What happened to you?"
Pete Wasson stirred on the bed, face gray, almost afraid to answer. "I must have fallen, boss—"
"Don't you know? "
"No sir, I don't. It's all cloudy. Seems to me a rain came up, and I was looking for trail. Got this kind of funny feeling—a headache like, dizzy, sick at my stomach. I must have fallen, hit my head on a rock. I remember riding down here toward the ranch, and then I woke up in here. That's all I know, Mr. Maynard."
Maynard walked to the door. He stared at the dudes sitting around the huge front room, waiting to hear the verdict on Pete. A pall had shrouded the ranch for more than a week.
Not only was Maynard losing cattle but the tourists were getting edgy, leaving, as though the ranch were haunted. Well, that didn't make sense. But then neither did the loss of a thousand head of cattle!
"Maybe somebody's trying to put you out of business, Mr. Maynard." Marty Nichelson said. The young cowboy sat beside Pete's bed. "I can't tell you any more than Pete has. Not even as much. Like he said, I got this headache, too, but I know how sore you were going to be, losing all those cattle and no trace, so I kept riding. This headache got worse, and I got so sick I headed into Cripple Bend."
"And spent three days on a drunk!" Maynard accused him.
Marty winced and nodded. "I don't know what happened, boss. It was like I was sick—"
"Drunk!"
"But first I was sick. And fouled up. Them cattle just walking off the face of the earth didn't make sense. I decided a couple of drinks might help.
Next thing I knew, you said I'd been gone three days. I wish I could help you, but I can't tell you any more than Pete did."
Maynard growled. "Pete hasn't told me anything! But somebody's going to!"
Newspaper headlines, television cameras and radio newsmen sped the story around the world: 1000 CATTLE MISSING WITHOUT TRACE.
* * *
Illya Kuryakin walked silently down the gleaming length of the long streamliner.
Behind Illya five Central trainmen and special detectives watched him, but Illya ignored them.
He paused at the special car which had been added to the regular Chieftain run, making this an exact replica of the train which had vanished.
The small sender-receiver crackled in his hand. Alexander Waverly's voice spoke as if the United Network Command officer were at Illya's shoulder. "Did you find something, Mr. Kuryakin?"
Illya grinned faintly from beneath corn-yellow hair.
"Why are you smiling?" This was Solo's voice from the small speaker.
"Because I'm on your candid camera," Illya said.
"Yes. And you will be, " Alexander Waverly told him. "We will attempt to keep this train on camera as long as we can."
"Do you pick up the bleep signal?" Illya asked.
"Loud and clear," Solo answered. It was as if they were not in the command office at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters but were nearer than the train detectives. Still, Illya had a sense of being alone that he could not explain and could not escape.
A slender, Slavic blond man, he was no stranger to peril. Congenitally a loner, he liked solitary assignments.
It seemed to onlookers that he was like a machine. At moments like this nothing existed for him except the assigned task. He'd been born in a country where freedom was taxed and strained and sometimes betrayed; he had learned to despise evil in whatever guise it appeared, to fight it wherever he found it.
Now, Illya felt as if he might be embarking on more than a routine train ride from Pittsburgh to Chicago, his latest assignment from U.N.C.L.E. —the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.
"You look a little green around the gills," he heard Napoleon Solo saying, knowing that Solo stood beside Waverly in the command room, watching him on closed-circuit television.
"Poor camera work," Illya said casually.
But inwardly, Illya admitted that Solo was perceptive. The unexplained disappearance of a sleek modern streamliner from its tracks belonged to the ghostly unknown, the kind of
Pete Wasson stirred on the bed, face gray, almost afraid to answer. "I must have fallen, boss—"
"Don't you know? "
"No sir, I don't. It's all cloudy. Seems to me a rain came up, and I was looking for trail. Got this kind of funny feeling—a headache like, dizzy, sick at my stomach. I must have fallen, hit my head on a rock. I remember riding down here toward the ranch, and then I woke up in here. That's all I know, Mr. Maynard."
Maynard walked to the door. He stared at the dudes sitting around the huge front room, waiting to hear the verdict on Pete. A pall had shrouded the ranch for more than a week.
Not only was Maynard losing cattle but the tourists were getting edgy, leaving, as though the ranch were haunted. Well, that didn't make sense. But then neither did the loss of a thousand head of cattle!
"Maybe somebody's trying to put you out of business, Mr. Maynard." Marty Nichelson said. The young cowboy sat beside Pete's bed. "I can't tell you any more than Pete has. Not even as much. Like he said, I got this headache, too, but I know how sore you were going to be, losing all those cattle and no trace, so I kept riding. This headache got worse, and I got so sick I headed into Cripple Bend."
"And spent three days on a drunk!" Maynard accused him.
Marty winced and nodded. "I don't know what happened, boss. It was like I was sick—"
"Drunk!"
"But first I was sick. And fouled up. Them cattle just walking off the face of the earth didn't make sense. I decided a couple of drinks might help.
Next thing I knew, you said I'd been gone three days. I wish I could help you, but I can't tell you any more than Pete did."
Maynard growled. "Pete hasn't told me anything! But somebody's going to!"
Newspaper headlines, television cameras and radio newsmen sped the story around the world: 1000 CATTLE MISSING WITHOUT TRACE.
* * *
Illya Kuryakin walked silently down the gleaming length of the long streamliner.
Behind Illya five Central trainmen and special detectives watched him, but Illya ignored them.
He paused at the special car which had been added to the regular Chieftain run, making this an exact replica of the train which had vanished.
The small sender-receiver crackled in his hand. Alexander Waverly's voice spoke as if the United Network Command officer were at Illya's shoulder. "Did you find something, Mr. Kuryakin?"
Illya grinned faintly from beneath corn-yellow hair.
"Why are you smiling?" This was Solo's voice from the small speaker.
"Because I'm on your candid camera," Illya said.
"Yes. And you will be, " Alexander Waverly told him. "We will attempt to keep this train on camera as long as we can."
"Do you pick up the bleep signal?" Illya asked.
"Loud and clear," Solo answered. It was as if they were not in the command office at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters but were nearer than the train detectives. Still, Illya had a sense of being alone that he could not explain and could not escape.
A slender, Slavic blond man, he was no stranger to peril. Congenitally a loner, he liked solitary assignments.
It seemed to onlookers that he was like a machine. At moments like this nothing existed for him except the assigned task. He'd been born in a country where freedom was taxed and strained and sometimes betrayed; he had learned to despise evil in whatever guise it appeared, to fight it wherever he found it.
Now, Illya felt as if he might be embarking on more than a routine train ride from Pittsburgh to Chicago, his latest assignment from U.N.C.L.E. —the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.
"You look a little green around the gills," he heard Napoleon Solo saying, knowing that Solo stood beside Waverly in the command room, watching him on closed-circuit television.
"Poor camera work," Illya said casually.
But inwardly, Illya admitted that Solo was perceptive. The unexplained disappearance of a sleek modern streamliner from its tracks belonged to the ghostly unknown, the kind of
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