Collins, in the brush a mile ahead, became fitful in his sleep.
The horses raised their heads to the reins and began to trot. The riders, rising in their saddles, looked ahead, their rifles in their right hands ready for use. An animal stumbled in the rear; the rider cursed, and the sheriff silenced him with a potent look. They were within half a mile of the sleeper now; he awoke suddenly.
He awoke, listened, then crept through the brush to the summit of a little knoll and looked.
He saw them—the sheriff and his posse—coming down the road. He looked toward the east, up the valley; from this direction another group of horsemen was approaching. The two posses were drawing an angle of which he was the apex. And three miles away to the south lay the mountains, black with pines, impenetrable to search; he had slept at their very feet while the hunters came upon him. He cursed—but even as he cursed a subtle indifference, a carelessness, was within him.
