The trappers and barflies were too drunk and angry to figure out exactly what was going on, but a misdirected, incoherent anger began to spread like propeller wash through the room; the scuffle around the marine boiled up into a six-member war, Etienne began to beat up the Indian and two men from Cayenne, and a dozen men jumped the bar, taking the bartender’s clothes off, tying him to a chair, and pouring his best bar brands on his head. “Get the bastard’s register,” someone yelled, and a mad flurry of bills got handed around the room. The Indian’s wife and two other women leapt out of a window into the parking lot, Colette matching their timing by hurtling through the door with her Winchester. A rooster of a man with long, greasy hair trailing down his back pulled out of the crowd and started after her. “Hey, bitch,” he yelled, putting a claw on her shoulder and jerking her back in. Paul grabbed his hand and hit him twice in the face, but he didn’t go down. The little man threw a stomach punch, and then both of them were rolling on the floor.

Colette stood outside, listening to the crash of tables and the thud of bodies, worrying that there were so many guns in the room. Standing on tiptoe, she looked through a window, hoping for a glimpse of Paul, but she saw only Etienne rolling the jukebox across the room like a boulder. She ran to the truck and started the engine, revving it hard, hearing it pop like a rifle when she let off the gas.