Within the hour, they heard what they had not wanted to hear—the clanking of tin. The ones below were getting ready to cook. They were staying for the night. Soon the smell of smoke drifted up to where they were. They would have no fire tonight, nor would they be able to build any substantial shelter. They would sleep where they were, by turns, waking the snorers who might signal their presence. None of that needed saying. Slowly, quietly, they dropped their packs, unlashed their blankets, wrapped themselves, and went to ground. With hand signals, they set the watch—Tom first, then Sisson, then Tom again. John shook his head vigorously. He would take third watch. Tom shook his head “no.” They could not risk John falling asleep if the fever spiked again.

The smoke from the fire below picked up again before the sun was up. Those below were going to make an early start, get a jump on the brothers before sunrise. Tom woke Sisson, who rolled over and immediately understood the situation. John was still asleep, not moaning in his sleep anymore but breathing with an odd, pulsing rhythm as if he were trying to sing in his sleep.

Tom and Sisson listened to the sounds from below, the voices still sporadic, carried on shifting winds that rose up from the canyon floor—“east,” “noon,” “newspaper.” And later “sons of bitches” carried up on a current so clearly that Tom spun around to confront the invisible speaker. Within half an hour they could hear the tack being moved, then the sounds of horses' hooves. The men were heading deeper into the canyon, trying to catch the brothers sleeping.

They woke John and rerolled their blankets, picked up their packs, and continued east, away from the pursuers. But those were only four. There had to be more, probably quite a few more. They had no delusions. The pursuers were not about to give up, and they had to know that the brothers weren't far away, though, certainly, not how close they actually were.

By midmorning they were back into the heavy tree cover, which gave them visual cover but multiplied the possible sounds they could make—snapping branches, startled animals. It was a trade-off. Everything was. To gain one thing, you had to give up another. Watchfulness was one sense traded for another.

They came down into the low hills of Portal. Though Portal was south of their best-known territory, Tom had worked some for a ranch just southeast, between Portal and Rodeo, New Mexico. He was pretty sure they could get provisions there. They stayed in the hills as long as they could and kept moving east, now angling south toward Rodeo and, eventually, Mexico.