The yellow horse was gathering in behind Bowman going for the packhorse, then a zipper sound, then a first shot came from the tent, then a second from the .270, very close range, then the tent poles fell together and nylon sagged over the man’s thrashing shape, then a third shot from the Ruger. Steam and smoke, copious.

Then Saul was climbing the slope. She ran with the rifle and pistol, dropped over the far lip of the ridge into a crack. At the top, he panted, bent, hands on hips. The red dog had come. He barked at Saul. Saul aimed his rifle at the dog, a reflex, then dropped it and tried to touch him.

“Come here. Easy now.”

The dog growled, backed away. Saul held the umbrella under his armpit. He scanned the ridgetop, then set his rifle at his feet.

“We came in peace,” he said, hands in the air.

Ginny was curled around her rifle peeping through a crack. Bowman called something.

“We came for the horses,” Saul said.

She read the name on the stock of the 30-30, a set of symbols in gold meaning a man. BARRYMAN.

“Couldn’t have him skulking around,” he said. “Fly in ointment. Just to slow him.”

He tipped his hat back, took it off, rubbed an arm across his brow. A tired man.

“He could’ve walked back,” he said. “Very little wear and tear.”

The red dog was barking on.

“At some point,” he said, “it’s only instinct. The trigger finger.”

A little breeze. Her finger found its trigger too. She relaxed. Listened to him.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said. “The outcome.” He opened the umbrella, twirled it.

“Poor man,” he said. “Okay?”

The new herd of horses nickered introductions below.

“Life is messy,” he said. “Nothing personal. But yes, you’re right.”

He spotted something moving down the ridge. He lifted the rifle. Too dark.

“He made a mistake down there too,” he said. “An error.”

He was tall, handsome, and strong. A bear.

“He should have trusted. Goodwill. Just a little.” He stood with boots wide apart. The triangle man. “Life is fragile. Life is quick.”

Bowman called again.

“I’m talking to her,” Saul said, then turned back to the ridge, speaking out over all of it, the whole thing, as if the ridge itself were a huge deaf animal, needing more volume and articulation due to being reclined on its side, slow or temporarily addled.

“You should probably speak now,” he said.

“I love your sister,” he said. “I’m trying to do what’s right for most.”

“You could say something right now,” he said. “Say, ‘I’m coming back in, we’ll work it through.’”

He looked at the sky, then at his wrist as if he had a watch.

“Ella’s worried about the future,” he said. “The kids.”