And from Bart:
‘That there song, Mister, has followed me all the way!’
Miles back among the hills, they picked up the sorrel; still no sound of pursuit. Then it was northward among the foothills—the north star for Elbert’s eyes. At any moment he half expected to hear, ‘No, I’m not going to fall, Mister,’ but to-night it was: ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m sittin’ easy.’
Before daybreak they followed a little stream up higher—less volume but more noise all the way, and came to rest in the deep privacy of a sunless ravine.
The second night, long after midnight, they heard the far scream of a train from the north.
‘The Mexican Pacific,’ suggested Elbert.
‘Where?’ said Bart.
‘That train—’
‘The Mexican Pacific cuts north through San Isidro Gorge ten miles southeast of here. Ask old Mallet-head, that’s where we dragged him out of his Pullman—’