He signed the spare copy, and took out a checkbook with the grizzly bear logo of the First National Bank of Boise on its cover. Ritva had just turned to untie her horse string when the sheep-badger spat on her foot.

“Sorry,” he said with a sneer. “Aiming for the dirt.”

Very slowly, she turned around again and smiled at him. The grab and twist that followed were almost too swift to see; the young man had just enough time to clutch himself and screech before he folded up and fell to the ground, with his tongue waving in his speechless mouth like an undersea weed.

Ritva waited for an instant, then kicked the fallen man twice with cold deliberation, hard enough that the steel-reinforced toe of her boot made thudding sounds with a very satisfying undertone of crunch but not hard enough to kill. He began to whimper, and then vomit in helpless choking, gasping heaves. Blood and bits of tooth came along with the contents of his stomach, a sour bite under the warmer musky smells of sheep and sheepdung and straw.

“Any problems?” she said to the contractor, using the fallen man’s hat to wipe her boot and then throwing it into the puddle of puke.

He grinned. “Wanted to do that all this year myself, but he is family. Let’s get you gone before the Natpols”—he meant the National Police, who were Boise’s constabulary—“show up. Here’s the check and give my regards to Rancher Woburn. I’ll take care of the dogs the usual way.”

She folded it and tucked it into a pocket; she’d cash it if possible. Woburn’s cover story was that she and Ian were bandits who’d jumped the legitimate drovers and run off the flock and stolen the documentation, and he had cowboys of his own ready to swear to it. Whether that would help if the current regime in Boise decided he was guilty was another matter, but he was ready to take the chance. When they were far enough away not to cause any curiosity about a mute speaking, Ian muttered: “Wasn’t that a bit conspicuous?”

“Only in the right way. Judging from the people we met on our way here, that was a perfectly credible reaction. People in Boise the city think of cowboys . . . and cowgirls . . . as the type who take offense. And he did spit on my foot, sweetie.”

“Remind me never to spit on you. Of course, I doubt I’d be inclined to. You play rough, don’t you?”