“That’s it?” Saul said. “That’s your cowboy joke?”

They were ready to ride again, a parade, same order as yesterday. The mules lined up with slipknots tied into their tails, double-checked.

“That’s right,” Dan said. “A joke.”

“Giddyap then,” Saul said.

Speaking of which, ain’t it time for another rip-roaring episode of The Long Trail of That There Kid? Today we’re proud as heck to bring you an installment we like to call “A Blister Is a State of Mind.” (And remember, this play is presented for your complete relaxation—if you feel like hissing the villain, go to it—it’s okay with us!)

Starring the kid as THE KID.

Ginny, in the role of the Indian Spy, in the role of THE BEAST (hiss!).

And, playing themselves, ELLA (in sheer cloth billowing), THE DEER, THE DEPUTY, THE CAMERA, THE RED DOG, and THE COB.

We find the Kid in a cave at the base of the sister box canyon, shivering, thinner and cold. The wound is in the right shoulder. It’s a real gash, open to the air when he cleans out the mud he’d packed in the wound. He eats cornbread he took from the camp. It’s what bears do, the mud bit. He lies in the sun to dry the new mud. He is very thin, yes, but still complete. His hat is whiter than ever. His face is ragged but full of the future. The wound on his cheek from the nail healed in two days, a miracle, just a small scar, which bodes well for the bullet. He rises and walks. He walks quickly, quicker somehow than any horse. We see him pass into forests and through rivers. His body shines in the light and water blasts up his slim pant legs. The mud is crusting away. He wears a coat we’ve seen Maul wearing, too big for him but he has rolled up the sleeves, and at another cave he finds charcoal in some ancient fireplace, smears it on his face for night raids. Montage of switchbacks: the Kid stoops over the creek drinking, gazing back at them from a lookout, some high ridge, the wind whipping—peering down through his spyglass at the cumbersome parade of men, mules, and horses (one female), moving slowly, slowly (why?), up long slopes that never vary in angle, the horses swimming if they must, just the heads of horses bobbing above the surface and one old horse almost swept away. He leaves them to follow the Beast. He has the leghold trap on its chain, teeth crusted with years of neglect. Until now. He loves the trap. He drags it and swings it overhead. Its whistle is a man-made answer to the wind.