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wasn’t robbed by the wind was swallowed by the sound of waves, but Slocum heard a single yelp from a dog.
    â€œBloodhounds,” he said.
    â€œThey found the hole sooner than I thought they would,” Murrieta said. “We should have taken more time and hidden the doorway better.”
    Slocum knew they should have done a lot of things differently, but there hadn’t been time. He had drawn an ace when Doc stopped Mick from taking a swing at him. But the dark of the moon had dictated escape tonight or waiting for a month. They might have been successful escaping during a storm, but the drought had spread north. Thunderstorms were a rarity at this time of year.
    â€œWe didn’t have a choice,” Slocum said. He looked around for some way to cover their scent. He had hoped to find a stream or other river. He suspected the closest river that would have been useful hiding their escape lay miles to the north. The Petaluma River might as well have been in Kansas for all the good it did them.
    â€œCan we make it to the shoreline?” he asked.
    â€œIt is too far, but that is the only way to throw off the dogs,” Murrieta said.
    â€œThey come closer!” José Valenzuela heard the baying dogs for the first time. “What are we to do?”
    â€œDue south,” Slocum said, trying to get the lay of the land squared away in his head. They might be a mile away. If they hurried, there was a chance—slim—of staying out of the clutches of the guards so eagerly pursuing them.
    â€œThey are angling toward the Bay,” Murrieta said. “They will find us before we can get a boat or swim away.”
    â€œThere is no way to swim,” Valenzuela said sharply. “The water is too cold. And there are sharks!”
    â€œI will lead them away,” Murrieta said. “You go to your dying father,” Murrieta said to Valenzuela.
    â€œYou can’t—” Slocum started.
    â€œWhat can they do to me they have not done before?”
    â€œI’ll get you out,” Slocum promised.
    Valenzuela laughed harshly, and Procipio Murrieta grabbed Slocum’s hand and shook it. Then he hurried straight south.
    â€œCome on,” Slocum said. “He’s buying us some time, but it won’t be much.”
    He headed back westward. He had left clothing and weapons at the junction of the road leading to San Quentin and the road working its way north toward Oregon. He longed to get on a horse and see what the lovely Pacific Northwest had to offer after the dry California countryside—and its prison.

4
    Slocum dug like a gopher, kicking up a cloud of dirt and leaves as he hunted for the package he had left at the crossroads. The darkness didn’t help, but he had been cagey enough to hide the clothing and six-shooters near a distinctive rock beside the road.
    â€œHurry, they are coming. I feel it in my bones.”
    Slocum looked up from his digging and saw Valenzuela silhouetted against the starlit sky. The man looked nothing like his sister, but Slocum wasn’t going to pry. There might have been different mothers. Childbirth was a dangerous undertaking, although the Valenzuelas seemed to live well and could probably afford a decent midwife. Still, life was uncertain, and he had no idea about how rich the family really was. All he knew was that he had helped Conchita when her carriage had broken down, and one thing led to another.
    That had been almost three weeks ago. The pressure of time and getting José back to see their father before the old man died weighed heavily on him. If he hadn’t gotten into the fight with Mick on that first day, they might have escaped earlier. As he returned to unearthing the oilcloth-wrapped package, Slocum realized that he was belittling himself for no reason. The escape had occurred because of a half-dozen small things. Doc had sacrificed his chance to escape so that the other three could make it to freedom.