The magpie had gone AWOL. It had given no response to the cowboy’s call to arms. The scarecrow said he didn’t know where it was. They had had a falling out. An argument about marmite. No, the scarecrow said, it did not involve crumpets. The scarecrow wouldn’t elaborate, so the cowboy turned his attention elsewhere.
He visited the magpie’s nest, climbing high into the tree. There was no sign of recent habitation, just a plastic toy machine gun. The cowboy frowned and looked towards the sun. It glowed red, low down in the sky. It would be dark soon.