No trail at all. No tracks. They heard a choked call to the left, Bowman. Maul slipped the knots between the mules and packhorses. They spread themselves across the slope, wove downhill, and lost sight of each other. Dan’s hand was bleeding. He sucked it leading the chestnut white around the muzzle.

“What kind of thinker wrecks a cabin?” Maul said. “Some kind of selfish. Is there any more crystalline definition? There isn’t.”

Saul called to Bowman.

“She makes her move,” Maul said. “She makes it as she must. Small, injured, scared. Her measly box of matches. Vindictive thoughts. A man is not black inside, not petty. A man would do different. Would leave the cabin with the door wide open for the next visitor-in-need, trespasser even. And if feeling destructive, if so, leave a trip wire to a shotgun’s trigger, the butt in the chair.”

Saul’s hat disappeared ahead of the sorrel. One more call from Bowman.

“Kill the ones you hate,” Saul said. “Not the cabin.”

“That’s right. That’s right. That’s right.”

When the gas can exploded, the light was a quick flash of big roiled yellow. Another surprise. The last of the cabin flamed up as a ball. A tree behind caught from the top, torching up quick, confetti and tree and cabin falling everywhere. The explosion had made its own wind, sparking sticks and igniting rafts of needles. Branches fell, touching off other branches, more smoke, ovations of birds as the horses went crazy, backing and bolting. Their eyes rolled and they reared back and kicked out at mules and men, rope and reins down in their hooves, stomp them if they could, skittering sideways. A blowout on a grand scale. A candlestick pine. More limbs missiled down. The mules scattered back up the slope, or sidehill, or down the rock walls, who knows where a free mule goes, lopsided loads swinging under their bellies, the lashings loose but not loose enough. Dan’s hat was really gone and the chestnut bucked for the first time in years. He ran with the mules and Dan waded uphill after him, caught him back up top of the ridge again. He split left this time coming down. No cabin was visible. Only smoke. The bay’s foot was caught between a log and stone. The hock was ruined. He arrived leading the chestnut and the tall mule and the yellow horse. Bowman was working the leg and waved him on.

Dan dropped down to his knees anyway. He touched the leg. The bay screamed.

“Get out of here,” Bowman said.

Farther down near the clearing he found one sleeping bag, a fry pan, and a bundle of rice hooked on a burl.

The back three sides were nearly gone. The door hung open and burned on. A single pistol shot was heard on Bowman’s ridge.

Saul called from somewhere.

The second shot was thirty seconds later. The Ruger.