The Old Swede had stacked rocks for the cairns to look like small squat stone men, not stone women, with two piles to form the men’s legs, space left for a crotch, then a big flat rock on its side for hips, then a rock standing on end for the shapeless torso, another on its side for shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the world as all men’s shoulders must, and necks selected with a divot for setting the round, nearly perfect, pea-brain heads.

“What’s the delay this time?” Ella called to the front, but only Dan just ahead on the chestnut spoke back, saying nothing of importance.

Their hats were light in color with wide brims, turned up at the sides to shed the sun or rain down your back. Ella’s was wider than the rest, held tight with a string under her chin. She sat straight on her horse, a pinto, a pretty young one, wild despite recent gelding.

“I said she’s gainin’ ground!” Ella called. “Goddamnit!”

Again, no one but Dan turned to reply and again she didn’t listen. She’d turned down his volume by degrees since the morning after when he’d first appeared at the burn barrel in Grannie’s yard with a flowered sash about his head. Saul had looked away. Ella hadn’t. It is woman’s task to see all. To take all on board. She’d twisted his volume knob a little lower when his sash mutated to a black eye patch, a notch lower still at the stone corral the first night where he’d started up refusing blankets. Wanted the blue tarp only for sleeping garb. Rocks for pillows.