Damn them! Calligan thought, his stomach sour with anger. Damn them, damn them!

Without any idea of who he was damning, or even why. …

Jennie wiped sweat out of her eyes, and clutched the wheel until her knuckles ached. Her stomach was in knots; her shoulder and back muscles tighter than banjo strings. She was in trouble; trouble she hadn’t anticipated.

A few moments ago she had narrowly missed getting forced over, and only got away by hitting the brakes, doing a bootlegger turn, and shooting off in the opposite direction she intended to go. Now she was going the wrong way to hit that speed trap in Catoosa. She needed another plan.

And another route! This was a bad road for the Brat and a good one for the Lincoln. Lots of straightaways—

Highway 20, she decided. It’s all curves, all those little crossroads where traffic comes up out of nowhere—and there’s that climb up from the Verdigris River that’s all switchbacks! That’s it!

If she could just get there—the bluff rose a good two hundred feet up, maybe three, offering one of the most spectacular views in this part of Oklahoma. No way that boat of a Lincoln was going to be able to keep up with the Brat on those switchbacks!

And then—then straight on 20 until she got to Lynn Lane—then Lynn Lane to Eleventh Street—

Did these guys know there was a major copshop on Eleventh? If they did, they might not realize how close to Lynn Lane it was, especially not if they never came at it going south. She might be able to lead them right up to the door—certainly she could trick them into something stupid, like speeding along there.

Right now, she didn’t care if she got caught and they didn’t! Right now, she was more concerned with escape.

The Lincoln loomed up in her mirror. She floored it. First, get to 20!

That damn bird kept getting away! Rod wished passionately he had a gun, he’d have shot the damn thing! And his crew was acting like the spectators at a horse race; in no way was he going to get them back to work while this was going on. His hand was clenched so tightly on the fetish that it ached; his eyes burned and watered from staring into the bright sky.

Larry Bushyhead watched the young female kestrel slipping just ahead of the talons of her pursuers with his hands clenched tight, and a knot in his stomach. When she twisted out of their clutches yet again, he cheered her wildly, as if by his cheering he could give her the strength and the spirit to keep going.

There was more to this than some strange birds chasing a little falcon; he knew it in his bones. This meant something, something important.