Why couldn’t Armstrong have picked January to go on the lam, rather than July? Heat fell like water down into the narrow draw where their string of ponies clattered and clopped along a so-called trail. And why couldn’t that pack of black-powder enthusiasts have picked a spot closer to civilization for their Wild West shootout? He and Kit had figured Armstrong would ditch the time tour first chance, heading for someplace crowded. San Francisco, maybe. Chicago or New York, if he really wanted to get lost. Searching an entire continent for Noah Armstrong and his hostages had not been Skeeter’s notion of a good time, although he cheerfully would do just that, to catch up to Ianira and her family.
But Armstrong hadn’t done that. Travelling in the guise of Joey Tyrolin, drunkard and braggadocio, Armstrong hadn’t even ditched the black-powder competition tour. Instead, the terrorist ringleader had ridden up into the mountains with the rest of the eager shooters, presumably with his hostages still under duress. Why Armstrong had stuck to the competition group, not even Kit could figure. And Sid Kaederman, who had boasted so suavely of understanding terrorists, offered no explanation at all, merely shrugging his shoulders.
So Kit and Skeeter and the Wardmann-Wolfe agent followed their trail, which meant they took the train from Denver down to Colorado Springs, then saddled up and headed west toward Pikes Peak for the distant, abandoned mining camp where the competition was underway. Kurt Meinrad, the temporal guide detailed to their mission by Granville Baxter, had rounded up a short train of pack mules to haul their supplies. An hour onto the trail, Sid Kaederman began to shift ceaselessly in his saddle, obviously suffering from the unaccustomed activity. He finally urged his horse up alongside their guide’s. “Why did that pack of idiots come clear out here to hold some stupid competition? Why not just stay in Denver? There weren’t any gun-control laws in effect yet, so why come out to the middle of nowhere?”