She rose on the edge of the cot. Plan A had arrived at last. She set the pistol in her mouth, shifted the safety off. When the finger didn’t twitch, she waited on the cot for Plan B.

The dog was getting hoarse.

Plan B: She moved the apple crate aside from under the window. Underneath was a square of floor that opened with a rope to a crawl space. She set her valuables inside. The pocketknife and the man in the tent’s canteen. She dropped the cover and replaced the apple crate. She set the pistol on the table. Plan C: Sabotage. She unlatched the big gray door to the mother-of-a-woodstove. She propped the door open with the 30-30 standing. She poured ash down the barrel, mashed bits of charred log in small lumps, shoved it all down with the curtain rod. She returned to the apple crate for the canteen, drank, then trickled a little down for a slurry. More char, the man in the tent’s bottle cap in her pocket. A tack from between the floorboards. More ash. More char. Repeat. She returned the canteen to the crawl space. The boy was calling.

“Hey! Whatcha doing in there?”

She returned the curtain rod, swept the mess up. A dollop of spit for luck. If the Creature stole her rifle, it would blow his head off.

The dog went quiet. Someone was talking to the red dog. A bird flew past the door to her nest. Her landing on the rim was graceless feathers. Six a.m., no later. She laid the rifle on the table. She checked the pistol’s chamber.

The cob was a hundred paces distant and in costume. His mane didn’t show. He had a hood on his head that read IDAHO’S BEST. Burlap. Holes were cut for the eyes and ears. The noseband was visible. A stick of dynamite was tied at his mouth to the bit. She thought she’d taken all of it, buried it in a snowfield. The boy pointed to it.

“See?”

The little fuse hung limp. Scissors had been used for the eye- and earholes. The cob was saddled but had no saddle blanket. His pannier hung in a tree at the edge of the clearing. There was a battered tin pot for his water. She would take the pot when finished here.

Ginny skirted the tree edge. The pistol hung at the end of her hand. The boy also wore a costume. Dan’s boots, a colorful cape with burlap fringe.

The red dog followed her. She stopped at the edge straight on from the cob.

The cob was ten times bigger than the boy. The boy’s hand rested on the cob’s shoulder, a friendly gesture. A pile of chain lay at his feet, an old trap.