They rode up a sandy slope where mesquites grew black along the road. Blown sand had lodged to hummocks in their thick and matted growth; the road was a sunken way.
“How far is it from here, Jeff?”
“Ten miles—maybe only eight—to the river. We’re in Texas now—have been for an hour.”
“Think we can make it?”
“Quien sabe?”
Gibson drew rein. “You go on. Your horse isn’t so tired.”
“Oh, I guess not!” said Jeff. “Come on.”
The sound of pursuit came clear through the quiet night. There was silence for a little.
“What’ll you do, Jeff? Fight?”
“I can’t!” said Jeff. “Hurt those boys? I couldn’t fight, the way it is—hardly, even if ’twas the sheriff. I’ll just hang, I reckon.”