The Mimbre went back out of the saddle and Bowen was through the brush running for the carbine, picking it up and swinging it suddenly as the Mimbre started to rise. The stock caught the Mimbre’s head and he crumpled. Bowen was on him, pulling the bandoleer up over his shoulder; but firing broke suddenly from the other slope and he knew there wasn’t time to take the belt. His fingers snatched cartridges from the belt loops and again he was running for the rocks. The firing stopped abruptly as he reached cover.

He looked out again, pushing a cartridge into the breech of the Springfield, then placed the other four cartridges he had taken on a shelf of level rock next to him.

It wasn’t even worth it, Bowen thought. Five shots. That’s all you’ve got. What do you do with five bullets against eleven. No, against ten. He looked over to the motionless form of the Mimbre. You should’ve dragged him back with you. Then you’d have the whole belt…And you’d have a sore-headed ’Pache to watch.

No, it wouldn’t have made any difference. What would you do, shoot all eleven of them? You don’t run away from jail because you shouldn’t be there in the first place, but kill eleven men doing it. Then you might just as well stay in prison.

You’re all mixed up, aren’t you? You got yourself into something and now you don’t know how to get out.

Maybe scatter them and make a run for it, he thought then. He rolled to his side to study the pine stands up on the hill behind him. The trees were green-brown and motionless against the sky.

Only it’s a long run for not knowing what’s on the other side. What do you do once you get up there?

Then you think of something else. Just take it a step at a time…you’re not going any faster than that.