“No, no. Let me take you in the truck. Tell you what, I'll drive up about ten mile and let you off, and you can walk the rest of the way if that's what you have a mind to do. I could cut off to the southeast. If they saw me, they would come after me.”

Sisson leaned into Tom and whispered, “He's working way too hard at this.”

Tom nodded.

“Herb,” Tom said, “this is a terrible thing to have to do, but it sure sounds like you got plans for us.” Tom stepped toward Blakely and grabbed him by the arm. Then Sisson jumped, knocking them both to the ground. Soon, Blakely was trussed in baling wire from the back of the truck, including a piece that passed through his mouth like a bit, keeping him from spitting out the rag they had stuffed in there. “Not sure this is right. You did bring us food and all, and I'm not sure why you would do that and then turn us in, but we can't take chances. You'll be all right here for a bit. I think we're going to borrow the truck, too.”

“No,” Sisson said. “No truck. They'll be looking for it.”

“Well, then,” Tom said, “we'll be saying good-bye. Hope you don't spend an uncomfortable night out here, Herb.”

They moved as they had learned to move—tree to tree, bush to bush, stopping when they reached cover, looking to see if there was anyone anywhere, then moving quick to the next cover and beginning again. They favored the sides of hills and under ridges where they had sight but would be difficult to spot. They moved as fast as they could, which was not fast. John was fading in and out of consciousness again.

They moved in a semicrouch, which gave them no advantage except the illusion of more security. They watched the ground as they went, looking to avoid loose rock and pieces of wood that would crack like gunshots in the night. They saw no signs of the patrol, but they knew it had to be near. Likely the soldiers were bivouacked somewhere close by, but the lack of sign was more unnerving than knowing they were close. They kept walking until the sky began to barely lighten in the east.

“Where do you think we are?” Tom asked.

“Mexico. Or damned close. Mexico, I think.”

“Doesn't look any different, does it?”

“No,” Sisson said. “You want it to, but it doesn't. We don't know where the border is, and neither does that patrol there. We got to just keep walking. Sooner or later, everyone will figure it's Mexico, and then we're all right.”

“Why haven't we found those soldiers yet?”

“I don't know,” Sisson said. “Maybe they're pretty far ahead of us.”

“In Mexico?”