They were rested. The days in the Stronghold and the days at Hendricks's had allowed them to eat and sleep well. The strength they lost in the initial days of pursuit was pretty well back. Tom figured they had another four days of riding before they reached Mexico. They would go up over the Chiricahuas on a line just east-northeast of where they were encamped. The way would be steep and snowy now, and it would be tough going, but tougher on the posses, who would have to abandon their trucks and cars and follow on horseback. Tom was pretty sure they could outride anyone in pursuit. The tougher the climb, the more it favored them over a larger group of riders. The larger the group, the greater the chance that trouble from the mountains or the horses or the inexperience of some of the riders would slow the pursuit. All in all, he was beginning to like their odds now. They had one more dash across the valley to reach the Chiricahuas, thirty or thirty-five miles, but that would be a day, not much more. Once in the foothills of the Chiricahuas, they could slow, rest, and prepare to go over the heights of the mountains.

Tom started down the way they had come up. Their food supplies were holding out all right, but they needed water. About two-thirds of the way down, the creek flattened out and formed a nice pool where he could fill the canteens and bags. He would go on down and check on the horses to make sure none of them had become entangled in the brush or got stuck in the mud. With water and some decent grazing through the light snow, the horses should be ready to go as well. All in all, things were going better than expected.

The first sound of a voice froze Tom. He wasn't sure that it was a voice, just a sound, but a sound that didn't belong with the other sounds he was hearing. He stopped, instinctively reaching down to keep the canteens from banging into one another. He bent his knees and slowly lowered to a crouch.

“Shut him up,” someone said. “He's louder than a brass band.”

They weren't far away. Probably at the same pool he was headed for. Slowly, he lifted the straps of the canteens from his shoulders and placed them carefully on the rocks next to him. Then the water bags. When he was free from the containers, he slipped the Colt automatic from his belt. He tried to remember if he had chambered a round before he left. He didn't think he had. He didn't trust automatics the way he did revolvers. He liked things simple. He liked being able to tell what was what just by looking. You couldn't do that with an automatic. But it was a big gun, and it put people down the way a revolver couldn't. No one would run through a bullet fired from this big .45 Colt. He pulled the slide back, just slightly, an eighth of an inch, no more, and saw brass. There was a bullet in the chamber. He eased the slide back into position.