“I’ll keep up. And as for the money, I can pay you fifty now, and the rest when we return.” My stomach churns at the lie, and I hope he doesn’t notice that I can’t meet his eyes.
“I can agree to that.” Garrett looks at me, considering. “When were you wanting to leave?”
“As soon as possible,” I say. “I have to make a few arrangements, but I was hoping to leave by tomorrow.”
Garrett gives a low whistle. “You don’t give a fellow much notice. I need to run this by my brother, but I think I can safely say we have a deal, Miss Wilcox.” He stands up and holds out his hand, and we shake on it. I’m slightly stunned at the swiftness with which this is happening; some part of me did not expect it to work.
“I am—grateful to you,” I tell him haltingly. “And you can stop with the misses; everyone calls me Willie, or Will.”
“Call me Curtis. We’re going to be seeing a lot of one another, might as well get familiar. If you’ll excuse me, I have to see Miss Elsie if we’re going to leave tomorrow. We set out at dawn. Meet us at the gate and we’ll take it from there. It was a pleasure to meet you, Willie.”
“And you, Curtis.”
He pauses for a moment and rests a hand on my shoulder. “Get some sleep while you can; lord knows there’s little enough to be had on the road.”
My stomach twists as he passes me by. I don’t want to cheat this man, who smiles at me with kind eyes. But I have no choice, I tell myself, and cringe as one lie begets another.
11.
The heat hits me like a solid wall when I step out into the sunshine. I breathe in the scorching air and the heat sears my lungs, clearing out the smoke and noise from the bar. I don’t know how folk can stand to live in there, crammed together with no space to think. I put my hat back on and tuck up my hair, adjusting my sack on my shoulder. It feels full to bursting, and I suspect Elsie threw in a few extra items.
I haven’t taken more than a few steps when I hear the door to the bar swing open behind me.
“Girl!”
I turn, confused, and find myself staring into a wrinkled face, uneven stubble darkening the crevices. It takes me a minute to match the name to the face; Dollarhide glares at me, his eyes small and folded into the corners.
“Can I help you?” I ask, feeling uneasy. Just how many hunters are going to accost me today? And it’s only the afternoon.
“I heard you’re lookin’ fer a hunter,” he says, his lips curling back to reveal tobacco-stained teeth.
“Yessir, I was. I’m afraid I already made a deal, or I’d be happy to consider you.” Like hell, but I’m hoping the lie will appease him.
“It ain’t about that.” He moves close enough that I back up without thinking. “I hear your daddy took a lotta money, little girl. He pass any of that along your way?”
I let out a sharp laugh. “My pa takes money from me, not the other way around.”
“Then where you get the money fer a hunter, I wonder?”
“None of your damn business,” I say, prickling because he’s not all wrong. “Just leave me alone.”
“I got a better idea,” he sneers.
I start to move back and he grabs my arm just below the shoulder, pulling me so close that I almost gag at the reek of alcohol on his breath.
“How much he give you? Hand it over and I won’t hurt you none.”
I try to yank away, but Dollarhide’s fingers are like iron, and I grit my teeth as he starts to squeeze. I aim a punch at his face and my knuckles connect sharply with his cheekbone. Dollarhide howls in anger, but doesn’t loosen his grip on my arm; he’s too soaked to feel much pain and I’m not as good with my left hand.
“Let me go, Dollarhide,” I order him, trying to keep calm.
“Give it up, girly.”
“I don’t have any money, you blame idiot,” I yell, tugging at his fingers. He’s drunk but strong, and I’ll have bruises to show for this tomorrow.
He shakes me hard, and he’s got hold of my gun arm, but I can reach with my left. At this range it hardly matters how good my aim is. I call myself all manner of fool and swear I will never leave the house without my knife again.
“I want what’s mine,” he says, slurring his words. I don’t really want to shoot this man, but I do want him to let me go. My hand is on my gun when I hear a voice.
“Need help leaving, Dollarhide?”
He spins clumsily toward the door of the bar, where a man stands lazily against the wall.
