Sisson didn't much like riding at night. At nearly fifty, he had reached the age where sleep was the greatest pleasure he had any expectation of getting and the one he wanted most. He had spent most of his life in the saddle and had crossed more ground than most men ever get to see, but he had reached the hurting time in his life. His knees, hips, shoulders, and elbows hurt, and so did his back, especially after a long ride. His feet cramped, and his neck stiffened. His hands hurt, but, then, they always did. His fingers had started to ache with the arthritis. He thought sometimes it was easier to say what didn't hurt than what did. His ears didn't hurt. He couldn't hear a lot out of them, but they didn't hurt.

He began to see the faint outline of the Dragoons ahead and to the right. It was faint enough that he couldn't quite tell whether he actually saw them or only imagined them. It would be light pretty soon. They had maybe an hour, probably less, of good riding ahead of them, and then it would be time to look for a good hole to crawl into for the daylight.

He told that to Tom, reining in his horse and letting the boys come up to him.

“No,” Tom said. “We're going to keep riding this time.”

“I don't think that's a good idea. We know that Wootan's up in front of us, just waiting on us.”

“And there's more coming behind us. I know where we're going to spend the day and where we're going to be safe. I was hoping we could make it under the dark, but we ain't going to make that. But we got to get there.”

“Where?” Sisson asked.

“Up ahead.”

“Where, up ahead?” God, he hated being treated like a child or an imbecile. He never wanted to be boss, but that didn't make him dumb, either.

“You'll know when we get there,” Tom said.

Sisson snorted, wheeled his horse, and spurred it on. “You want to take the lead then?” he asked back over his shoulder.

“You're doing just fine.”

They saw the riders at first light, and when they saw that the riders hadn't spotted them, they wheeled their horses and headed west, toward the Pic Hills. Though there was urgency, they rode slowly, letting the distances between them grow so as not to attract the eye as quick-moving riders or as the group of three riders that this posse was—it was dead certain now, no question—searching for. It was difficult to move slowly when you knew that you were being hunted. Your whole body tensed in anticipation of running, but you did not run, you ambled, and your stomach knotted.