Two men sit across from one another, a tangled desk in between. The shorter man, a sheriff, does his best to straighten the papers before him. The taller, his deputy, shines his superior's boots. The room is small, cluttered, and with walls of decaying brick. Posters of men with scowling faces above dollar signs hang from every surface – including atop images of other ugly men. The only area not in disarray is an alcove, a hardly-used cell warded by iron bars.

"That's what happened?" The sheriff asks.

"That's what happened," the deputy replies.

The men match their office, their appearance, apart from their polished gold stars, tattered. The sheriff crosses his arms and leans back in his chair.

"One shot?" He questions.

"Right between the eyes," the deputy responds. "Thinking of bringing charges?"

"Actually, bringing him on board," the sheriff breathes. He looks to a frayed photograph hung between unclaimed rewards. The faint image shows a line of men, each with a star on their chest, seated in a cleaner version of this very room. The sheriff is at the center, the name Thomas Donovan in elaborate script beneath his feet. To his right is the other man in the chamber, Sullivan Stephens written below his boots. Seven other deputies flank Donovan and Stephens. Fanning, Tennant, Jonas, Elliott, Day, Shetland, and Amsterdam. A line crosses out each of their names. The sheriff rubs his chin. "What did you say his name was?"

"Lourdes. The gunslinger's Lourdes," the deputy states. He puts down Donovan's boots and picks up a journal. He flips through a few pages and tries to decipher his own scribblings. "The one at the undertaker..."

"Doesn't matter," the sheriff dismisses. "He was two bit scum."

"Not even. I got the telegraph back, and the price on his head doesn't so much as cover his casket," the deputy speaks. He pushes the pages of his notebook back and forth for another moment, not reading anything but just postponing his next sentence. "So, Bernie was hoping you'd pay for the box."

Donovan spits.

Standing, he does his best to walk across his office, stepping over an assortment of unsorted boxes to come to a window. He narrows his eyes. The sun's flirting with the horizon. The day's growing thin.

"Let's take care of this tomorrow," the sheriff sighs.

"Liam Macintosh – the scum – at least deserves a burial," the deputy shakes. He shuts his notebook and looks straight into the sheriff. "This safe?"

"I'm tired," Donovan yawns. "Where's Lourdes?"

"With the girls," Stephens answers after a second. A few more pass before Donovan, rubbing his eyes, responds.

"They expect me to pay for his board?" He asks.

"No, Jane's rooming him for free," Stephens says, his lips knotted into something unsure of if it's a smile or a frown. Donovan turns back, maneuvering over a shotgun and some clubs to get to his desk. He taps on the old wood.

"Other services?" He inquires. Stephens shrugs.

Donovan returns to his papers. Stephens opens his notebook again. His finger traces the scratches.

"Oh, the undertaker wanted to know if you want a lacquered casket," Stephens coughs.

"Tell Bernie he can toss Macintosh off a cliff for all I care," Donovan huffs. He holds a pile of invoices and bills, assembling them into two ordered stacks. One of bills he knew he let fall past due and the other of bills he'd honestly forgotten. Scars cover the sheriff's palms. "Put the roach in the cheapest box he's got."

"Not... Not for Liam..." Stephens stutters. "For you..." His eyes don't leave the page. "Bernie wants to have a custom one ready for when..."

"That's not funny," Donovan hisses.

"That's not a joke," Stephens swallows.

-

A water trough. A tainted trench nestled with cigarette butts and spent bullets under a surface limned with slime. Yet, no matter how foul, water is still wet, and the long, hard hump of the day is just a little bit farther away with the sins clinging to the crags in your skin washed free and a parched gullet cured. Men tie up their horses and steal drinks for themselves. And for a moment, on one ranch hand's face, there's even a smile. Turning their eyes to the sky, the cowboys wipe their brows. Their horses start to whine.

The sun slips below the ground. Very quickly, wagons disappear from the street. Doors are bolted and bolted again. Shuttered windows close to the night. And one by one, each ranch, inn, tavern, and brothel turns gold, candles and oil lamps burning bright, tiny stars that collectively beat back the darkness just an inch. But an inch is good enough.

The brightest star is the Guinevere Hotel, the dank bar where hours ago a gunslinger named Lourdes put a bullet inside a patron's brain. Yet, despite the shooting and the night, the Guinevere is fat with customers. While most of the town's streets are bare, the dirt around the Guinevere Hotel is crowded with cowboys in search of drink and cowboys who've found it now unable to find their way home.

The Guinevere aglow, shouts and laughs echo into its rooftop. Men covered in dust down as much liquor as quickly as they can. Some girls dance on stage. Some girls peddle booze. Some girls sneak away with lechers up to their rooms. The slight boy Lourdes hasn't moved, still in a corner that, despite the singing and light, is somehow dark. All about him are flashes of skin, puffs from tobacco pipes, and the song of shot glasses against well-worn wood, but Lourdes looks at only one thing. His eyes are on the red-haired waitress. The girl, curled into herself, looks like no more than a ball of ruffled yarn. She's seated at a table off to the side with a number of other barmaids, and the women do their best to erase her memory with brandy.

