Montana Slim has a tattoo of the state below his left eye. He sips well whisky in a piss-stench saloon and waits for death. We talk all morning.
There's a stunning girl behind the desk at the bookstore, reading. She looks up when I walk in, and we don't make any conversation. I look at the free bin, some photos of buffalo, and then I walk out. I smoke a cigarette by the truck before I leave.
In Missoula, there is snow on the bald mountains. Wolves wait for death.
Train pulls out of the yard an hour after sundown. The headlight is a solid object, racing a tunnel of yellow through a charcoal evening.