“Manring has his own reason. I don’t know what that was, but I’m telling you what I feel.”

“You didn’t say anything at the creek.”

“It wasn’t the same then. If you wanted to jump, that was your business. Now there’s something wrong. That man with the Winchester knows what’s about.”

Bowen’s eyes raised. “He looks the same as always.”

“You don’t see a difference,” Pryde growled. “You feel it.”

“Well, I don’t feel it.”

“You haven’t been locked up long enough.”

“I’d say long enough,” Bowen answered.

Pryde waited. “After six years you know things. Things you didn’t know before. I don’t know how, but you do.”

Bowen glanced up, then looked down at the wagon ruts again. “When you were at Yuma…did you ever try to run?”

“Twice.”

“How long before they caught you?”

“A day one time. Four the next. They paid the Pimas fifty dollars to bring you back.”

“When you broke out…did it feel like it was the right time?”

Pryde hesitated. “I don’t remember.”

“But you’re telling me one time’s wrong and another time isn’t.”

Pryde said, “Go to hell then.” But he added, “Even if you get clear, Renda’s got better than Pimas. You know that.”

“So it’s a chance all the way.”

“You don’t outrun the trackers he’s got. They been reading sign since they were little kids.”

“That’s not something to worry about now.”

“But that Winchester is,” Pryde said.

The trail began to rise again. Bowen could feel the wagon slanting upward and his hand gripped the end gate chain close to his right leg to steady himself.

Another twenty minutes, Bowen thought. He pictured the ride in earlier that morning, coming down the steep grade and studying the country carefully as they did, then reaching this section that clung to the hill shoulder and dropped off steeply on the right side.