He dusted off his Stetson and his boots as he reached the main path, mingled briefly with the crowd, and then veered back down the trail leading to the Whizzy Whig Revival Tent. An uproarious, glorious harmony was busting out the seams of the old Army surplus big-top, and loud clappings of hands and cries of jubilation brightened the night.

But he passed by, circling around the back of the tent, watching the shadows of the celebrants leaping within, and moved into the darker shadows of the forest, circling slowly until he came to the unmistakable, huge sheltering form of the giant oak.

He settled among some smaller scrub a short way back, checked the seating of his derringers in their inner pockets, and settled down to see what number the whimsical wheel of Fate would settle on this night.