Grannie had told her Dear Ones: To miss the buck warns the whole herd. That’s bad enough. The Marksman may get no second shot. The herd will run. They know the mountains well and the Marksman will walk and walk in endless overlapping tracks and his hunger will grow. To miss the bear is another thing. The bear won’t take it well. He may run and he may not run. If he’s injured he may escape to his cave and lick his wounds or he may follow the Marksman. For a bear, boot tracks are big and clumsy, easy as pie. For a bear, the Marksman reeks to high heaven. He doesn’t follow the Marksman for tit for tat, my little sluts. He follows out of practicality. If he has an enemy, he must subdue the enemy if he’s able. In short, you get one good shot. Make it sing. No time for nerves, self-doubt, or sympathy for the beast. The Marksman must know his target well, his habits, fears, and predilections.

Their camp huddled in a thick stand of aspen at a three-creek confluence. High above, Ginny wolfed the latest loaf. Her bowels pressed for relief. Why not let them go?

The cliffs were blue-gold in the waxing moon. She crouched on a terrace. The creeks wove around the stand and joined below it. She was cold but had been colder. The trees were scarred by lightning, black gashes that oozed and shone. The posse’s gear was a white mountain. Hard to get one good shot through branches. The cob was safe up and over the ridge, tied up at a spring. The saddle had steamed as she’d pulled it off and she’d warmed her hands against the cob’s hot back. She’d left the umbrella. Left the red dog tied to the same cottonwood. Muzzled him with a boot string, though she was wrong to, for what if she didn’t return?

Her cunt throbbed still, but less. It burned to piss. One knee was sore and both shoulders. Her head. The tent below was cloth zipped up, a closed container, like her cunt, that, like her cunt, opened from time to time. The 30-30 hovered on the tent’s top pole. Grannie would have said this of cunts: Cunts were made for using. The cunt runs everything. Mighty men bow to the mightier cunt.

It was true and not true.

The three creeks were silver lines joining. The moon faded the stars nearby. A coyote yipped on the ridge. The 30-30 shifted to the coyote then back to the top pole.

Her throat ached. She’d see bruises if she ever found a mirror.