“This ain’t your business, Garrett.”
“I’m making it my business.”
I use Dollarhide’s momentary distraction to aim a well-placed kick at his knee, and there’s a solid crunch as my boot connects. Dollarhide yelps and stumbles as he releases me, both his hands going to his injured leg.
“I got nothing that belongs to you, Dollarhide,” I tell him evenly. “You keep your mucking hands off me or next time I won’t be so polite.”
Dollarhide looks from me to the man at the door, and swears. He struggles to his feet and stamps back to the bar. There’s a moment of silence as the stranger and I regard one another.
“You must be the other Garrett brother,” I say finally.
“That I am.” His voice is low and slightly gravelly, but I suspect that may be an affectation. He’s tall, like his brother, but slimmer. Darker, too, enough that I would bet some of their kin come from over the border. He’s younger than Curtis, but it’s hard to guess his age with half his face obscured by a beard. Only his eyes stand out, a shrewd amber peeking out from dark hair in bad need of a trim.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, holding out my hand.
He doesn’t shake my hand, instead folding his arms across his chest.
“I guess Curtis does the talking.” I put down my hand when it’s clear he’s not going to shake it. “And the smiling.”
“Miss Wilcox, it’s my understanding that you wish my brother and I escort you to Best.”
“Accompany, not escort.” I don’t like this hard case of a brother, and it’s clear he doesn’t cotton to me, either. “You got a problem with that?”
“Matter of fact, I do. We’re hunters, not babysitters.”
“Mr. Garrett, I don’t need looking after. I would go on my lonesome if I knew the way.”
He snorts disbelievingly. “You ain’t serious.”
“I usually am. I can take care of myself.”
“Like with Dollarhide there?”
“I was handling that,” I say crossly.
“Looked more like he was handling you.”
The hot, familiar buzz of anger bubbles under my skin, and I’m starting to regret hiring Curtis if this man is attached. “I made an agreement with your brother; if the deal’s off, then stop wasting my time and tell me so.”
Garrett shakes his unkempt head. “Curtis is holding firm. But I ain’t as tenderhearted as my brother.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that the only payment we take is cash money.” Garrett eyes me levelly, and I stiffen at the implied insult.
“That is all I am offering,” I say, making my voice as cold and unflinching as I can.
“I hope so. ’Cause I’m not moved by pretty words or pretty eyes like Curtis. If you bilk us, I got no problem turning you over to the Judge. I think you know his brand of mercy.”
A chill creeps up my neck despite the heat. Garrett’s bright eyes bore into me, and it’s like he knows; somehow he knows I’m lying. I should call this off now, while I still have the chance, just turn my back and go home. Something inside me balks then; I know what waits for me at home. My life stretches out endlessly before me, an unwavering path of snake meat, ill-fitting pants, and a crumbling house. Three pairs of eyes pleading at me, the constant fear that it will never be enough; nothing ever changing, until I’m too old and broken to care. There is nothing this man or even the Judge can do that scares me more than dying ancient and wasted in Glory, with only ghosts and
regrets to keep me company.
“You’ll get your money,” I tell him.
“So long as we’re straight.”
“As the crow flies,” I say quietly. “Good-bye, Mr. Garrett.” I start walking away, not bothering to wait for his reply; just as well, because it never comes.
12.
It always feels twice as far going back home, and I may as well take my time because I got no rest coming once I get there. There’s washing to bring in and dinner to start, and I begin a mental list of what to pack. Part of me can’t believe I’m really doing this, and part of me thrills at the idea of leaving Glory. Micah will be mad, but then he’s always mad at me for something. I adjust the bag on my shoulder, wishing my life could be simple. That’s a long road to start going down, though; I could wish for a lot of things, and if wishes were pigs we’d all eat bacon.
My thoughts are interrupted when a commanding voice calls out to me.
“Daisy, is that you?”
I groan inwardly and squeeze my eyes shut for just a moment. “Hello, Miss Bess.”
“Come here so I can see you.”
