She stared at him, a queer, lost expression on her dust-grimed face.
"I know." Her voice was so muted he could hardly distinguish the words. "My people live in two times, and many do not realize that."
Tsoay had crouched down beside them to listen. Now he put out his hand, touching Travis' shoulder.
"Redax?"
"Or its like." For Travis was sure of one point. The project, which had been training three teams for space colonization—one of Eskimos, one of Pacific Islanders, and one of his own Apaches—had no reason or chance to select Mongols from the wild past of the raiding Hordes. There was only one nation on Terra which could have picked such colonists.
"You are Russian." He studied her carefully, intent on noting the effect of his words.
But she did not lose that lost look. "Russian ... Russian ..." she repeated, as if the very word was strange.
Travis was alarmed. Any Russian colony planted here could well possess technicians with machines capable of tracking a fugitive, and if mountain heights were protection against such a hunt, he intended to gain them, even by night traveling. He said this to Tsoay, and the other emphatically agreed.
"The horse is too lame to go on," the younger man reported.
Travis hesitated for a long second. Since the time they had stolen their first mounts from the encroaching Spanish, horses had always been wealth to his people. To leave an animal which could well serve the clan was not right. But they dared not waste time with a lame beast.