Sisson was pretty sure that they were all right. He was almost positive that no one had come this far south in an attempt to cut them off. They had been on the run for more than a week now, and many members of the original posses would have given up, the desire to catch and kill them waning and the hope of blood sport losing out to the desire to sleep in a bed and eat good food, to rest against the breasts of their women, and the desire to see their children. And that, Sisson understood, was the advantage he, Tom, and John had over their pursuers. Their desire to stay alive was stronger than Thems's desire to kill them.

Except, that is, for Wootan. He would still be out there. And he would have others with him, feeding off his need to shed blood for blood. The strength of that desire was enormous and frightening. A man who had caught the desire for blood and had blended it with righteousness was a man to fear. Sisson had seen in the army, years after the Little Big Horn, how men could still hold on to a desire to smash, destroy, and exterminate in the holy name of Custer. A man they had not known, a man they had never met or even seen, and, often, a man who had not even lived in their lifetimes held sway over them and demanded blood sacrifice. Blood of the Indians, blood of the soldiers who had been taken for some reason they didn't fully understand. It didn't matter. It mattered that blood was required of someone, anyone, maybe everyone.

He didn't know how smart Wootan was. He didn't actually know him that well, though he could recognize him on sight. But he knew the Wootans in general. There were a lot of tough cowboys, not unlike himself and the Power boys. Wootans were the type to claw and scratch their way not to the top but to the lower rungs, where there were scraps to be picked up by those who were smart and tough enough to take them from the others. Sisson reckoned that the Wootans were tough and smart enough.