No, he thought, may be only ten minutes to the grade. But it doesn’t make any difference how long. When you reach it, they’ll pull you off the wagon and you’ll know.

He thought of what Pryde had told him about them being ready and expecting him to break.

That was foolishness. You don’t feel things. Even if you do, you don’t bet on a feeling. You don’t stake something big on it.

They’re always ready, he thought. It’s just a question of moving when they’re least ready.

A convict on the road gang named Chick Miller had described the trail between the camp and Pinaleño. Every foot of it that he could remember. He had told Bowen, “Going there isn’t the time. But when you’re coming back, Renda rides in front. If he was to stay behind, then the load would be between him and the driver and some places the trail is only as wide as the wagon. That means only one man’s in back to watch you. Now I’d say a man’s best time would be when you reach the high grade and have to get off. Now you’re on the ground, getting the feel of it under your shoes…and your rear guard is worrying whether the wagon’s going to come sliding back at him.”

He remembered Chick winking and saying, “That’s the time, Corey. Right then.”

And when he asked Chick why he had never tried it, the answer was that he was along in years and his legs wouldn’t bear up under running. “Boy…you’ll run till they drop off.”

Bowen had waited, every day thinking about it, picturing himself doing it…and finally this morning he was picked for the Pinaleño trip and the time had come.

Maybe Chick told Manring, Bowen thought. That’s how he knows. And Pryde picked it up from Manring.

His eyes raised to Brazil again. The Winchester was across his lap. Of course they’re ready, he thought again; but you catch them when they’re least-

Suddenly he saw his error.