"You've cut your finger!" said the conductor, staring at a bright red bloodstain on the napkin.

"Stropping my razor," said the Wrecker, still not looking up from his newspaper while cursing again the drunken blacksmith he wished he had killed.

Chapter 6.

IT WAS STILL THREE IN THE MORNING WHEN ISAAC BELL bounded off the train before it stopped rolling onto the waterfront terminal on Oakland Mole. This was the end of the line for westbound passengers, a mile-long arm of rock that the Southern Pacific Railroad had built into San Francisco Bay. The pier reached another mile into the bay to deliver freight trains to seagoing vessels and boxcar floats to the city, but passengers transferred here to their ferry.

Bell ran for the ferry, scanning the bustling terminal for Lori March, the old farm woman from whom he always bought flowers. Nestled in the bottom of his watch pocket was a small, flat key to Marion Morgan's apartment.

Drowsy newsboys with seeds in their hair from the hay barges where they slept were crying in shrill voices "Extra! Extra!" and waving special editions of every newspaper printed in San Francisco.

The first headline to rivet Isaac Bell's eye stopped him dead.

TRAIN WRECKERS DITCH COAST LINE

LIMITED AT GLENDALEBell felt as if he'd taken a bowie knife in the stomach. Glendale was seven hundred miles from the Cascades Cutoff.

"Mr. Bell, sir? Mr. Bell?"

Right behind the newsboy was an operative from Van Dorn's San Francisco office. He didn't look much older than the kid hawking the papers. His brown hair was pillow-flattened against his head, and he had a sleep wrinkle still creasing his cheek. But his bright blue eyes were wide with excitement.

"I'm Dashwood, Mr. Bell. San Francisco office. Mr. Bronson left me in charge when he took everyone to Sacramento. They won't be back until tomorrow."

"What do you know about the Limited?"

"I just spoke with the railway police supervisor here in Oakland. It looks like they dynamited the locomotive, blew it right off the tracks."

"How many killed?"

"Six, so far. Fifty injured. Some missing."

"When's the next train to Los Angeles?"

"There's a flyer leaving in ten minutes."

"I'll be on it. Telephone the Los Angeles office. Tell them I said to get to the wreck and don't let anyone touch anything. Including the police."

Young Dashwood leaned in close, as if to impart information not privy to the newsboys, and whispered, "The police think the train wrecker was killed in the explosion."

"What?"

"A union agitator named William Wright. Obviously, a radical."

"Who says?"

"Everybody."

Isaac Bell cast a cold eye on the kaleidoscope of headlines that the newsboys were brandishing.

DEED OF DASTARDS

DEATH LIST SWELLS. TWENTY LIVES LOST

TRAIN WRECKERS DYNAMITE LOCOMOTIVE

EXPRESS PLUNGES INTO RIVERBEDHe suspected that the closest to actual fact was EXPRESS PLUNGES INTO RIVERBED. How it happened was speculation. How could they possibly know the death toll of a wreck that happened just hours ago, five hundred miles away? He was not surprised that the lurid headline DEATH LIST SWELLS. TWENTY LIVES LOST was splashed on a newspaper owned by yellow journalist Preston Whiteway, a man who never let facts get in the way of sales. Marion Morgan had just started to work as the assistant to the editor of his San Francisco Inquirer.