The sky overhead sheltered white whiffs of smoke. Smoke glazed the stars. Louise saw the light puff of bur reed and thistle gleaming at the edge of the hillside. She slipped into the house and grabbed the dress Mrs. Finger had given her. It fit her tight at the waist. It was beautiful, mint green and shining even in the dark. She would go to the Dixon Bar and have a beer, maybe two. She thought about the burn of hard, clean whiskey. She thought about dancing and drinking and drinking until the dim bar glowed. She pulled the dress over her head and straightened it. She rubbed the ashes from her knees and ankles and decided against shoes. She was so happy she would dance barefoot to Dixon. Suddenly the world was good. She stepped off the porch like a whisper.

Charlie Kicking Woman AFTER THE FIRE

I got the call no more than ten minutes into my shift. Some Indian disturbing the peace in the Dixon Bar. I was sick and tired of those calls, sick of the sign above every small bar and tavern across the state of Montana and beyond, anywhere there was an Indian, no dogs or indians allowed. Tired of being the authority charged to uphold a law that forbid me to enter a bar when I wasn’t in uniform. Who the hell was I to haul off a brother looking for small comfort? I drove past the bar first, wanting to let the poor bastard get a good buzz on before I hauled him off to the clinker. It was the least I could do, I figured. I told myself I was driving over to check on the fields we had burned off that day but I was only fooling myself. I was hoping for a glimpse of Louise. I could smell the smoldering willow grass, even this far from the Magpie place. I was driving fast. The wind bleated at my windows.

I had a rising feeling in my chest, the feeling I get when I look down from the edge of Revais Hill. Rumors were flying around town about Louise because folks hadn’t known where she was. Even Aida got wind of the gossip. On the way home from the field burn she told me Louise had hitchhiked to Wallace, had been working at the U & I rooms, the whorehouse in Idaho, before she had come back home. Aida seemed excited at the idea as if she had just read a romance chapter and the story was coming true.

“Everyone was talking about it at the store,” she said.

“Talk like that’s good for nothing,” I told her.

“It’s a good story,” Aida had said, and her voice defied me.

“It’s a good story nonetheless.” I felt heavy with marriage. I recognized that Aida was letting me know Louise was no good.