“That don't hurt,” the Old Man said. Then he slapped John hard across the face. “That there hurts. This—” He mashed another ant into the cut. “This don't hurt.” John kept crying.

“You need to learn what hurts again?”

John shook his head violently from side to side, fighting against the blubbering tears. The Old Man kept mashing ants onto the cut until there was a ragged line of ant heads getting covered in coagulating blood. The Old Man pushed John roughly away. “You don't want me to help you, don't get yourself hurt, you little moron.”

When the Old Man had gone, John saw Tom on the other side of the corral, peering through the rails, his face a combination of fear and fascination. John walked over, still sniffling a little, and showed Tom the scabby line of ant heads and the rapidly puckering wound. Then he slapped Tom hard across the face. “You going to live with us, you best learn not to cry.” And he didn't remember seeing Tom cry again after that.

He was about to wake Tom when he saw the dust. At first, he thought it might be a dust devil, a spout of sand and dirt like a tiny tornado, though it was the wrong season for wind to swirl like that. But it wasn't a dust devil. If it was, it was three of them. And dust devils were solitary things. They didn't come in threes. He scrambled up and scuttled back to where Tom and Sisson were sleeping.

“Get up. Something's coming. I think it's Thems.”

Tom was on his feet almost as fast as he got his eyes open. He had that knack. He came out of a deep sleep, immediately, ready to go like a startled cat. He grabbed the glasses out of John's hand and scurried over to the little ridge where John had taken the watch.

“Goddamn,” Tom said. “Goddamn it all and everything. It's trucks. Three of them, and coming right for us. Go get Sisson on his feet. We're going.”

Sisson was already awake, though still on his ass, blanket around his shoulders, looking like a big Indian chief in a picture book.

“They coming, Sisson. Trucks. Three of them.”

“How the hell did they find us?”

“Stay and ask if you like.”

“Fuck it all.” Sisson shook his boots and began pulling them on. Tom came back, hunched over so low he was nearly bent double.

They gathered up their small belongings—guns, ammo, water, blankets, rope, the bit of food that was left.

They were moving nearly due east, alternating between a trot and a fast walk. The Chiricahuas loomed in front of them, quite visible, but still a long way off. They wouldn't be able to outrun the trucks to the mountains. They would need to find some cover or some canyon or rockfall where the trucks couldn't go.