ease as the circumstances would allow.

"We're sorry to do this," he apologized. "Believe me, we've never done anything like it before. But we ran out of money, and the wife can't take another night on the road, so-I hope you understand. You're a married man yourself, I take it."

The salesman wasn't. He'd tried the double harness once and it hadn't worked.

"Oh, that's too bad," Doc murmured. "Now, I wonder if you could drive us down into Oklahoma? I can get some money there, and…"

"S-sure, I could! Glad to!" The salesman was pitiful in his eagerness. "Naw, I really mean it. I was figuring on taking a fling at Tulsa myself, just for kicks, y'know. I'm not due back in Chicago for three days yet, but I already made all my calls and…"

Doc slugged him with the gun barrel. The man grunted, and slumped forward. Carol gave him a shove, pushed him down on the floor of the car.

"Side road, Doc?" She spoke over her shoulder.

Back on the train, the boy in the cowboy suit napped, dined and resumed his wanderings. After a longer absence than usual, he returned to his mother, shouting brassily that he had just killed a robber man. "I did so, too!" he screamed, as she laughed indulgently. "I told him to stick 'em up an' he didn't so I poked him an' he fell over dead, an' the money he stole fell out of his pocket an' I got it! I got it right here!" He pulled a thick sheaf of bills from his blouse, waved them about excitedly. Across the aisle, a man reached out and took it from him; frowned, startled, as he read the imprint on the paper banding. The Bank of Beacon City! Why, that was the place that had been robbed yesterday morning! He jumped up and went in search of the conductor.

Doc frisked the salesman, taking his wallet and all other identification. Then, with the whispering of the car's radio fading behind him, he dragged the man down the ditch to the culvert and placed the gun muzzle inside his mouth. He triggered the gun twice. He shoved it back into his belt, began squeezing the now faceless body into the culvert.

"Doc!" Carol's voice came to him urgently. "Doc!"

"Be right with you," he called back easily. "Just as soon as I…"

The car's starter whirred. The motor coughed, caught and roared. Doc hastily clambered up the side of the ditch, yanked open the door and climbed in.

"What's the matter?" he demanded. "Can't I leave you for two minutes without…"

Then he broke off, listened incredulously to the newscaster's staccato voice:

"… The man has been positively identified as Doc (Carter) McCoy, notorious bank robber and criminal mastermind. Police are certain that the woman with him is his wife, Carol. Their descriptions follow…"