o! 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 butt 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
assistance 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."

The tall, broad-shouldered young man turned from me to face the long
table. There was a graceful dignity about him, in his posture, in the
way he held his head, that you don't see often. Again I felt the hair
move along my scalp. For a guy who was as nutty as peanut brittle, he
was certainly con