Part 2 (1/2)

Kramer's weathered face stayed expressionless. ”Are you familiar with the customs of Indians of, say, two hundred years ago?”

”With their customs, clothing, religions, food, taboos, cultures, weapons, or anything else you can think of.”

Franklin McClave, the Secretary of War, cut in on us at this point. ”I think, Bob,” he said to Kramer, ”that Mr. Quinlan qualifies for the job.” His glance turned to me. ”I'd like for you to meet a man waiting in the next room, Quinlan. I want you to hear his story, talk to him, ask him questions, then give us your opinion of the results. Do you mind?”

I spread my hands. ”Whatever you say.”

Kramer got to his feet and went over to a side door. He pushed it open, said something I didn't hear, then stepped rather quickly out of the way.

A moment later young Daniel Boone came out!

Of course, it wasn't really Daniel Boone at all. Leaving out the fact that the ”dark and b.l.o.o.d.y ground” frontiersman had been dead nearly a hundred and fifty years, this man was a lot handsomer, with entirely different features. But he was wearing the fringed buckskin trousers and s.h.i.+rt, the beaded moccasins, the c.o.o.nskin cap, and his coa.r.s.e black hair hung almost to his shoulders. A powderhorn swung from his neck by a greasy cord, and he was holding on to a six-foot muzzle-loader as though it were his only contact with reality.

I stood there with my chin two inches from the rug and gawked at him.

He was scared to death. His deep-set brown eyes rolled fearfully from side to side, with too much white showing around the irises. His clutch on the gun grew even tighter, whitening the knuckles of his hand.

Muscles crawled on my scalp. A strange tension seemed to fill the room. Kramer cleared his throat. ”This man's name is Enoch Wetzel, Mr.

Quinlan. I want him to tell you exactly what he told us earlier tonight.”

I felt the tendons in my legs tighten, pulling me into a slight crouch. I was back a hundred and seventy years in the past, with a dull anger starting to move around in me. ”Wetzel,” I said, making it sound like a dirty word. ”Any relation to Lewis Wetzel?”

The young man's eyes widened with astonishment and obvious relief.

”Well, now, I reckon so! Lew's my uncle.”

”Lew Wetzel,” I said between my teeth, ”is a low, stinking, murdering skunk!”

I ducked just in time to keep from being brained by the swinging stock of the long gun. I came up under it quicker than I'd ever moved before in my life and nailed him on the jaw with a solid right, getting my shoulder behind it. It was like hitting the Hall of Justice. He grunted and up came the rifle b.u.t.t for another try.

Suddenly the room was bulging with strangers. A dozen arms folded around the young man, the gun was ripped from his fingers and he hit the rug with a thump that shook the room. The buckskin-covered legs threshed briefly, then were still.

I moistened my lips and backed away as sanity returned. I looked at the frozen faces around the table. ”My fault, Mr. President. I can't blame you for thinking I'm as crazy as he is. But, as Mr. Kramer mentioned, I'm part Indian. Back in the seventeen hundreds a frontiersman named Lewis Wetzel murdered a lot of Indians--men, women and children. I suppose you might say I went atavistic, or something, at hearing this fellow claim he was Wetzel's nephew. He's a screwball, of course, and I owe you a good solid apology for starting a ruckus.”

The President wasn't smiling now. ”Perhaps I should have told you before, Mr. Quinlan, we may desperately need this young man's a.s.sistance in the near future.”

I almost blurted out the wrong thing, but bit my lip instead and remained silent. The President's eyes swung to the heap of humanity on the floor. ”Let him up, boys. I'll call you if I need you again.”

The six Secret Service men rose and stood Enoch Wetzel on his feet, then returned to the adjoining office, not looking too happy about leaving a madman with the Chief Executive. Wetzel pushed the long hair off his forehead and stood there glowering at me, spots of angry color in his dark cheeks.

I said, ”Forget it, Mac. I made a small mistake.”

His thin lips peeled back in a snarl. ”Halfbreed!”

I took it, although nothing was ever harder for me to do. Kramer hurriedly stepped into the breach. ”Mr.--ah--Wetzel, we're waiting for you to repeat what you told us before.”