“I hear you again,” said the man in the tent.

Saul was wearing the Christmas jacket. They split, Saul toward the horses, Bowman toward the fire ring. The raid was horse theft. That was the answer. The Damsel would see this too through a window, any rip at all. The 30-30 dipped.

The trouble started when Saul stepped among the animals and the packhorse whinnied objection to the raid, exactly what Ginny herself would do if she was the packhorse. The 30-30 lifted again. No word from the Damsel. The Damsel didn’t care, perhaps a narcoleptic, didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to feel the chill of wrongdoing. There were worse things than horse theft maybe, but no, there wasn’t anything worse than horse theft.

Wake up, man. Your life is passing you right outside that zipper.

Maybe the man in the tent was always sleeping, that Damsel, as most do most of their lives, sleep. She was sleepy too. Or the man in the tent was sipping that whiskey, or something stronger to fend off sleep, some tincture in a chalice from the palace, as Damsels are wont to carry. Or was he thinking his tomorrow out? Next year? The hero’s pin on his breast for saving the day. She would win the pin herself. She would be in this man’s dream tonight.

“Answer me,” said the Damsel.

The sniper nearly answered but a sniper’s work is to never answer.

“I hear you,” said the Damsel. “What do you want?”

Saul continued with the horses. Bowman went to the tent, slender and puppetlike, a man on strings. He searched the ground for something. The man’s water jug. He motioned with his rifle. Saul and Bowman switched places, a minuet, Bowman taking charge of the horses and Saul slipping by him, taking the water jug, who knows why. The jug was levered up. Bowman nodded, yes, to the jug. They didn’t care about the spy now. Or maybe it was all a show for the spy: the water jug was stepped slow as a bear over the coals in the fire ring. The cap was unscrewed, the jug ready to douse the still-glowing coals, which was exactly what the spy herself would do to confuse a Damsel, to block the tent from the view of a sniper-spy.

“You can’t have my horses,” said the Damsel.

A still life in moonlight with horses, tent, and jug in meadow. A blue-cowboy diorama.

“Because they’re not my horses.”

The thieves spoke with hands and guns.

Do it now, the rifle said.

Not to worry, said the hand.

Then Bowman reached for the yellow horse’s halter as Saul glanced up at the spy: Don’t ruin it.

“I can’t let you take them.”

The 30-30 pressed to the crease of her shoulder. The tent was moving.

“I can see you,” the Damsel said.