He heard the voice then. “Tom. John. Sisson.” It repeated the names over and over again, and now he wasn't fighting the impulse to run. He had fought it down, and now he was just waiting. There was a small stick just in front of his face, but he didn't dare to move an arm or hand or finger toward it. So he stuck out his tongue, stretching it as far as he could, then forcing it down into the dirt. It did hurt just a little, not being used to stretching that far, but he caught the stick with the tip of his tongue, and he kept at it until he was able to work it back and into his mouth, where he could bite it with his teeth and exert all the force of his body onto the stick.

“Tom. John. Sisson. Tom Power.”

John's teeth snapped through the stick with a crack he thought could be heard another county away. Still, he did not move.

“You. There by the cactus. Come on out. We ain't going to hurt you. Just come on out.”

He couldn't remember who was by the cactus. Not him. They hadn't seen him yet, but for the first time in what seemed like hours but was really only minutes or seconds even, he moved. His fingers crept down the receiver of the rifle until he found the trigger guard. When he came up, he was going to come up shooting. They had found someone, and, having found someone, they were going to find the rest of them. Their only chance now was to try to shoot their way out once more.

“Tom. Tom Power. Get up. It's Poke. You're safe. We ain't going to hurt you. Tom Sisson, John Power. Get up.”

And then John got up. He came to his knees under the mesquite tree and brought the rifle up. He was moving too fast to aim, so he brought it up to hip level, ready to fire.

“Jesus Christ. Don't shoot. We're trying to help. Don't shoot.”

John could see little through the branches and feathery leaves of the mesquite, only shapes. He saw a lot of movement and fired off a round, still not bringing the rifle up to his shoulder or aiming it. He was just pointing and shooting.

“John. John. Goddamn you. Stop shooting.”

He swung the rifle to where the voice came from until he understood that it was Tom's voice he heard.

“Stop shooting, John. It's Poke. We're all right.”

And he did stop shooting. But he did not get up. He tried, but as soon as he pulled his knees up to get some purchase, he fell flat again. His mind was racing as if it was going all over the place like a dog with a confused scent. He heard his brother telling him to stop, and he did that. But he couldn't understand what was going on.