Bob hits his cigarette, waiting for her to go back inside before he says, “I’ve about had my fill of that bitch.”

Real Deal doesn’t have time for Bob’s bullshit. He makes sure the .22’s magazine is full.

“That blood’s gonna start to stink if you don’t clean up,” Bob says.

“It’s my war paint,” Real Deal replies.

Bob goes into his cabin and switches off the lamp next to his bed. He opens the front door and whistles. Elijah whistles back, the all clear, and Bob jogs across the parking lot to the clump of tamarisk where Elijah’s hunkered down with a chair, a jug of water, and the shotgun Bull brought back from town earlier today.

“Did you eat something?” Bob says.

“I’m not hungry,” Elijah says.

“I’m starving.”

There’s still some pink in the sky, but it’ll soon be full dark. A nightbird chirps, another answers. A vehicle approaches from the west, and Bob ducks beside Elijah.

“Don’t stare at the lights,” he says.

A Dodge rattles past, whipping up dust. The men swivel to watch until it disappears in the distance. Elijah slaps his forearm and squints at his palm.

“Are there mosquitoes out here?” he says.

“Probably an ant,” Bob says. “There’s plenty of those. The biting kind.”

Elijah lifts his boot in search of an anthill. Bob walks over and knocks on the door of Bull’s cabin. Bull, shirtless, opens up and asks what he wants.

“You have anything to eat?” Bob says.

“First you make me run all over town getting you guns, and now you want to raid my refrigerator?” Bull says.

“I’ll pay.”

“There’s leftover fried rice and a couple hot dogs.”

“Boil the franks and throw them on the rice. I’ll give you two bucks.”

“The stove’ll make a light.”

“I’ll handle Antonia.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Kiss my ass, sir,” Bull grumbles on his way to his fridge.

Bob steps into the cabin. It’s a pigsty, trash everywhere. Stacks of porno magazines, rusty tools, old glass telephone insulators. Smells like a pigsty too. Bull dumps the rice in a skillet and drops the dogs into a pot of water.

“Put a shirt on,” Bob says. “I don’t want hair in my food.”

“I’m tired of you fuckers telling me what to do,” Bull says. “And now this Fort Apache bullshit.”

“Take off till it’s over. Nobody’s stopping you.”

“This is my fucking place.” Bull turns and waves a spatula. “You take off. Settle your beef elsewhere.”

“Stir some ketchup in there if you got it,” Bob says and goes outside to sit on the old couch on the porch.