The snow is white, whiter than He is, at this time of year. It's mostly caves and makeshift fires, although the sun is warmer here than in Wyoming and His throat is perpetually dry, the constant feeling of blood without the evidence of a sickness. The odd stable would do nicely. Hay felt like horsehair, if it was once or so a month, a sack of grain like a feathered pillow.

The snow tops the red innards of the earth like a two-inch blanket, every surface covered in a virgin stagnancy, the layers of previous eras exposed in the canyons, beige, red, brown, red, brown again, beige again. Noel huffs and pulls back on Its reins, reins made of rope that are as crumbled as the gloves He wears, those porous gloves. They look over a canyon, He sees a river running some three-thousand feet below. The last of the snow is still falling, tiny specks, down past the faces of Man and Horse and into the canyon. Overcast and still a dry, dry cold. He picks one and follows it as far as His eyes can take, floating like a butterfly down and down and down, eventually reaching the river but there is no one to see it finish its journey, not even Him, not even if He tries. Rivers mean town, usually, but that's one hell of a drop, and there aint no town down there, not from what He could see. Just silt and the last of the snow. He'll have to keep moving, pick a direction, or let Noel pick for Him. He pulls the Horse out, It goes to Their left. Alright.

Noel's feet don't click, they crunch in the snow, it satisfies Him. Whatever a God there is, He feels It in that crunch. He pulls the Horse further inward, away from the canyon cliffs, should He fall off again and slip and slide down and join the snowflakes that haven't stopped yet. His hat is not even a hat anymore, it's a shot-through piece of fur and rodent skins that He wears on His head for there is nowhere else to put it. His coat is new, found in one of those odd stables hanging from a post, singed at the sleeves but otherwise immaculate and comfortable and warm. Blue jeans, boots. Dirty, brown, leather boots. He huffs just to hear a human sound, a grumbling sigh that means nothing. The air in front of His mouth condenses for a moment before joining the open country, a part of the endlessness. As His thoughts seem to slow, so does Noel. It only seems that way but seeming is enough. He heee-yahs the Horse and It picks it up a little bit, not much, not much is fine.

Springtime in Wyoming. Last spring, last April the twelfth, at an inn. It might have been Himself and the innkeeper, they might have been the only people for six miles in each direction of Lakota, Wyoming, the only living things besides Noel and some bison and the butterflies. The innkeeper, a gorgeous woman of twenty-eight, blonde waves and a thin nose that stuck like a tree's trunk if it was white and freckled and plucked from the Garden of Eden and placed on a human woman's face. There was still snow on the ground, in patches, but it was warm and the breeze was right. The grass swayed as he tied Noel to the post outside. He remembered the clouds, the clouds of a big sky, proportionately big clouds. He saw her next, He was shaven then. He hasn't looked in a mirror since. He asked for a room for one night and she gave Him a key and He said thank you and He went upstairs, then He came back down, then He asked her if she wanted to see His Horse outside and she said yes, I do, and she was perfect.

He can't remember the color of her eyes.

He squints into the distance but all there is to see now is the snow on the ground, the snow on the ground and some small bushes and the fall-off of the canyon and the back of the head of Noel. Not a hole in the clouds to reveal evidence of a sky's existence. Not signage for a town, though He thinks He can hear the whistle of a train, unless it's the wind but it doesn't seem strong enough. He could be anywhere, Arizona territory or the north of what they were calling now New Mexico, the south of Utah or Colorado. It wasn't Wyoming, He knew.

It scares Him, having nowhere to be.

There's some dry meat in the pouch around his shoulder, bread found in the last stable, His canteen is full at least and drinking the melted snow has not failed Him yet. He can wait, He decides. It's a train. Fuck, it's a train. That's good.

Forty miles outside of Santa Fe they call it The Stallion, everywhere else they call it Bloody Mary's, though there was no Mary involved with the establishment at any point during its inception.

