I sat at the end of the long bar at Cattleman’s and was surprised when they even served me a pop. It was the warm end of a long fall, the rattling tail of summer, the drinkers were saying, the hottest part. Indian summer, they said into their sluggish beers. In the haze of slow smoke I nursed my second pop, under the scrutiny of drunk men etching quarters into the bar to leave their marks. I wondered if Louise was lost now in the nest of a tavern dark with men as mean or meaner than Baptiste. The thought worried me.

I walked down the alleys, watching for Yellow Knife but looking for Louise. I checked under the Higgins Bridge thinking some of the Indians there would have seen her. They hadn’t. I left a few dollars lighter. I walked past all the beer joints and listened. I knew I would find her. I could sense it. The day was slipping to afternoon and I walked the long streets, a loiterer myself now, a man determined. When I did see her I felt the weight of my own heart. If it were not for the cast on her leg, I think she would have run from me. Louise wiped her chin on her sleeve, but she was only trying to hide a smile because I must have looked ridiculous to her. I was out of place here and she knew it. She looked a little funny, too; I noticed her crutches were too high for her.

“You looking for me, Charlie?” she said. She had caught me off guard.

“I was looking for you,” was all I could say.

She didn’t say a word to me then. I turned to her clear, sad eyes and I felt suddenly ashamed to be chasing her, no different from Stoner or Yellow Knife, my desire visible as sunrise. Louise gave no indication she noticed. She looked out over the street. I felt I had made a mistake but I was not ready to back out.

“Hungry?” I said.

She ordered ham and eggs. The waitress brought us two dishes smoking with hash browns and white toast limp with butter. She ate. She drank great steaming gulps of coffee without flinching and lit a cigarette, but did not stop eating. I watched her. I ate my toast, looked out the window too. While I was talking to the waitress, I saw Louise grab the sugar bottle and make syrup out of coffee. She looked up from her cup and smiled and I wondered where this was heading. I looked at her slender fingers, the chipped red polish on her nails. She did not wear Baptiste’s wedding ring.

“You eating this?” she said to me, and I pushed my plate toward her.