Bonner looked down into the blazing valley. This was not going to be easy.

"So now what?" demanded Clara.

Bonner shook his head. "There's only one way down. Sisters."

"I was afraid you was gonna say something like that," said Belle.

"All I can say is try and stay in the middle of the road."

"Hey, that's really good advice. I like that," said Clara.

They beat it down -the road. The first wave of smoke and flame hit them and they cut through it. It was a lot like traveling in the Firelands, Bonner thought. The only difference here was that the air was full of little bits of burning pine tree.

They were lucky that the highway that cut through the fire was a nice, wide, eight-lane job. They could ride down the middle of the burning forests, well away from the flames.

But the air was hot and smoky—at first. The further they got into the blaze the air got thin and harsh. The fire was sucking up as much of the air as possible, leaving the vehicles and their riders gasping for oxygen. Bonner could hear the note of the engines change as they air got thinner and thinner, so thin that the mixture in the chambers of the engines was vile, poor stuff, hard for the ancient spark plugs to ignite.

If the motors shut down they would have serious problems. He remembered that Seth had carted him out of the Firelands. Only his locomotive could pull through that semi-vacuum. Bonner remembered that ride. The air had been hard to breathe, but he got out . . .

He set his mouth in a determined line. He'd get out of this. He owed Seth for that trip out of the Firelands. Bonner would take him out of the clutches of the Rich Man.

Trees crackled and fell. In a great shower of sparks, a huge spruce dropped onto the highway. Bonner swerved crazily to avoid it. A Sister—he thought it might have been Sheila—jumped it. He heard the engine scream as the wheels left the roadbed.

They were going slower. He could tell that his own revs had dropped substantially. The big straight eight was working its guts out to pull its human cargo out of the inferno.

Clara pulled even, the big engine on her bike straining. She pulled the wet cloth off her lips. "You better go ahead, Bonnerman."

Bonner shook his head and lessened the pressure on the gas pedal.

"Don't be an asshole, Bonner. You got eight cylinders. We only got two or four. We're slower than you."

"So I'll slow down."

The bike coughed under Clara. "C'mon Bonner, we ain't gonna make it . . . There's no reason why you should go too."

"Save the air, Clara . . ."

Clara shrugged and slipped back behind Bonner's car. She would at least let his big machine tear a hole in the smoke for the rest of them.

The soot and smoke was getting to all of them. It had worked itself up behind their eyes and stung. Headaches from lack of oxygen—they felt like their heads had been split open with the Mean Brother's axe—began to make them dizzy.

Bonner cursed himself. This was reckless stupidity. To come so far and to be defeated by a forest fire that they could have waited out. Or gone around. It was just plain stupidity . . .

Clara pulled alongside again. "Bonner," she coughed, "if you're gonna stay and suffocate with us, you gotta take Gracie aboard. She's wobblin' and she's gonna drop off . . ."

"I'll drop back. Mean Brothers . . ." , The Mean Brothers, who didn't seemed to be too bothered by the smoke and fire, nodded. They knew what they had to do.

Bonner slowed down, allowing a number of Sisters to pass him. Grace was the last in the line. She was drooped over the bars of her bike.

Clara got on one side, Bonner on the other. The Mean Brothers stood up and gently lifted Grace off the saddle of her bike. Clara held the big machine steady. Once the red-headed Sister was off her metal mare Clara guided it off the road and into the flames. A second after the crash, the exploding gas tank added to the fire.

"She's gonna be mighty mad and about that," said Clara, laughing and hacking in the smoke.

Grace lay across the Mean Brothers' laps. Bonner looked back at her. She was pale. But he knew it wasn't anything that a little fresh air wouldn't solve.

And they got some. It was like driving into an iceberg made of air. They came over the top of a hill and then there was no fire any more. The engines coughed a few times and then sucked in the fresh, cool air, like thirsty men in the desert given a glass of water.

Bonner felt the cold air wash over him and pulled a deep lungful. He could feel the air chilled and fresh in the middle of his chest. It felt good.

"Bonner," said Clara pulling alongside, "let's stop a minute."

Bonner shook his head. "Can't. That fire'll catch up with us. We got to outrun it."

Buggy and Roy made it through the fire and into the ruins of Sacramento.

"So, Buggy, here you are in the lands of the Rich Man."

"So where is he?"

"He's down the valley. In the Bay City."

"Another day? Maybe two?"

"Easy, sure. As long as we don't run into any Snowmen. It was Snowmen that the Rich Man brought you out here to kill, you know."

"I remember. I think I killed a fair number of Snowmen already."

"Plenty more where they came from."

"I was afraid you were going to say something like that."

Buggy had to hand it to Roy. He hadn't exaggerated the wealth of the Rich Man's lands at all. They cut down through another mountain range—a lot lower than the last one—and he could see that the hillsides were under cultivation.

"What they growin' up there?"

"Grapes."

"What the hell are grapes?"

Roy pulled over and grabbed a bunch of grapes off a vine that drooped heavy over the fence that stood between the vineyards and the road.

