She could’ve told him. Sausages, crackers, matches—hand ’em over.

But now, down in the meadow, the scene was changing: the two riders were coming. Time at their backs, nipping. Most of the stranger’s gear was in the tent. Good. The rest was by a log ten feet from it, blocked from the riders by his two horses, all fine obstructions to a successful raid. Fine. She’d meant him no harm. Why fear their intentions? The two riders hugged the far side of the meadow. No clip-clop. As the horses grew their shapes formed. Her irises shoved aside to make room for moonlight pouring in. The 30-30 lay in her lap. Every tent has a back zip, a place to knock and whisper in, to slide in other than the front door. The riders wound closer. Ginny’s fingers clutched a stone in her free hand, so the hand wasn’t free after all. Stars pricked the black and faded near the moon. Time passed. The pistol was shoved in the waist of her snow pants. Three chambers were full.

The questions are always the same with Damsels. She’d taken a canteen three-quarters full. He could live without it. She’d taken a pencil and a plastic bag with chocolate crushed at the bottom, ate it at the back zipper while he sang:

And I hope that it won’t be heaven, with some

of the parsons I’ve met—

All I want is quiet, just to rest and forget.

She knew it, of course. “The Song of the Wage Slave.”

The riders crossed the creek. They knew the poem too.

Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my

callused hands

Master, I’ve done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy

many lands—

The voice was familiar. A voice buying plums. A voice in the line at the fair with some girl, the bumper cars, an unromantic ride. She couldn’t summon the face. Faces were fading. She’d taken a lighter. Some books even, The Spell of the Yukon, fine old binding, then a little thing called Disgrace, though on second thought she cursed her own silliness for flirting with nonessentials, and anyway, why lug around what you already have by heart? Took a bit of string off a loop in the tent, a delicate operation of unknotting the knot, a slow ballet of fingers. She’d lain on her side and worked the knot. String becomes important. Rope is just thick string. She felt his body just inside the tent wall and marveled he didn’t feel her too. Most of his food was in the tent, a violation of the cardinal rule: Find a tree. Hang the food. She’d smelled it from the back zip. She’d taken his fuel bottle, empty. She’d taken a beer cap.

“Who’s there?” said the Damsel.