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bucket. He steadied himself against the pannier, looking down at her. “She had Kenneth help her think up fake Indian names like Lightning Flower, or Crystal Walker, or whatever she thought might get her a tip on top of tuition.”
    Griff handed the cinch back under the horse’s belly, taking up the slack, slinging the pannier on the offside, and taking the slack again. She held tight while he finished the hitch, and when he stepped down from the bucket they backed away to appreciate their work.
    “Doesn’t that look exactly like a load of shit,” he said.
    “You want to do it over?”
    “I don’t know how I would. I guess it’ll look better after we get those posts off and set.” He led the bay in a circle, walking backward to see how the pack rode. “Rita says everybody wants to be Indian if they’re not. You all set?”
    “I guess.”
    She brought Royal around and they led the horses back through the corrals, stopped at the gate and watched as Kenneth jumped down from the porch, racing to the Russian olive by the corner of the house. He was ducking and feinting, keeping his left arm extended, reaching over his shoulder with his right hand, bringing it forward as though plucking some invisible harp.
    “What’s he doing?” she said.
    “Killing Orcs. McEban bought him the boxed set of those Middle Earth movies. They’ve watched them six or seven times.”
    The boy started to make arrow sounds, the sounds of arrows striking Orcs.
    “You think this’ll take us all day?” he asked.
    “Are you still mad?”
    They were sitting back against the wheel fender now, waiting for McEban to notice and say his good-byes.
    “No, I’m okay.”
    He was kicking a boot heel back into the divot he’d made in thesoft ground in front of the tire. It was something he used to do as a kid, ten years ago when Rita had moved them in with McEban.
    “I know RISD isn’t the only art school in the country,” she said. “If I thought I could go back to school I’d find something in Chicago.”
    “Right.”
    “I would.”
    “It’s too nice a day to fight about this.”
    “Or you could stay.”
    “In Wyoming?”
    “It’d make McEban happy.”
    He stepped a boot up against the tire, tightening his spur leather on that one and then the other. “I like it in Chicago.”
    “Because the grass is greener?” She couldn’t keep the taunt out of her voice.
    “Sometimes the grass is greener.”
    “Define greener.”
    He turned toward her, leaning into the truck’s sidewall. “Greener’s being able to go out for a beer and not have the rest of the bar waiting for Tonto to get drunk and piss his pants, or pull a knife and go to scalping, and you know goddamn well that’s how it can feel for me here.”
    “You got us all ready?” McEban called, coming down off the porch.
    “Just waiting on you,” Paul called back.
    “You’re right,” she said. “It’s too nice a day.”
    She stepped to the packhorse while he pulled his chaps from where he’d draped them across the seat of his saddle. He belted them and bent to buckle the leg straps.
    “I love you,” she said, watching Kenneth fall in behind McEban, covering his back against attack, Einar standing there at the railing looking on. She knew all he could see were the shapes of them, the movement.
    “I know you do.” He stepped up onto his horse.
    • • •
    They worked in pairs, McEban and Kenneth, she and Paul, repairing the small defects in the fences running west up through the foothills, tightening, splicing, hammering in new staples where they were needed. By late morning they’d gained the bench to the south of Owl Creek, where the elk had crowded up out of the steep drainage, and for the next two hours they all worked together replacing the corner brace and restretching the wire.
    Kenneth sliced his palm with the wood chisel and McEban bandaged it with his bandanna and the boy paraded the bloody hand like a gift. They were sweated out and hot, all of them,