Hoof only notices because he’s been doing it for three days. It’s not impossible: you could try on a well-fueled humbug, or a trike, if the ground were flatter here. But no one’s ever kept up with her on foot this long.

So she makes camp and waits until he walks up and plops down next to her fire, smiling shyly. He puts his sword down without a glance at the gun in her lap.

“What kind of robber are you?” says Hoof, in some bewilderment.

“I’m Found Dog!” he says cheerfully. “Found Dog is a good person to be!”