The black man who worked there had set up bottles and cans on the top railing of the small corral for Evans to shoot off. At the sound of the first shot a small crowd of kids had gathered and now watched Evans put round after round into the targets. “My pop says Ben Rittenauer’ll kill him easy,” one kid said. Another kid said, “My old man’s betting three dollars on Rittenauer. My ma said she’s never seen him bet that much before.” Evans, who heard all this, kept shooting, of course. You couldn’t let some goddamn kids get to you. The dusty sunlight was richer now as late afternoon turned to dusk. An old roan, sad-eyed as only a dying horse can be, watched Evans from inside the corral; a sweet-natured collie sat a few feet from him. Every once in awhile, when the chatter of the children and the bright, vivid loss of Beth got to him again, Evans would lean down and pet the collie.
