"You asked for trouble, Jeff," he said tersely. "You've got it. These are the same Silver Masks that have practically ruined my business. Looks as though this might do it. Wade was told to clean out this tribe of black devils six months ago. I detailed fifty men to work with him. I'll bet you a ten spot that at this moment Wade Blake is at South Station watering his flower bed, or some equally insane occupation." Dauna was on her feet, arms akimbo, cheeks blazing. "That's not fair, Dad," she flared. "He just isn't the type of boy to handle this problem. You saw what happened to Jeff...." "Wait a minute," Blake begged. "O'Toole is all for knocking Wade's head against his garden wall. Ferrell, you want him to keep us out of trouble when he's eight thousand miles away, and Dauna is protecting him when I'm not altogether sure he deserves it. For the time being let's worry about what is to become of us. Later, there'll be time to fight over Wade." Ferrell looked abashed. "You're right," he admitted more quietly. "But you're a better man than I am if you can make sense out of this. Why don't they take what they want, kill us and be on their way?" Blake looked out of the window. The sky was clear now. The rain had stopped and the moon and stars were visible. "I think I can answer that," he said. "From my following the stars, we are now heading directly east, into the heart of the mountain country. If I'm correct on directions, the monoline runs directly north and south. Right?" O'Toole pushed past him and strained his face to the glass. He turned, face shining. "By golly," he said. "Jeff's right. We must be flying or something. There isn't any track that's laid in this direction!" * * * * * Ferrell stood at O'Toole's shoulder, looking out into the blackness. He turned toward them, face stark with terror. "It--can't--be!" he spoke slowly. "Vancouver is south of us, and yet...." "And yet you're going east." The strange voice cut in on them harshly. Blake wheeled about to face the third Silver Mask he had seen tonight. The man towered above them, a full seven feet tall. His thick lips, visible below the mask, were curved in a cruel, delighted smile. "You've bought one way tickets," he said gruffly. "Tickets that will take you--nowhere." Continuing, he turned to Ferrell. "Walter Ferrell, and his daughter, Dauna Ferrell. Am I right? We are fortunate in picking our company tonight." "As owner of this rail line," Ferrell demanded in an even voice. "I want to know what this is all about. Where are we going?" Outside the sounds of the wheels had faded. The train wasn't moving. It seemed to tip at a slight angle, as though leaning on some support.