He ties Noel on the outside of town and takes a bucket off the first wooden porch He sees, fills it with what's in His canteen, enough, and leaves it for the Horse. The snow is less here, lower elevation, maybe that's why, but the crunch of it beneath the weight of His dirty brown boots still satisfies the ears. Not so dirty anymore, cleaned by the snow, the prints He is leaving are stained with mud and red clay but it adds element to what was once untouched, a small portion of it at least. Dirty and stained but natural, and surrounded by an empty canvas. He pinches the brim of His hat, keeps walking into town.

He might have been here before, which isn't to say that every town in the Cession wasn't the same, basically, but He might have been in this one. He just came and went so quickly that it was hard to remember, but surely once He checked the interior of The Stallion, He'd be able to confirm. That's where He did most of His living when not in the caves or on the Horse.

The town is arranged symmetrically on a dirt road, a wide one, enough for two lanes in either direction of horses and carriages and still more to comfortably hold masses of individuals in the street, but there aren't enough people nor horses here for that. It's all wooden, of course, a big bank and the several units around it are shops of the most expensive goods you could find here. Wine from California, and jewelry, practically asking for a heist to happen. Which would keep the sheriff's office right next to the jewelry store very busy and very happy, guns slinging, people dying in the dirty street. Their blood would stain the snow in a more fantastical and abstract manner than His boots have, and there would be no dirt, just the darkness and redness of the blood and the frozen bodies of innocent people because whoever designed this town put a bank and a jewelry store and a sheriff's office right next to each other. And there'd be bills and coins on the ground. And they would run around looking for them after the massacre, like pigs to slop.

The Stallion is hiding in plain sight, big and between a law office and a mortician, each of which have balconies, He figured for the owners of each business, but The Stallion does not have a balcony. Instead it has a third floor, rising higher than its neighbors, no windows up there, just dark oak lining and a small chimney. Smoke is coming out today, the wood surrounding its stone damp, having absorbed the snow, a stain of uneven, brown near-rot across the snowy roofs.

He stomps his boots on the wood porch outside, snow and mud and red silt fall through the cracks in the floor. Side eyes an old man smoking a pipe. The old man turns to face Him directly, unthreatening, about to engage in conversation, but before he can speak He asks him to spare a puff or two.

"'Course."

Old man hands Him the pipe and He inhales with His deepest breath since April the twelfth, savoring the tobacco that fills His chest, every bit of its herb, holds it, holds the pipe back out which is taken from his hand with the confidence of a stallion. He releases the smoke through his nostrils and mouth. Shows His teeth. Under a long white beard the old man is probably smiling too.

He pushes the door open with a glove and finds that yes, He has been here before, a very, very long time ago, a time that was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. There is the piano in the corner and a jar on its top, filled a quarter of the way with coins and one bill. There is the bar, the window in the back, a big window that looks to a well and, beyond that, sparse cattle that suggest a ranch somewhere further than the eye can see. As He takes His first step the floor aches and gives in to His thin figure, He is afraid it will swallow Him but the floor holds just fine. Just being dramatic. There are a dozen people in the bar, four of them play cards at a table, another three eating a late lunch, a man and two ladies, and the rest are at the bar. They all turn to Him, some later to the action than others but all of them eventually do it, and they don't pretend like they didn't all make it obvious. Before He sits down the bartender has already placed a glass of Whiskey where He was going to sit, a lucky guess perhaps, maybe a suggestion, maybe a desperate request. He sits where it was placed. Whispers, but He doesn't bother to check where they are coming from. He picks up the glass and sips, looks at the bartender, such a young face, he has a mexican mother no doubt about it. He knocks on the polished wood and the half-mexican is pouring Him another like it will get him into heaven.

The half-mexican puts the second glass down with a napkin underneath and He puts his left glove over his hand and raises His head, slowly, His eyes hiding beneath His hat until they're high enough to see, and their eyes meet. This boy has eyes greener than any pasture you'd be lucky to find out here. He pours a Whiskey nicely, with intent, with service that's not servile, designed to satisfy a person, not a customer.

"Someone play the piano."

He takes his glove off the half-mexican's hand. The kid hesitates and removes his gaze first. Goes back to where he was standing and wipes some glasses. There is no indication of movement behind Him.

"Someone play the goddamn fuckin piano."

