The casquette girl, who had long ago given away her casquette and who was no longer a girl, and the pirate built a small house near a sharp bird-wing bend in the Mississippi River. Occasionally, the pirate worked for a wealthy French smuggler, often for long periods of time at sea or by river and then land to the north in order to guard him as he talked to the Chickasaws a little, impatiently, and without really listening or rather pretending to listen, watching the other person’s forehead or the other person’s mouth, lighting a cigar, being polite, killing time, as they say, sometimes laughing or rather pretending to laugh, which was a type of threat, at least according to the pirate, who listened to most anybody with a story to tell, especially an unconquerable Chickasaw, he might as well have pistols for ears,he might as well start a forsaken war, the pirate once told the casquette girl, his sweet wife, but the following morning he still went and worked for the wealthy French smuggler and she still saw him off and waved as he boarded a flat-bottomed skiff. The pirate, who was slowly becoming something else, another version of himself, a version he would not have known how to justify, waved back. He even saluted in mockery of the French navy when the wealthy French smuggler turned his back. Then the casquette girl stood and chatted with a friend in the lilting heat and saunter of the King’s Louisiana sun and watched the trill of fishing lines and egrets drift over the Mississippi River as if they were comets lost in the creation of things.