Shots on his left—one or two guns, a shot cracks against the charred trunk of a tree to his right and behind barely missing but still he runs sighting grinding his teeth in frustration as the figure before him slips in and out of his line and now as the rider sinks below the ridge furrowed into the ground and wheels to the right, the horse tosses back its head a bit and in so doing lifts it above the level of the furrow into Makemin’s sight—the gun barks and shears off the top of the horse’s head sending ears flying two different directions and a shank of skull whirling onto the top of the ridge. Makemin lowers his gun and keeps running up the ridge vaults over the fallen horse where the fallen rider scrambles for his thrown rifle. Makemin rams the leaded stock of his gun into the man’s head and up and down he swings it like a butter churn, moils the butt in his brains and the spatter of ejected blood joins red flecks to the motes of foam clinging to Makemin’s lips.

Some time later a small group of soldiers, led by Makemin’s commanding officer, will appear, having driven off the shooters in the distance, and having witnessed Makemin’s kill. They find him still panting not far from his man, sitting on the dirt bank, distractedly dragging his rifle’s grisly butt in a clump of reddened grass.

*

The next day is all soft light and wind; pale green new leaves stand out brilliantly against trunks and branches blackened by night rain. Welcome relief for smarting feet that afternoon when Makemin, who heads the column, stopped short to accost a pair of anxious-looking locals. These are the first people we’ve encountered, and I worry what we are going to do to them. I am brought forward to translate—the moment Makemin refers them to me, their eyes follow his hand and slip onto my face from his, and at once they begin again their halting speech in Cvaivrenew.

When it peters out, I turn to Makemin.

“Someone stole two of their chickens.”

Makemin makes an unusual, wry face.

“Tell them we’ll keep our eyes open.”

They stand by the road, arms at sides, evidently intent on watching the entire group pass and shouting encouragement as we go by, as though they were dispatching us personally.

As the afternoon dreams on, the road begins to climb slightly and the trees become more dense.

One of the forward pickets comes back stepping high and reports seeing a figure darting in among the trees at our approach. We continue, now everyone is looking this way and that.

There in the bracken I see a white flash in a little handful of scattered sun. Nothing to be heard over all our clanking and thudding. Another flash—the figure veers in mid leap, magically dropping out of sight again.