The fact that Sam and Ezra had not crossed the pass convinced him that they did not expect to be followed by him. They must have heard the posse go past the crossroads in the wrong direction, he reasoned, and felt they were reasonably safe from pursuit. Thus, they wouldn’t have ridden too fast, and probably planned to hole up during the daylight hours and do most of their riding at night, taking it by easy stages to the other pass and over the mountains to the Mexican Border. They had had practically the entire night to make their first ride. That meant, maybe thirty miles—forty at the most. And Ezra was a mighty big hunk of human flesh for any horse to carry fast or far. Thirty miles would be more like it. Maybe less, if Sam remained dead drunk very long and had to be tied in the saddle. That meant they couldn’t have reached a point more than ten or fifteen miles west of the road by the time sunup caught them. And that would take them just about to the old Windrow range cabin standing high and desolate on the northern slope of the mountain.
