Immobile, he contemplated the bright light of day through the slits in his eyelids and the fact that there was nothing between his head and the hard packed earth but his hat. He’d passed out in the alley, which meant he hadn’t made it to his room, after all. He knew where he was because he recognized the roof line of Goslin’s General Store. But something was different. Something he couldn’t quite name. He wrinkled his nose. An odor of sweetness wafted up his nostrils, which was puzzling because good smells and Eulis did not coincide. Molasses, he thought. That’s what he smelled. When he was a tyke, no more than four or five, his mother had made him molasses cookies. He closed his eyes against the glare of the sun and thought of the face of Kiowa Bill on the wanted poster in his room at the White Dove Saloon. Funny how smells could bring back memories. His arms felt like fence posts. His legs felt like lead. That last batch of rotgut Will the Bartender had bought wasn’t fit to sell.