"Here, try some . . ."

Buggy stuffed grapes into his mouth and spat pits at slaves all the way down the Napa Valley.

"Not far now," said Roy over his shoulder.

"Great," said Buggy. He liked these grape things. "These are good . . ."

"Glad you like 'em."

"Never heard of them before."

"Just wait till you taste wine."

"What are wine?"

"Wine. It's a drink. It's made from grapes." "No shit. Can you get hammered if you drink enough?"

"You bet." They road a few miles in silence. "Hey, Roy.

How come you're bein' so nice to me?" "I'm glad you asked. Buggy friend." Asshole, thought Buggy. "What do you want, Roy, riend?" "Well Buggy, we been through a lot together, right."

"Right." "Well I wonder if you won't do me a little favor?"

"What kind of favor?" Buggy didn't like the sound of this at all.

"When we get to Bay City and meet the Rich Man . . ."

"Yeah?" "Would you do me a favor and tell him that you're Bonner?"

"Hey, Roy, baby, no problem. When we get to the Bay City I'll walk right up to the Rich Man and say 'Hey Rich Man, the name is Bonner, you know the meanest, baddest, most dangerous fuckinest sharp-shooting rider on the entire Continent. You know me, 1 chopped Leather-man's hand off, I kilt anything what gets in my way, I know every inch of the road in the whole fucking world and I ain't scared of no man'—what are you, Roy, out of your fuckin' mind? I ain't gonna pretend I'm Bonner. Jeez, what a fucking jerk."

"1 was just askin'."

"Well ask something else. Why do you want me to pretend to be Bonner?"

"Well, when the Rich Man sent me out to get riders he asked me to get Bonner for him. I didn't. But I got him sixty riders. Fifty-nine of whom are now croaked. I thought it might make him feel better if he knew he got Bonner."

"Well, it wouldn't do a damn thing for how I feel."

"Sorry I asked."

"So am I."

They were coming into an area that seemed to lead to a major city. All the telltale signs were there. The road got wider, the long ribbon of buildings next to the road started, there were signs. CONTRA COSTA COUNTY NEXT SIX EXITS, SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, SANTA CLARA COUNTY . . .

They labored up a long hill. At the top of it was a tall red-and-white transmission tower. It thrust hundreds of feet up into the clouds. They stopped under it.

"Look," said Roy, "Bay City."

Buggy looked. There was a bay alright, and a couple of big bridges that looked like they were in bad shape, a cluster of low buildings, thousands of them, highways, and finally a thicket of tall skyscrapers all jammed into a very small piece of land. A fog was rolling in.

"See that thin pyramid building?"

"Yeah."

"Rich Man's joint."

Roy zoomed down over the hills that seemed to be dotted around the Bay City as if he was trying to bump Buggy off the back of the bike. As they coursed down a wide street marked MARKET at intersections, Buggy found himself looking at clusters of men and women who stood around. AH the men were armed and they all seemed to know Roy.

In fact, it seemed that Roy was one hell of a big deal in the Bay City.

At the base of the Pyramid there were a half a dozen guards all armed with automatics. Roy didn't look at them twice. They seemed to bow as he passed.

"Rich Man around?" he asked of one.

"Yessir."

"C'mon," said Roy grabbing Buggy by the sleeve. "You know, this is all pretty impressive . . ." Roy pushed through a revolving door and guided Buggy into the high-ceilinged lobby. There were a lot of people standing around. The first thing Buggy noticed was that there were a lot, lot of pretty women around . . .

Sitting behind what would have been the receptionist's desk in the old days was a man. Buggy thought he might have been the cleanest looking man he had ever seen.

"Who he?" he stage-whispered to Roy. "Roy," said the man behind the desk, "you've been gone a long time. Good to have you back." "It was worth it, sir," said Roy.

"I'm glad."

It was beginning to dawn on Buggy that the clean guy was the Rich Man. And where the hell did Roy get off saying that this fuckin' trip had been worth it? He had only lost about sixty-four men . . .

"Rich Man," said Roy, "may 1 present Mister Bonner, of Chicago . . ."

"Huh?" said Buggy.

The Rich Man rose. "This is an honor. Mister Bonner."

"Now look," said Buggy.

"Mister Bonner, I assume that Roy here has told you that you would be well rewarded if you came to fight for me. I can now reveal those terms. Bring Mister Bonner a hundred thousand slates at once," the Rich Man ordered.

"Jeez," said Buggy, "they don't call you the Rich Man for nothing . . ."

The Rich Man smiled thinly. "Quite," he said. "You must be tired and hungry . . ."

"And homy ..." said Buggy. Hundred thousand slates. Fuck! So this is what it's like being Bonner, he thought. He liked it. ' "Yes. Haha. Why don't you eat and rest and . . ."

"Fuck," said Buggy looking at a stunning blonde that stood off to one side.

"Haha. And we'll talk later."

"Fine," said Buggy, staring at the blonde. Talking was not what he was up for at that moment.

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