The men gathered around McFarlane. Huge bronchial trees arched over the little clearing and the roar of the water seemed very close, though it was an eighty-foot drop to the Missouri. Otto, who was behind McFarlane, suddenly kicked him in the back of his head, sending him sprawling in the dirt. At this Magnus let out a strange, almost sensual cry. He was still breathing hard and looked half crazed.

Siggy, holstering his gun, squatted down to the man. With one hand he pulled the man’s arm away from his face, peering into it as if he were looking under a rock. Then he flung his fist against the side of McFarlane’s head. It was a glancing blow.

“Shit,” Siggy said, as if he had missed a nail with a hammer.

They all watched as he tried again. This time his fist hit directly against McFarlane’s temple, knocking his head against the ground. Again, Magnus made that wavering, high-pitched, almost ecstatic sound.

“Jesus, look at him.” Otto pointed at Magnus. “He’s going to cream his shorts.”

Bennet smiled. “You ever hit a man, Maggy?”

Magnus shook his head.

Siggy had pulled back his fist again, but Bennet slapped his shoulder. “Sig, let Maggy have a go. Give him some room now, boys.”

Bennet beckoned Magnus in as the others dilated a little. Magnus came to a halt just in front of the curled-up hobo and looked around at the men with a strange, childish glee. Steadying himself as if he were about to dive off a high springboard, he jerked his foot out, like a two-year-old trying to kick a ball, and missed the man’s head entirely. McFarlane whimpered with horror, tears streaming down his face, that awful mouth gaping.

“Go on, Maggie,” Bennet encouraged, “give it another go.”

Magnus, so excited he could hardly catch his breath, lined up his foot again. As he went to kick, the white boxer shot out of the trees, coming to a stuttering stop just a few feet from them, whimpering and circling. Otto pulled up his rifle and, in trying to point it at the dog, swept it across all the men, who flung themselves to the ground.

“Put that fucking thing away.” Hurrying over, Bennet snatched the rifle out of Otto’s hands, as well as the bottle of bourbon he was holding. He flung the bottle at the dog, which ran off into the woods again.

“Goddammit,” Otto said, “you want to throw something, there’s rocks all over the fucking ground.”

Magnus, with inconceivable agility, scurried over to the bottle, which hadn’t broken, and with a face as desperate and guilty as a dog eating its master’s dinner, gulped down what hadn’t spilled out.

“God damn you,” Otto screamed, running up to Magnus and kicking him in the rear.

McFarlane, still covering his head with his arms, was looking up with terrified confusion at all of this.

“Keep your voice down and get back over here,” Bennet hissed at Otto. “This is your fucking show.”