Three more uniformed figures stepped into the clearing. Kesley squeezed the trigger three times and they fell, their faces frozen in utter astonishment. Kesley felt suddenly unclean; he had murdered three men, injured a fourth. And those three did not know why _they_ had died, either. He freed his own horse and slapped the weary mutant on the flank. "Go ahead, fella. You're free. You've done your job." He could take his pick from the four Ducal thoroughbreds waiting on the highway. Sadly he stepped over the fallen bodies. The man he had clubbed was still breathing; he lay in a sticky pool of his companions' mingled blood. Kesley knelt, saw the ugly, raw wound on the man's skull, the welling blood matting the dark hair. Wedged in the soldier's sash was a grimy, folded piece of thick paper. Kesley drew it forth. It was on Ducal stationery, with the familiar heraldic watermark that he had seen on so many tax vouchers in his farming days. The inscription, in large, dark, slightly smudged type, was a simple one: WANTED For High Treason Against His Highness, Duke Winslow of North America Dale Kesley, farmer, of Iowa Province, also known under the false name of Ramon, Ambassador from Duke Miguel of South America. The said Kesley, having entered His Highness' court on the pretext of an embassy from the Court of Buenos Aires, did make an attempt on our Duke's life. Kesley is sought urgently. A reward of fifty thousand dollars is offered for his corpse. The said Kesley is six-feet-two in height, with closely-trimmed blond hair, full lips, nose set somewhat unevenly on his face. He will probably be wearing stolen clothing and riding a stolen horse. * * * * * That was all. Kesley whistled; fifty thousand dollars was a staggering sum of cash to offer. And they wanted his _corpse_; Winslow had no interest in anything but a dead Kesley, then. He would have to look sharp. With fifty thousand riding on his head, every loyal subject from Texas to Maine Province would be ready to sell him to the Duke. * * * * * He lived a hazardous existence on the way north, eating off the forest and staying out of the way of anyone official-looking. He travelled mostly by night, creeping along cautiously during the day and making up the delay by galloping furiously once the sun had set. Generally he had no difficulties. Crossing from Arkansas into Missouri nearly caused trouble, when he blundered into a border patrol searching for someone else. He never found out who it was they really wanted; two of the guards stopped him, stared at his face in the light of a flickering match, and, after a tense moment or two, incredibly sent him along his way.