Inside was mostly rolls of barbed wire, stacked out here to save riding all the way back to the main ranch to run new fences or repair the old. There were cans of staples and an assortment of tools—shovels, picks, axes, a couple of come-alongs for stretching wire, hammers, and pliers. There was a stack of wooden crates back in a corner under some wire and canvas.

“I want you and Sisson to stay here,” Tom told John. “You'll be safe here. I'm going to take the horses up a ways, then ride on into Hendricks's. He'll let us stay here a couple of days, maybe help us reprovision. At least we can get some good sleep around here before we head into the mountains.”

“Which mountains?” Sisson asked.

Tom pointed to the southeast. “Chiricahuas. Then from there into New Mexico and down into Old Mexico. I think when we get across the Chiricahuas, we can rest a little easier. They ain't going to follow us up there. Then it's down into Mexico, and we're free.”

Sisson snorted. “They're going to follow us to hell.”

Tom scowled. “Well, then, let's avoid going to hell for a little while yet. What do you say? Besides, Mexico ain't hell. It's where we can get a fresh start. Mexico is going to be Power Heaven. We're going to own that place.”

“What if someone comes out here?” John asked.

“No one's coming out here.”

“But what if they do?”

“Well, John, you could invite them in, maybe see if they would be interested in playing some cards or such. Or you could just goddamned kill them. You decide.”

Tom led the two horses about a mile from the shack before tying them off to a mesquite tree. It would be a hard run to go get them, but if the horses were found closer to the line shack, there wouldn't be much mystery about where John and Sisson were. Likely the shack would be so blasted full of holes that the two wouldn't know they were found until they were already dead. Better to make a long scramble to the horses than a quick trip to the grave.

Tom rode on alone at a slow pace, plodding along like any cowboy who wasn't anxious to come upon further work. Halfway into the ranch house and barns, he saw another lone cowboy off to the south. Or, likely, it was a cowboy. If he were mistaken for one, he could mistake a searcher for one, too. Cowboys were no threat. A lot of them were vaqueros, up from Mexico. The United States was a good place to work. Other than that, it meant nothing to them.