“Miss Bess, this ain’t the best time—”
“Hurry up, now, Daisy, I’m old and I got no time for dawdling.”
I sigh softly, but I’ve learned from experience that it’s useless to argue with the woman, she’ll only pretend she can’t hear you. I step around a wheelbarrow with no wheels and kick aside an empty can, weaving my way through the debris to the porch.
She waits for me impatiently, her hair stark white against her brown face, back straight as a board. Most old folks stoop, but then Bess ain’t like most folks. I’ve never seen her smile, not in all my born days, and she has the kind of strength that only comes from being hard-pressed your whole life. She made her way here from Georgia, and even though most of her family kept going west, Bess stayed put. She still has the accent; her voice is round and deep, all burnt sugar and smoke.
“Now then,” Bess says when I climb up the steps and knock over a birdhouse, “let me get a look at you, Daisy.”
“Miss Bess, you know no one calls me—”
“You’re too thin. You need to drink some cream; it’ll fill your face out some.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, biting back another response. Drink some cream, indeed; as if it were that simple. As if my jaw doesn’t clench at night with hunger, as if I’m not living on weak coffee and desperation.
“Sit with me, my dear,” Bess says, easing herself into her rocking chair. She bangs her cane against an overturned bucket, which I reckon is for me.
“Only for a moment,” I say. I clear the bucket of dirty mugs and perch on the edge, my knees almost to my chin.
“Would you look at that,” Bess says, her eyes gazing at the flat land beyond the fence. Her dark brown hands curl over her cane, the fingers knobby and wrinkled. “It’s gonna be a beautiful sunset, Daisy, mark my words.”
“It always is, Miss Bess.”
“Every day the same, but every one different.”
I start to fidget. How long am I going to be stuck here? Maybe she’ll fall asleep and I can just leave. I sneak a glance, but her eyes are wide open and glued to the desert. What she’s looking at I can only guess; maybe she sees the same beauty I see, the lines flat and unbroken, the dust drifting up hazily.
“Did I ever tell you about the painter I met in Llano?”
I blink, startled. “I don’t think—”
“He did landscapes, now and then a portrait, but mostly pictures of the desert. And he told me the only way to get that sky right was to mix some of the dirt in with the paint. Now ain’t that something?”
“I reckon so.”
“Dirt,” she says again, and shakes her head, like she still can’t believe it.
“Miss Bess, I need to be heading home. The boys and Cath will be wanting dinner soon.”
“All right, then, help me up,” she says, and I give her my arm to cling to. “I have something for you, it’s just inside.”
Bess shoves at her front door and I hear something splintering behind it; it opens just enough for her to turn sideways and step inside.
“Miss Bess, if it’s too much trouble—”
“No trouble at all,” she calls from somewhere inside. “Give me a moment to find it.”
I roll my eyes; she could be in there all day and still not find what she’s looking for. There’s a crash followed by the sound of something rolling and I push at the door.
“Are you all right?” I call.
“Fine, I’m fine.” Bess slips back out onto the porch, her white hair slightly mussed but otherwise unmarked. “Here you are,” and she hands me a small pouch of paper, twisted up at the ends. “Open it when you get home,” she says, folding my hand over it.
“Thank you, Miss Bess,” I say, and kiss her offered cheek.
“Of course, Daisy. Now off you go.”
I drop the pouch in my bag and make my way down the steps. I turn when I get to the road and wave.
“Bring those little ones by to see me,” Bess calls.
“I will,” I call back. She’s a good sort, Old Bess. Her, and Elsie and Ned, and Doc Kincaid. The Judge and the hunters, they take up so much space with their talk and their violence, it feels like there’s nothing left for the rest of us. It’s easy to forget there are still good people here. Sometimes I think this town may be worth saving, but mostly I think given half the chance I’d walk away and never look back.
13.
I’m tired to my very bones by the time our fence comes into view. I swing it shut loudly behind me, and in the space of a breath an answering shout comes from somewhere behind the house. The twins are like dogs that way, ears always tuned to the gate. They run out to meet me, and I’m not too tired to smile at them.
