Gris-Gris, she noticed, was older than she had first thought, close to sixty, a thick-skinned Frenchman, sunburned and wrinkled, bright of eye. But he shot down only one match, pounding his fist hard on the wall when he knew he was out. Enduring the taunts of the other shooters in the room, he thrust his Remington into its gun bag and walked into the simmering parking lot, saying nothing. Colette sat down and discovered that the matches disappeared when she sighted on them. The white shafts melted into her nickel sight bead. She rubbed her eyes and tried again. She was afraid to switch to the tang sight at this point. Holding her breath, she squeezed off a shot and cut a match in half. A hubbub rose at her back. She fired again and knocked down another. A smile snaked across her lips as she realized she would win the match. There was no way that she could miss three straight. Coarse shouts rose at her back as a wave of betting swept the bar. Men pulled bills from their hats and out of their socks and a babble of bad English and worse French filled the boxy room. Some sort of new reality was dawning on Toot’s Sweet Lounge, and the men were betting on a woman’s serious success.

She missed the next three shots. There was no way to catalog the anguish in the room. A fistfight broke out between two Partians, and several men began to dig through their dungarees for folding money. One man was in the parking lot, pulling the floor mats out of his truck, looking for a lost stash. The bartender sweated and cursed, handing out four or five long-necks at a time, gathering handfuls of bills from the crowd as though picking cotton.

The kid showed up with a cleaning rod and gun oil for Colette and the marine to use. “It’s okay, yeah,” he told them. “You better clean you barrels before the next round.”

The two shooters looked at each other. “Ladies first,” the marine said, smiling for the first time.

“Sure thing.” She wished he hadn’t smiled. She wished she hated his guts. She had been shooting standard-velocity ammunition, and her bore wasn’t leaded up, so she just ran a tight swab through it, twice with oil, twice to dry. He scrubbed his vigorously with a wire brush, then they both loaded and waited for the next test.

The bartender shouted at them. “You take a break. You gonna need it.”

Paul and Etienne came over from the bar with fresh beers, and she grabbed a bottle from the giant and took a swig.

“Ey, Miss America, it took me five minutes to get that one.”

Paul put his hand on her shoulder. “You want me to get you a mixed drink?”

“No, this is fine,” she said, stifling a burp. “I need something to calm my nerves. It’s time for this.”