“We got to cross them. We can't risk the border until the other side.”

“We'll cross them on foot?”

“No. We'll find some horses along the way. Horses ain't hard to find.”

“I ain't no horse thief.”

“And you was always a disappointment to the Old Man.”

“We better go down and get the saddles, then,” Sisson said.

“No. Too risky. Thems'll be right below us.”

“They'll find the saddles and know we're here.”

“Won't be here. We're leaving now. We got rope. We can make hackamores. It's a bad task before us. We best get on it.”

“They'll know we was here, and they'll track us.”

“They'll know anyway. Who do you suppose made this fire? Squirrels? They going to know we was here, and we don't want to stay and fight another fight. We won't get out of the next one.”

Sisson scowled. “Bury the goddamned fire and scatter the rocks. Maybe they won't see it.”

The way out was harder than the way in. There were more tiers of granite to work past. The first tier to the southeast had a fifteen-foot vertical ascent. Tom threw a rope over a bit of scrub oak, getting solid purchase on his eighth try. Being the lightest, Tom belayed his way up the rock face and onto the flat of the ridge. He tied the rope around his waist, looped it around the scrub oak, and sent the free end down to John, who slipped and skittered his way up the rock with his awkward boots.

When John was up and safe, they threw the rope down again and began the arduous haul of Tom Sisson, who was heavy and, though strong in the arms, weak in the joints. John grabbed Tom by the waist, and they both leaned back, pulling Sisson up. Once at the top, they began the search for a way out of this small canyon.

The columns of granite that had not washed away as the surrounding softer rock had formed small canyons with tight inlets and outlets. In some cases, they were able to scramble out of the inlets, but twice more, they had to make vertical ascents with the rope and then rappel their way down.

Going down turned out to be worse than going up. John made his way quickly down chutes of sand and scree, but Tom and Sisson made their way slowly, slipping and staggering their way down. Tom slipped again, fell a few reeling steps, then caught himself on a bit of creosote bush and steadied himself before he could slip more. Sisson came up from behind and handed him a length of sotol, a light but fibrous and strong stalk of the highland agave family. It was a favorite of the Apaches, themselves a mountain people, who favored its light strength for arrows and the framing of their wickiups. It made a fine walking stick.

“You need it,” Tom said, handing it back.

“I'll find another.”