“Hey there, tumbleweeds,” I say. “Where you rollin’ to?”
“Willie, you were gone forever,” Cal complains as I ruffle his hair. He has fingernail scratches across his forearm, from itching or fighting I can only guess.
“What did you get?” Cath asks, tugging at my arm. I use my thumb to wipe dirt off her cheek before she squirms out of reach.
“Wait and see. Why are y’all covered in dirt?”
“Micah made us go outside. And he called us names.” The twins stare at me with matching expressions of noble suffering that I don’t believe for a moment.
“Mm-hmm,” I say. “Did he make you crawl underneath the house, too?” It’s a favorite game of theirs, though I don’t understand the appeal. At least they seem to have forgotten all about this morning; I envy them such short memories.
“Take this inside and tell Micah to meet me out back.” I give my sack to Catherine, and the twins race to the house to sort through it.
I walk around back to our empty plot of land, trying to work out a kink in my neck. We have four snake traps set up back here, small boxes that Micah made out of wood and wire netting, and ten more outside the perimeter. I don’t like to venture outside the fence much, not if I can help it. Only once a week do I risk it, and only with Micah to watch my back.
I’m not expecting to find anything; we need to move the traps again, find new snake holes. I grab the hoe, its blade dark with snake guts, and check the traps. The first three are empty, but when I tap my boot against the last one I hear movement.
“Lock’s fixed,” Micah says, appearing at my shoulder. “I tightened the hinges, too. You got one?”
“Yeah.” I nod and he moves into place, our routine familiar and well-oiled. I get a good grip on the hoe while Micah flips the trap open to reveal a rattler coiled tight as a fist. It hisses angrily but I strike before it does, severing the head cleanly. I pick up the body by the tail, disappointed; it’s small, not even a foot. It’s not worth skinning, but I can at least throw it in the pot for dinner.
“I need to replace the latch on this one,” Micah says, kneeling down to examine the trap. “It’s getting loose.”
“Take
this inside, will you?” I ask, holding the snake out.
Micah lifts his eyes to my face. “Did you get the money?”
I look away, too tired for what’s bound to be an argument. “The Judge wouldn’t give it to me.”
He scoffs and stands up. “I told you he wouldn’t. Closefisted bastard.”
“Can we talk about this later?”
Micah shrugs and grabs the snake from me. I kick the trap closed with a bang and start pulling down the laundry. The shirts and underthings go over my shoulder and I head inside, knocking the dust off my boots. I walk through the front door slowly, dumping the clothes in a pile and taking off my hat and hanging up my gun. For months after our mother died, I couldn’t stand to be in this house; every room, every piece of furniture was a painful reminder. Memory can be a terrible thing. It’s still hard sometimes, to come in and expect to see her, but now I worry that I’ll start forgetting, that the chairs will turn into ordinary chairs and not the ones she sat in. I shut the door and lock it carefully, leaning my head against the wood for a moment, ignoring the shouting in the kitchen and what looks like broken porcelain on the floor. I can feel a headache coming on, a slight pounding in my temples that promises to only get worse.
I sigh and brace myself for the kitchen, where the twins and Micah are yelling at each other, their voices overlapping so no one can understand what’s being said. The whole scene is almost comical, as Micah towers over the twins, but their ferocity is equally matched. Sam sits at the table, watching the fight like an amused spectator trying not to laugh. He catches my eye and winks, suppressing a grin.
“—big ugly cactus brain—”
“—I’m telling Willie—”
“—if you bite me again—”
“Enough!” I yell, loud enough to be heard. “Were y’all raised in a barn? I know Ma taught you better than this.” They fall silent, and Micah at least has the decency to look sheepish. “What, we don’t get enough trouble from strangers, you gotta fight each other, too? Shame on you.”
“Sorry, Will,” Micah says.
I glare at the twins until they, too, mutter apologies.
Devils Unto Dust Page 5
