Frustration clenched in his chest vents itself into a huff of hot air into the night, the bones in his wrist twisted all to wrought iron. His eyes are on his horse, or roundabouts where she must be tied. He could be back on the road in a matter of minutes with no one but Ellis the wiser.

The only people he might have to speak to would be highway robbers.

He pulls away. He considers it.

He returns to his log.

It’s a slow, roundabout affair, an old dog commanded back to his bed. Stiff, and sore, and unhappy about having been so easily cowed, the stink of burning cloth mingled with gore thick in the smoke that shifts his way.