The question did not linger long, for the appearance of four Mexican soldiers to the northwest postponed the next meal indefinitely. They quartered toward him out of the late-afternoon sun. Evidently they had heard the shots and had come to investigate. They pushed their horses in a stiff trot. A patrol out of Nacogdoches, he figured, watching for smugglers or illegal immigrants. Surely they had not had time to hear about his trouble down in the colony. But chances were they would take him to Nacogdoches for investigation, and that bloodhound Díaz would find out.

“Come on, Walker,” he said, touching his heels to the horse’s ribs. “Let’s see how good their horses are.”

As he moved into a lope, the soldiers did likewise. Not knowing how far it was to the river, he pushed Walker no harder than necessary to keep the soldiers beyond rifle range. If it should come to a real horse race, he wanted to reserve Walker’s strength. The soldiers’ horses were of mediocre quality. They presented no great challenge.

The run was shorter than he had dared hope. The river appeared unexpectedly. Remembering how Walker’s slow swimming in the Colorado had given pursuing soldiers a chance to get within firing distance, he pushed for all the speed he could get to widen the distance before they reached the water. The soldiers trailed by at least two or three hundred yards when James paused to look behind him at the Texas he had entered so eagerly last spring, not once but twice. “It’s a damned shame to leave it now,” he spoke aloud, as if the horse could understand how he felt. “But I’ll be comin’ back.” He put Walker into the water.

Across the river and well up on the Louisiana bank, James could see a small cabin, its old logs almost orange-colored in the last moments of the setting sun. He swam the horse across, holding his rifle high to keep it from getting wet. On the Louisiana side, he dismounted again to let Walker shake off some of the water. The soldiers had reached the river’s edge and stopped there, watching him. At the distance he could not see their expressions, but he presumed they were of frustration. For that, he was duly thankful.

He looked up toward the cabin. He could not see if it was occupied. No matter; it was shelter. Thunderheads were building in the east. Likely as not it was going to rain tonight. At least it had not rained on him during the days and nights of his retreat across Texas. Let it rain the bottom out now for all he cared; this was not his country. He might be obliged to remain here a while, but Texas had become his country, and it would remain so no matter where he had to go.

He led the horse up the long, high bank to a shed and a set of log pens that looked familiar. He had been here—by here, anyway—last spring. He saw two Spanish dagger plants flanking a white locust tree and remembered. This had been old Eli Pleasant’s place. From here Eli had conducted his smuggling operations into and out of Texas, between Natchitoches, Louisiana, and the Nacogdoches region. James had struck the old smuggler trail and had followed it.