The marine sat down, wrapped his left arm tightly in his leather rifle sling, and sighted. He missed once, twice, then stood up and blinked, stretched. He sat down and a yellow fly bit him on the neck just as he pulled the trigger, and he missed a third time. A Partian behind him remarked that no one could light a match with a bullet. He poked the man next to him and said that he might as well pay off. The match was going to be a tie. The marine fired a fourth time and Colette imagined she saw a fine dust fly off a match tip, but there was no flame. A fifth shot rang, and the shooter removed the remaining bullets from his rifle, left the bolt open, and shouldered his way to the bar. Colette smiled at the many unshaven and creased faces around her and took the vacant chair. The bartender retrieved a new target from behind the bar and set it up. “New shooter, new target,” he announced from the wharf, spitting into someone’s pirogue.

She lined up her sights on the first match but could not see the white phosphorous tip. She imagined where it was, eclipsed it with the front sight bead, realizing that even though it was behind the bead, she could miss it. Again, she had to shoot by instinct, what her mind could see, not her eyes. She squeezed off a shot and the match wiggled but did not light. A hush came over the room. One trapper who was watching with field glasses said, “What the fuck.” She fired again and bit the head off the second match. Three men whistled. Pumping her rifle, she exercised her eyes, focusing on the window ledge and then the straight cypresses beyond the wharf, the blurs of moss hanging down to the water. Her next two shots were misses. She leaned next to the man who had the binoculars, smelling his sour shirt.

“Let me see your glasses.” He handed them over slowly, and she studied the matches a long time. Biting her lip, she stood up and stretched as the marine had done, handed back the glasses, looked over the bar at the mildewed Dixie beer clock and then at all the wilted work shirts around her. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she announced. Some men laughed and some yelled at her to shoot now and pee later, but she charmed a path through them as she made her way to the women’s toilet through a narrow unpainted door next to the jukebox. Paul held her rifle and looked around the room. Etienne inched close, the hair on his forearms bristling against Paul’s skin like steel wool. “Something’s up, seems like.”

Paul looked out into the sunshine at the matches, scanned the swamp, looked back at Etienne, and shrugged. They waited five full minutes, and then the bartender began to yell.