Canto 2

He spent the early part of the morning down on his hands and knees shifting the bedroom furniture from side to side. Melissa heard the scrape of the bedframe from the parlor below and streaked upstairs to investigate. She found him lying in the floor with his hat at his feet examining the dusty underside of the mattress.

He pushed up the corner of the big white rectangle and said: 'Did you ever notice.' Then he pointed to a spot on the mattress and waved her over. She looked uncomfortable, so he pulled the sheets back a little further and pointed more vigorously. 'Look.'

The floorboards creaked as she approached on the heels of her boots. She knelt and followed the path of his finger to a line of chickenscratch that adorned the corner of the mattress. ACME, it read.

'Did you do that?' Her accent was vaguely European, worn down by the heat, tainted by local color.

Slowly he shook his head. 'Now why on earth would I do a thing like that?'

'I dont know,' she muttered, folding her arms. She wore a long white dress that skimmed the floor as she walked. Her collar and sleeves were trimmed a bright yellow that closely resembled that of her feathers. About her head was wrapped an old gray bandana that she had pulled back seemingly to reveal as much of her forehead as possible. Beneath the folds of her sundress poked a pair of fine ornate leather boots that shone in the pale daylight and squeaked mutely along the rickety floorboards with every step. 'Same reason you'd go looking for it I presume.'

He ignored her. 'I already checked under the table. Under the desk. It says on all of em.' He let down the mattress and replaced his hat, then she helped him up.

'Should I be concerned?'

'I dont know that concerned's the word I'd use.'

'Alright,' she shrugged. 'Keep it down then if you wouldnt mind. I'm entertaining.' When she made for the door he grabbed her by the wrist and held her back.

'Entertaining? Who?'

'Friends,' she said, twisting free. 'Are you drunk?'

He grabbed her by the arm and held her back. He held her close. 'Can you smell it?' He cupped her cheeks between his palms and pressed his bill to hers, forcing his long dry tongue into her mouth.

'Daffy,' she snapped, shoving him to the floor. The floorboards groaned as he fell and they groaned as he lay giggling. Melissa dried her mouth on her forearm. 'You're drunk,' she said. 'Take a nap.'

Batting his hand dismissively he crawled into the wobbly wooden chair at the foot of the bed and slurred: 'I dont want to. I'm not tired.'

'Take a nap. If I wanted a bum staying in my hotel I'd go down to the pub and pick one out myself.' She went to the dresser and wrenched open the top drawer and removed a half empty bottle of goldbrown whiskey. She took it with her. Then she went to the window and shut the drapes. The room went blue. 'You're here to keep us safe, my son and I,' she said. 'How do you expect to stay alert when you cant even stay sober?'

He pantomimed her nagging with one hand. His hat was old and flat and rested low on his head, shading his eyebrows. He wore dark brown corduroys and his thin wool socks were holey and quickly unraveling. In the corner his boots lay unattended, his wrinkled workshirt draped over them like a shroud. 'I'm the fastest shot in the west when I'm sober,' he deadpanned.

'And when you're too drunk to stand?'

'Second fastest.'

She rolled her eyes.

'Heard any from the Sheriff?' he asked.

'Staying at his ranch all day. You could visit him if you had the time. Or the clothes. Or the decency. Or the intellectual fortitude.'

'I plan to,' he yawned. 'I've been known to clean up nicely when I put my mind to it.'

She went on for a while but he wasn't listening. He could feel the wind coming softly through the drapes behind him. When Melissa was finished speaking she went out onto the landing and eased the door shut behind her. The room went a darker shade of blue.

For a long time he sat pitching back and forth in his chair until he became bored. Then with slow deliberate movements, as if each had been carefully rehearsed, he went about the room, lounging first alongside the windowsill, then facedown in the floor, attempting to eavesdrop on his landlady and her mysterious patrons in the parlor below, then spreadeagled on the bed, his head tilted toward the fluttering pale blue drapes, watching the sun rise up through the fabric a gleaming yellow wire. He never slept more than a few minutes at a time.

He was still drunk when the clock showed noon. He rummaged through his belongings, retrieved the polished Colt army revolver from the floor of his trunk, produced a single round, sat down at the foot of the bed. He loaded, spun, secured the cylinder. He leveled the gun at his forehead. He squeezed the trigger.

But the bullet did not fire. The bullet never fired.

So with his fate in hand he resolved to pay a visit to the sheriff before the day was out and set to rifling through his clothes for the right outfit to wear. He left the gun on the table while he dressed and although the light was diffuse it shone intensely all the same.