Thomas left Los Angeles early the next morning by the Harbor Freeway gate. His horse was energetic in the morning chill, and he let it gallop. He wore new boots and a good leather jacket, a sword on one side of his belt-balancing the .45 automatic on the other. For convenience, he kept his left hand in his jacket pocket.
At this hour the freeway was uncrowded—there were only a few milkwagons and private carts for him to pass—and he was slowed only occasionally when forced to wait in line to cross one of the narrow bridges spanning washed-out gaps in the old highroad. By 10:00 hours he'd reached the intersection of the 91 Freeway, and here he reined in his horse and paused.
The travelers that passed him may have been puzzled to see the grim-faced young man astride a horse standing motionlessly by the side of the road; but after a few minutes, he gave a nearly mirthless laugh and wheeling his horse, galloped east on the 91 Freeway, away from the sea, toward Needles.