I heard the dense breath of Louise’s sleep, saw the pulse in her neck slow to dreams. Her hand slipped to the bed, pulling half the gauze from her left breast. I leaned closer to kiss what she had hidden and pulled back from the sweet-rot smell. From her open breast blood oozed yellow. I eased back the tape and lifted her arm over her head. She was sleeping. I looked closer. And I knew then but the thought jolted me. Yellow Knife had cut her. It was a bottle cut. I had seen the wound in bar fights. Unmistakable. I knew the jagged flesh, the puncture in places so deep, no blood. Bloated white edges like skin too long in water. Infection.

I got up from the bed and rocked back a little, holding my gut. I had a snort of whiskey in my jacket that I kept for roadside accidents. I pulled the flat bottle from my pocket, sniffed it once and steamed a washcloth with tap water. I hoped she was sleeping. I pulled the tape off slowly, breathing through my mouth. I touched the hot cloth to her raggedy breast. Her eyes were closed but she was still and tight. I dabbed at the wound, touched the cloth to it, drawing blood-water. I dabbed. I dabbed. A hummingbird tongue to a delicate rose. I covered her breast with the cloth and went to the bathroom to wash my hands. I pressed my wrists to the sides of the cool porcelain basin. I could smell her blood beneath my fingernails. I dug my fingers into the soap bar, rinsed clean.

Louise was unmoving on the bed, her eyes halfclosed. I opened the whiskey bottle. I decided not to tell her how I was going to use it when she opened her eyes. I felt the sting for her in the tips of my fingers. Her tears were clearer than water, smooth, steady, quiet, clean. I wanted to say, Jesus Christ. I wanted to say, Dammit. Dammit to hell. Damn.

“You should see Baptiste,” she said. I didn’t know what she meant at first. I didn’t see the humor in it. I said nothing. Light changed from yellow to blue. I lay down beside her, forgetting why I’d come here. Forgetting anything but the sound of her breath in sleep.

I knew the white moon was growing at the window shade; the Blackfoot was turning black-silver. I knew Louise slept beside me. I was in Missoula in the Northern Pacific Hotel. My name is Charlie, I said, Charlie Kicking Woman. I felt heat in the room, a strange sweat-heat like there were many people standing close together under a brutal sun. Waiting. There was someone else in the room with us. Who are you? I whispered, afraid of the answer.