“Hey there, boy,” she called, and the cob lifted his hooded head. She whistled and the cob rolled the bit. The stick of dynamite seesawed. It looked to Ginny just like dusty old paper. She couldn’t focus on it. The boy held the cob’s reins in one fist and a stick with a big nail under that arm. The stick was the red of Ginny’s old red barn.

His cuffs were dirty. Piping. His hat was enormous, filthy. He was taller than she but thin, wiry. She’d never really looked him over before. She wove in and out at the edge of the trees, wanting to see all the cob. He walked the cob to keep her facing him, a show horse. The clearing was made up of hundreds of stumps, a long slender oval emptiness, the cabin at the far end.

“I want my horse,” Ginny said.

“He’s injured,” said the boy. “That’s a forfeit.”

The flap of skin had dried, a flag of jerky.

Ginny went on dangling, not aiming, the pistol. She saw no other weapons present but the stick and the dynamite. Rusted cans. Dan’s boots were an old pair. Why not throw them away? The boy slid around the cob as Ginny slid around the clearing. Now she saw an iron wedge stuck in a stump, the last of a splitting maul.

“I want my horse.”

“We all have wants and wishes.”

“Some are losers every single time.”

“Screw you.”

“That’s my blanket. My Grannie made it.”

“Mine now.”

“You’ve been crying,” she noticed.

“So.”

“I’ll take him now.”

“I want to go with you,” he said. “I’m done with them.” He tipped his head at the ridge. “It’s bull crap, their cowboy act.”

“You won’t be coming with me,” Ginny said. “I assure you.”

“I’m going to blow your horse sky-high then.”

No sudden moves, now. “You can’t kill the cob.”

“I sure can.”

“You can’t.”

“I will.”

“That’s not real dynamite you got tied on him. Where would you get dynamite?”

“I stole it from them in the night. Saul stole it from some mine. You know he did.”

“No one kills the horse.”

“I want to go with you.”

Her lips were broken and red and dabbed with spit.

“Those cowboys are pure farce,” he said. “I’ve decided to go pirate now.”

“I’m not a pirate.”

“Cowboys and Indians are all mixed up. I’m with the pirates now.”

Strange to see Grannie’s blanket in a clearing, the scalloped edge dragging the ground. The kid lifted the old chain to his shoulder, as if to get going. Ginny let her eyes flick to the ridges.

“They won’t arrive for some time,” he said.