In winter everything’s a little harder: the car grinds through two twists on the key, and the old dog takes an extra sigh. The pads of her fingers feel like leather. Knees and doorjambs stick.

Beneficence burns wood from trees which, she knows, have seen worse winters. And stayed green too. Pine, spruce and Douglas-fir. Their smoke baffles up the chimney stack, kissing heat to brick.

Beneficence goes outside to watch the smoke, some nights. Even against the blueberry sky it’s faint. She goes back in, unsure if she saw anything; but each time the door sticks a little less.

It’s called the Joe E. Barnett Memorial Spelling Bee because Joe E. Barnett died of spelling-related injuries. Not actually spelling-bee-related; this was back in the forties before you could use “bee” to refer to phenomena outside a hive.

But you can now, so every year the kids at FMS compete in some sort of spectacular dedication to his sacrifice. “Daguerreotype!” gasps Claudia, scrambling up the hill, dodging boulders. “D-A-G-U-E-R-Eaaaagghhh”

“You know what killed him?” asks Tilman, sweating his turn. “Barnett?”

“No,” says Carlos.

“‘Dolorifuge.'”

“Seriously?” grumbles Carlos. “That’s a fourth-grade word.”

Morley’s truck is powered by pissed-off cowboy, which makes it hard to start on cold mornings, even with a poking stick.

“Poke poke!” says Morley.

“Reckon ‘m sleep,” grunts his cowboy.

“Root them toot them!” says Morley encouragingly. “Time to ride and rope, partner!”

“Don’ wanna.”

“Look! Apache on the hill! Time for cowboys and Indians!”

“That offensive stereotype derives from a fundamental misunderstanding of the role of the Cow-boy in factual Western history.”

“I’m already late!”

“Hngh.”

“Remember,” says Morley slyly, “how Wyatt Earp wins in all the movies?”

Morley and his truck squeal yeehaws down the road.

“How come they gave you a… a lady voice?” says Kincaid, five drinks later.

“Because I’m female, you sot.” Hoof’s tail flicks irritably, but Kincaid doesn’t know that sign. She watches his eyes move over her hard, glossy pectorals to her flat abs and anticipates the question.

“I was engineered as a brood mare,” she sighs.

“Then how… y’know, feeding?” Kincaid watches her drink; it’s weird to see her big hands tossing shots into her long equine mouth.

“The lab never intended me,” says Hoof grimly, “to nurse my offspring.”

Kincaid feels so bad about humanity that he has to barf.

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!”