AS IT TURNED OUT, THERE were horses: fourteen of them, to be exact, all of which were healthy and had been well-maintained—thanks to a woman named Shawna, who lived at the Ranch. Nor had our meeting been a confrontational one, in part because she’d been riding out in the field when we’d first rumbled up and had hardly been in a position; but mostly because she was a woman of singular grace and beauty who wouldn’t have hurt a fly—even if her life and wellbeing had depended on it. In this case, fortunately—it hadn’t.
“Well now, if that isn’t a posse,” she said, and took the picture—even as our horses grew restless and mine most of all: nickering and neighing, clearly wanting to go. “The Apple Dumpling Gang rides again.”
She waited as the Instamatic developed the snapshot and pushed it out—