One of the women starts crying, her chair scrapes against the flimsy wood and she sniffles as she shuffles over, her shoes against the wood, and she sits at the piano stool. It creaks, she sobs, she begins playing. Slow music fills the room. It echoes all around the characters who find themselves in The Stallion. It's pretty, the sobs between the chords. The music itself. He thinks of the canyon and the Horse, He thinks of a snowflake changing direction with each new note that plays, still destined for the river.

The man who is still with the other woman at the table begins muttering something to himself. This man is shorter than Him and he has a brownish-red combover, same color as his thicker mustache, done with pomatum. He's in an inexpensive suit and his voice is getting louder. He places His tattered hat on the bar and licks His lips, licks the hair around His lips, finishes off the second glass of Whiskey, adjusts Himself in the stool. The music is still playing but the cries are not there. The man's voice is clearer now, he's saying something about fear mongering and not wanting to be subjected to the status of one Man, how he came here from virginia to get away from exactly that and his voice is now being aimed at Him and He knows it and everybody knows it, but the men playing cards don't stand up. The virginian just keeps talking and growing his voice and He just keeps not listening and staring at the bottles on the wall.

Not quite like fishing, but it's close. The worst men in each town, the most vile, they always weed themselves out.

The virginian finally stands up and the woman at the piano is playing more slowly and she begins to cry again, louder. The woman at the table must be still as a rock in the sand. The virginian approaches Him and He can feel the heat of his being and hear the moans of the floorboards as this short man, this greasy and pointy-nosed man with an incomplete drawl says things like "I am not going to live like this! I am not going to live like this! My Friend," he calls Him his friend, "You are no more than the voices that speak stories about You! You are no more than a, uh, an Apparition! An-an Incompletion, a Page of a poor novel, with holes in it. What threat," He can feel the breath of this man on His neck, "What threat You pose is all myth! It's all myth! When we who can conduct business, who can conduct real and perfectly legal- legal, might I add! -legal business, are disrespected in this free land, the last part of this country that is, indeed, free," He bites the inside of His cheek, "where shall we go then? Hm?" The virginian yells, "Where?"

There is a pause for a response but of course none comes. The virginian just keeps fucking talking. "What I do is none of your concern, Friend. Carla, are you paid well?" It is unclear which woman is Carla because neither of them are doing what they were any differently. "Carla. Carla, are you paid well? Do I respect you and treat you well and buy you meals like the one in front of you right now?" Another pause and she doesn't speak. "Are you ever afraid? I feel like a madman talking and receiving," he turns back to Him and speaks to both parties, "no answer!"

After the virginian says that word, He turns around and the virginian jumps back onto his heels and begins to fall backward but His draw is faster than advertised and the virginian is shot three times in the chest before he hits the floor. When he does, splinters fly up and the woman playing the piano shrieks. The virginian coughs clouds of red spittle into the air which drop ceremoniously back onto his corpse and he is decorated for death. The men playing cards are staring and Carla, in a blue dress, has fainted in her chair and the woman playing the piano is still sobbing but now snot is coming out and she seems to choke on the air. The proper notes continue to be played.

The old man walks in and creaks that spot on the floor. The old man looks down right at the virginian and back up at Him. The smile, this time, is sure.

"Hot damn." Old man exhales some smoke. "He'd have been my pick, too."

"What's the sheriff like," He says, then looks at the half-mexican.

The half-mexican tries to provide an answer but is graciously saved by the old man. "No worse than this sum'bitch."

He stands up, the stool hits the limp foot of the virginian. "Bad?"

"Not so bad. He'll hang ya though."

The half-mexican nods.

He smiles underneath the black beard. He takes a five piece out of his pocket and lays it

on the bar, flattens it out with both gloved thumbs running from the middle of the note to each of its ends. He adds a coin.

"You think it makes a difference? What You do?" says one of the card players. The others are acting as if they had never seen him before.

He belches and the woman at the piano jumps and sobs again. "Can't make things any fuckin worse."

He passes the old man and pushes the door open and the old man says, "Where You goin next?"

There is no reason to keep talking. He stops at the door, facing the porch and open dirt road and the snow on top of it.

"You think I know?" And He walks out.

The only things alive in Lakota, Wyoming, are the bison and the butterflies.