A raven-headed hostess approaches Lourdes from out of a crowd and sets a bottle of whiskey down. Lourdes's table wobbles back and forth.

"I didn't order..." Lourdes begins.

"It's on the house," the woman grins. She kicks the table's loose leg, making it steady, and drops two surprisingly-clean glasses beside the boy. She pours Lourdes a shot. He doesn't see it, still watching the faraway girl.

"Will she be okay?" Lourdes asks.

"Considering her chosen trade, I'd wager the answer was no long before you blew some beau's brains across Katterina's cheek," the woman speaks.

For the first time, Lourdes looks at the woman with bobbed black hair seated next to him. The boy says nothing, just observing her lips. They twist up, daring Lourdes to speak. He doesn't. Cowboys a couple tables over call to the waitress for more booze. Snapping her head, a smile still on her face, she shouts back. Curses. Hexes. Insults to the length, width, size, and smell of their manhoods. Silence. The woman returns her attention to Lourdes. She looks him over once more, droops her mouth, and drops her voice to a whisper.

The woman motions toward the red-headed Katterina with the slightest flick.

"I love the gal, but she's the frail sort, not cut out for this line of work. She's going to see a lot of bad before her time runs out," the waitress utters. She downs Lourdes's shot herself. "We all do."

Pouring more, she puts the glass back in front of Lourdes.

"You know, this'll be more fun if you drink, too," the woman purrs. The boy eyes the liquid, then the woman, and then the liquid again.

"I said I didn't..." Lourdes restarts.

"I said it's on the house," the woman repeats, louder and slower than the first time. "Everything is tonight." Lourdes displays only disinterest, his eyes drifting anew to the red-headed girl. The black-haired woman shifts in her seat, thrusts out her bust, and lets her raven locks take wing. Not excited but rather questioning, Lourdes's eyes return to the woman. A dot of pink as her tongue pokes between her lips. "The name's Emma."

Lifting his shot glass, Lourdes taps it against Emma's. Emma swallows her shot with a shout and a stomp. Lourdes barely blinks. There's no smile on either end.

"You're the quiet sort, aren't you?" Emma asks. Lourdes doesn't reply. "That's fine. You don't talk a lot. I do. Just sit and glower at me while I try to make conversation with you."

"I don't make friends easily," Lourdes states.

"Honey, who said this was about making friends?" Emma laughs. "Men don't come here for camaraderie. Look around, dear! Guys come here to cheat on their wives, cheat on their mistresses, and piss themselves." Moving his yellow pools over the bar's cowboys and call girls, Lourdes sees all of it. Emma arches an eyebrow. "Why'd you come?"

"I ran away," the boy tells.

"Her, too," Emma sighs. The woman motions to the ball of red yarn. Lourdes's glance to Katterina is quick this time. His eyes returning, Emma leans over the table, intimate with the boy, but Lourdes's gaze ignores the curve of her chest and latches onto the deepest part of the woman.

"Why are you here?" He inquires.

Emma pulls a leather bag from her belt. Dropping it, the purse lands with a heavy thud. A gold coin rolls free.

"That's half an hour's work," the woman states. "This is the best a woman can hope for out here. I've worked at other bars, and it can get rough, but a woman owns the Guinevere Hotel. She treats us right."

Lourdes's eyes shift to the shivering girl.

"Yeah, sometimes things go wrong, but a lot less here than anywhere else," Emma explains. "Katterina's yet to get a scar on her body." The cowboys a couple tables over again call out for more beer. This time, Emma responds with sweet words rather than shouts. The woman picks up her gold and tightens her corset. Lourdes's eyes flash over her form. Apples. Emma's body is a thing built for pleasure, barely contained by a bodice, and hardly obscured by silk butterflies atop black lace. Roses. The boy's eyes turn piercing before falling to the table. Red.

"I don't know if that was pity in your eyes or if you were condemning me, but before you judge, know we'd have closed our doors long ago if we weren't packed every night," Emma speaks, having caught Lourdes's glance. The woman stands, about to start toward the mob, but before she goes, she leans close to Lourdes one last time. "I thank you for what you've done for Miss Katterina. We all thank you most kindly. Just don't think we're friends. You survive, it appears, by putting bullets inside men. I survive by putting pretty words into them, but I've never been friends with a man, and I never plan to be."

The raven-haired waitress disappears into the crowd, riding legs inside stockings ripped by her own hands rather than by time or her clients. She rubs against every man she sees. Alone, Lourdes slips back into himself, and the light and life of the bar recede from his being. Lourdes pours himself a shot. It vanishes. He pours another. It evaporates. He pours a third and downs it just as quickly. Filling his glass for a fourth round, Lourdes watches the alcohol waltz. The elixir ebbs, flows, coats, and covers the thimble.

Lourdes fiddles with his glass for some time before sucking straight from the bottle.