They forded the creek. On the other side, they followed wagon tracks that formed a long, slow-sweeping curve up to the jackpines along the crest, then skirted the shoulder of the hill before sloping down again and after this the trail kept to deep, rock-rimmed draws that twisted through the hills.

Renda rode in the lead now, turning in his saddle every few minutes to look back at the wagon. Behind the supply load, he could not see the two men on the end gate. They were Brazil’s concern. Brazil and his Winchester brought up the rear, keeping not more than twenty feet behind the wagon.

The two men on the end gate had not spoken since leaving the creek. Now, unexpectedly, Pryde said, “In another mile we reach the steep part.”

They sat with their legs hanging, their shoulders hunched forward and their eyes on the trail falling away beneath their feet.

Bowen said nothing.

“It’s steep enough,” Pryde mumbled, “that we’ll have to get off and lean on a wheel.”

“I know that,” Bowen said.

“How? This is your first trip.”

“I was told.”

“What else were you told?”

“That was enough.”

Pryde’s eyes raised momentarily to Brazil following them. “That boy’s dying to use his Winchester.”

“If you want to talk,” Bowen said, “tell me something I don’t know.”

Pryde’s jaw tightened, then relaxed slowly. “You’re tough, huh?”

Bowen didn’t answer.

“It takes more than being tough,” Pryde said. He was silent for a moment. “You’re thinking when we reach the grade and have to get off, that’s the time to go. Then or never.” Pryde paused again. “I’ll tell you one time. Don’t do it today.”

Bowen said, “You and Manring.”