Brazil drank first, then Renda; and now, as they watered their horses, both of them watched the three men kneeling at the creek a few feet from the wagon team.
Manring cupped the water in his hands and raised it to his mouth. He drank the water, but his hands remained at his face and he said to Bowen, “There’ll be a better time than today. Today’s not right for it.”
Bowen said nothing. He was lying on his stomach now with his elbows propped under him, staring at the sandy creek bed.
“If I know it,” Manring said, “then Renda knows it.”
Not looking at him, Bowen said, “You don’t know anything.”
“Listen. It’s written on you like a sign. You don’t talk and you keep watching Renda…thinking he don’t know it.”
Ike Pryde, the convict wearing number 17, half turned. He was in his late thirties, older than Bowen and Manring by not more than ten years; though he looked old enough to be their father. He had taken off his hat and in the sunlight his skull showed white through his thin, close-cropped hair. His face was hard-lined and rarely changed its expression; but age showed in his eyes and in the stoop-shouldered way he moved. Six years at Yuma before the road gang. Six years that had added sixteen to his life. His eyes raised to Earl Manring as he turned.
“Leave him alone,” he muttered.
“If he’d think for a minute,” Manring said, “he’d change his mind.”
Bowen leaned closer to the bank to scoop water. “I’ll say it once more. You don’t know anything.”
“I know somewhere between here and camp you’re going into the woods.”
“You think what you want,” Bowen said.
Manring’s jaw was clenched. “This isn’t the way to do it! You got no horse. You got nothing!”
“Earl”-Pryde’s lips barely moved-“you’re going to get your jaw broke.”
Renda and Brazil came out of the willow shade. Bowen rose and moved to the end of the wagon, then looked forward to the team again as he saw Pryde staring in that direction. Manring stood by one of the horses adjusting the harness and Renda was leaning over his saddle horn, saying something to him.