He veered sharply, running now for an outcropping of rocks at the foot of the hill, hearing suddenly the sound of horses rumbling down the far slope. Three shots sang off the rocks as he went down behind them, and abruptly he heard the horses being reined in. Then silence.

Bowen came up slowly. He brought his knees under him, but kept his head low as he separated the brush that was thick between the rocks.

The Mimbreños were off perhaps eighty yards: eleven of them, all armed and sitting their short, close-coupled horses patiently, taking their time now, as much time as they wanted, to study the rocks. Bowen watched them, wondering why they waited.

If you could think like an Apache, Bowen thought now, you’d know why. All right, then think like a white man. What would you do if you were eleven people and you had one man cornered out in the middle of nowhere? I’d march my eleven people over and drag him out. Eleven what look like Springfields are a match for a pair of bare hands any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

If you’re sure they’re bare hands.

They know you’re not armed.

But that’s one of those things you can know and still want to be clearly sure of. So you’d spread out your eleven people and edge in a step at a time and call out things about coming out with your hands up and not trying any funny business.

Only you never in your life heard of an Apache doing anything like that, so you can cross that off and throw it away.

But however they do it, they’ll try to take you alive. Even if they didn’t work for Renda they’d do that. Only-and there’re a lot of onlys-they can take you back in all kinds of states where you’d still be alive, though you’d just as soon be dead.