“Too much snow, too much noise from the truck. Kane. You got enough horses at your place?”

“Yeah, I got horses. And a mule.”

“Then let's go.” They piled the guns, ammunition, and liquor back into the truck.

Access to Rattlesnake Canyon is best gained from Rattlesnake Mesa rather than from the exit of the creek some miles to the south. Rattlesnake Mesa is a ridge of hematite a few hundred feet above the canyon floor. The road, cut by the Powers' work crew, winds up the side of the mesa and around several cutbacks until it flattens out at the entrance to the canyon. The last descent from the mesa is a steep, sudden drop from the last rim of the mesa, all the way down to Rattlesnake Creek and the narrow floor of the canyon.

Coming down that last descent, McBride wondered about the ascent coming back, presumably in the snow or, at least, frost, with prisoners in tow, whether two or more. On the way down, the horses' hooves skidded on the scree that inevitably piled onto the trail from the surrounding walls of the canyon. The mule, ridden by Mart Kempton, did somewhat better. The Powers took the hill by truck, he knew, and imagined the labored drive up the steep slope, surely in the lowest gear and winding the engine to the max, and then, later, the descent, which necessarily required no use of brakes and must be a wild ride, the truck giving over to gravity, gaining speed steadily until it hit the bottom of the canyon, surely with a sigh of relief from the driver.

Rattlesnake Creek was a strong body of water, running high and fast in the spring but still running now, even in the middle of winter, when much of the supply was frozen. They heard it before they saw it, not the fierce rumble and rush of a spring but steady gurgling as the creek made its way down the canyon in a series of small drops over the stones from one icy pool to another.

Riding at night, they would be guided by the creek. As long as they were close enough to Rattlesnake Creek to hear its sound, they were not lost. The road, more trail than actual road, crossed and recrossed the creek as it made its way up the canyon, counter to the flow of the creek.

It took them nearly two hours in the dark to pick their way up the trail, crossing and recrossing Rattlesnake Creek five times. The temperature continued to drop, and the creek water, splashed up by the horses, was nearly ice. McBride, dressed in a heavy wool coat, gloves, and denim pants, was beginning to feel the cold bite through the clothes.

Kane Wootan came up on his right side, slowing his horse until the two horses paced evenly. “We're going to get us some Power boys.”

McBride kept his silence.