“Hey!” said Joseph. “It’s the horse, I tell you. He’s too skittish! I had to really coax him to get that close to the herd.” He sat on the bench, blanket draped over his lap, while his sister mended the tear in the seat of his pants.

“You could keep a firmer grip on your saddle, nishiimish. You might shoot yourself next time you hit the ground.”

“Or” said Marc, “you can find your own wife to sew your pants up!” The campfire...