A hobo jungle, like any town or city, had neighborhoods whose boundaries were clear in the residents' minds. Some areas were friendly, some safer than others. Downstream, farthest from the tracks, where the creek veered to join the Weber River, was a section best visited armed. There, the rules of live and let live gave way to take or be taken.

The Wrecker headed there fearlessly. He was at home in outlaw land. Yet even he loosened the knife in his boot and moved his pistol from a deep pocket of his canvas coat to his waistband, where he could draw it quickly. Despite the absence of campfires, it was not entirely dark. The trains huffing constantly by pierced the night with their headlights, and the thin snow cover reflected the golden glow from the windows of passenger cars. A string of bright Pullmans started past, slowing for the nearby town, and by its light the Wrecker saw a hunched shadow shivering beside a tree, both hands in pockets.

"Sharpton," he called in a harsh voice, and Sharpton answered, "Right here, mister."

"Put your hands where I can see them," commanded the Wrecker.

Sharpton obeyed, partly because the Wrecker was paying money for service and partly out of fear. A bank and train robber who had served time in the penitentiary, Pete Sharpton knew a dangerous hombre when he met one. He had never seen his face. They had only met once before, when the Wrecker had tracked Sharpton down and braced him in the alley behind the livery stable where he rented a room. But he had been on the wrong side of the law his entire life and knew they did not come more deadly than this one.

"Did you find your man?" the Wrecker asked.

"He'll do the job for a thousand dollars," Sharpton answered.

"Give him five hundred down. Make him come back for the second half after he has done the job."

"What's to keep him from running off with the first five hundred? Found money, no risk."

"What will prevent him will be his clear understanding that you will hunt him down and kill him. Can you make that clear to him?"

Sharpton chuckled in the dark. "Oh yes. Besides, he's not that tough anymore. He'll do as he's told."

"Take this," said the Wrecker.

Sharpton felt the package with his fingers. "This isn't money."

"You'll have the money in a minute. This is the fuse I want him to use."

"You mind me asking why?"

"Not at all," the Wrecker said easily. "This looks exactly like a fast fuse. It would fool even an experienced safecracker. Do I assume correctly that yours is experienced?"

"Blowing safes and express cars his whole life."

"As I asked for. Despite its appearance, this is actually a slow fuse. When he lights it, it will take longer to detonate the dynamite than he's calculated."