Strangers at the Circle R

That night, the men of Circle R met to contemplate the strangers lingering among them. DeVerne, who dreamt true dreams, had seen the antelope bolt from their sullen encampment on the western outskirt, its frightened coat turned whiter than snowdrops. A limping fawn had bared his teeth at Luke, cried at his gentle hands. The fawn’s blood trailed west, said the Kidd. The juniper of the woodfire snapped at that, Trigger growled, and Johnny stood. I’ll see to them, he said. And I, said Luke. And I, said – No, said Johnny. I’m the oldest. Let this be on my head.

Illustration: DeVerne, Who Dreamt True Dreams, by Margaret Nieradka.