WE BOUGHT A BUCKBOARD and a mule for about what we’d sold one of the horses for. And with me driving, and Allie between us on the seat, we set out the next morning for Brimstone. Allie’s new clothes were an improvement. She had a ribbon in her hair. And she was wearing a little makeup. She was still kind of skinny. But she was looking better.

We were quiet. The buckboard was easy enough through the low grasslands, for a buckboard. There’s a reason it’s called a buckboard, and an easy ride ain’t it. The mule plodded along a sort of wagon rut west toward the Paiute River. It was sunny and hot. We could hear the soft coo of doves, and occasionally we kicked up a flutter of them as we rode by. We passed cattle. Mostly shorthorns, but still now and then a longhorn bull.

Virgil was looking at the landscape.

“Wolves,” he said.

The mule must have caught scent of them. He tossed his head and shied and made a short snorting sound. I didn’t see them yet. Then I did, three gray shapes trotting in line, heading east, appearing and disappearing in the high grass.

“Following that cattle herd,” I said.

“Likely,” Virgil said.

“Are you going to shoot them?” Allie said.

“No reason,” Virgil said.

“But the cattle…” Allie said.

“Not my cattle,” Virgil said.

“But the poor cows,” Allie said.

“What you think them cows are for, Allie? Wolves eat ’em. People eat ’em. Don’t seem to me make much difference to the cow.”

Allie watched them until they were gone, and the mule settled back into his walk.

“How’d you see them so quick, Virgil,” Allie said.