Now, northward.
Returning to the Colony was out of the question for many reasons. Returning to Iowa would probably be fatal—Loren and Lester, good subjects of the Duke, would turn the fugitive in without giving the matter a minute's thought. South America was as dangerous a place as Winslow's lands, and the Empires beyond the sea were impossible to reach. There was little traffic between the Americas and either Asia, Europe, Africa, or Australasia, and none whatsoever with Antarctica.
If he allowed Winslow to catch up with him, it would mean sure death. But one solution presented itself. I'll return to Mutie City, he thought, spurring the bony beast on. That's one place where Winslow won't dare to come in after me.
Kesley squirmed in the saddle and peered around. Men were breaking off from the column of horsemen and were starting to follow him.
He gave the reins another tug. Whatever it was the City had fed the animal, it was propelling the beast like gasoline. The mutant was covering ground in a rocketlike fashion. But Kesley knew the pace could never last.
And, sure enough, the mutie began to falter after another half mile, to drop back and lose ground. Four of Winslow's men were still on the trail; Kesley computed that he was somewhere near the Oklahoma border, and hoped no border guards would trouble him as he passed into the adjoining province.
He had a knife and a truncheon; the pursuers probably had pistols. He wouldn't last long once they caught him. They'd gun him down on the spot.
And he'd never know why.
The horse gave out shortly after high noon. Kesley managed to guide the winded beast into a thicket off the main road, and dismounted there, crouching in hiding while the mutie gasped for breath and shook its sweating sides.