It's an entertaining show to be sure, particularly given how fixated he gets on the one mottled rusty hen that seems nearly indistinguishable from at least three others with the same coloring. He's clowning for her benefit, but it's been so long since anyone has done that, and Willa has to appreciate the chance for a laugh regardless of the source. He's indisputably lethal, and he's showing off for her amusement.
She stands up and claps once the bird is caught - only 49% sarcastically, in keeping with the laughter that he did coax out of her - and once he's beside her Willa's hand tucks his mussed hair back behind his ear. "Such a fucking joker," she sighs, though the accusation is more of an endearment than admonishment. There's no funny way to do the next part, and Willa gives the bird a little pat. "Sorry Henny, but I'm pretty sure the kindest is to wrap her up tight and break her neck before you bleed her. Not in here," Willa adds after a glance at the knife that's ever-present on Rodeo's belt. "It's not sanitary for the rest of them."
The means of killing animals - whether for meat or the humane end of a pet - was something that everyone in America seemed to shy away from, with particular ambiguity when it came to the question of 'where do chickens come from?' Willa knows just enough to enable it, even if she lacks the detailed knowledge that a real producer would have. Off with their little heads, then drain, scald, pluck, gut, cool, and cook. It was going to take time, but the camp is full of nighttime revelers and Willa is moderately confident that Rodeo won't mind eating late, not if it means farm fresh meat. "Come on, we'll find a bucket and I'll boil some water."