His eye had fastened on the north star as he spoke. It was over his right shoulder, so they were riding west. He could see the mountains lying northward there in the moonlight. A sudden passion mounted in him to turn north right now; to ride straight north, crossing the Border with Bart, yonder in the mountains where there were no roads; to find himself in the States with Bart, asking the way to San Forenso; after that, the trail west to the cabin, his mind finishing the picture in a flash—with Mamie and the sorrel safe in the corral. The deep laughing voice at his left:
‘I guess when you take a job, you try to see it through, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Elbert in fainter tone. He was deeply drawn to the man he had come for. Sometimes it was as if Cal Monroid were riding at his side; sometimes a feeling of Mr. Leadley’s presence.
‘I’d like to get you out of this, Mister, but it’s a sort of tight web—’
Silence and hard riding after that; finally Bart called a halt for a few seconds to listen or get his bearings. There was a scratching of matches in the outfit as he pressed on again—the interminable little boxes and sheaves of tobacco.
‘Don’t hear ’em behind. The town of Alphonso is about five miles ahead, I figure. Another squad of rurales stationed there—’
‘Telegraph in between?’ Elbert asked.
‘I’m not sure; not along this road, anyway. May be a roundabout wire. I’m taking the chance to reach the bridge of Rio Moreno. Two miles yet.’
They galloped on. The moon was tilting over toward the west. It must have been after three. He saw the lather on Mamie’s neck, yet he was still holding her in. A wooden bridge loomed ahead. Bart pulled up, and turned off the main road to a parallel sandy track at the right, leading down to the water. He didn’t mean to cross the bridge, Elbert perceived. The arroyo was broad and filled with stones, but the horses smelled water ahead. Mamie was whipping her head up and down, trying to take the bit. Now Elbert saw the mare’s ears cock suddenly, and knew she had caught something in the wind. His hand shot down to shut off her breath, but the nicker broke out in spite of him.
An answer in kind from under the bridge. Then a volley from the same source, Elbert’s second experience under rifle fire that night—venomous roaring of slugs in the air. He never could have dreamed how utterly malignant the sounds. That instant at his right hand (Bart was still at his left) it was as if the picture unfolded for his eyes alone—an upturned face, then a crumpled, falling body, horse leaping aside—empty saddle—one of the four released from the prison at Arecibo. In the midst of the shots, a yell from Bart: