Devils Unto Dust

by Emma Berquist

  “You—you—” I stutter. I’m so hell-fired mad I can’t even think of something bad enough to call him. “This was my last good shirt, you lily-livered bastard!” And I grab his mug and throw it in his face. He yelps and sputters, falling back in his chair, and I watch in satisfaction as the hot liquid drips down his chin. He tries to get up, cursing at me, and Ben swoops in, taking me by the shoulders.

  “Time to go,” he says, steering me out of the saloon.

  “Willie—” Micah tries to chide me, but it’s hard to do when he’s snickering.

  “Why don’t you let me do the talking, from now on,” Ben says. “As a matter of fact, maybe you should wait outside.”

  “Fine by me,” I say, disgusted, wiping at the brown stain on my chest. “Look at my shirt. Disgusting. At this rate I’ll be walking home nekkid.”

  Ben and I lock eyes for a second, and I glance away quickly, feeling my cheeks go hot.

  “Damn shame, is what it is,” I say, keeping my face down.

  “Look, just cool your heels for a while,” Ben says. “It’s almost time to head back, anyway. Don’t wander off.”

  I snort at him. “I got nowhere to go.”

  46.

  I lean back against a half-rotted hitching post, with only my thoughts to keep me occupied. I don’t mind; I like my own company, for the most part. Although lately I’ve been too quick to give in to self-pity and melancholy; a side effect of dying, I reckon.

  My head hurts. It’s not a sharp hurt, but a constant dull throbbing; it’s the kind of hurt where if I don’t think on it, it recedes into the background, like someone humming softly. I rub my temples and focus on the people walking past, trying to make up lives for them. This woman with the straw hat and the brooch at her neck, she’s in an awful hurry. She’s almost skipping, and I bet she’s going to meet her fellow. He’ll be young, and handsome, but too poor for her folks to approve of. She doesn’t care about the money; they’ll marry this month, in secret, before anyone can tell them not to.

  And this man here, with the bowler hat and only the top button of his coat fastened, he looks like a lawman, or he would if we still had lawman around these parts. The man walks past, his eyes alert and focused, but I lose sight when someone stumbles past me and trips stepping off the banquette.

  It’s the hunter that spit on me, and he’s so drunk he doesn’t even notice I’m standing here. I glare daggers at his back as he weaves his way across the street. I push myself away from the post and debate whether to follow. Ben told me not to wander, but I doubt this fellow can go too far in the shape he’s in, and I owe him for my shirt. I look over my shoulder, but Ben and Micah are still wasting time somewhere inside, trying to get answers from the most unhelpful people as ever lived. I grumble to myself and hurry across the street, following the man as he turns a corner. I lose sight of him for a moment and then see him duck into a storefront marked Alameda. I frown at the sign, the name ringing a bell; this has to be the place Pa sold to. What are the odds the fellow came here by chance?

  I open the door and the smell of hides hits me like a solid thing, that mix of rank meat and bitter smoke. The back wall of the store is half covered with a giant black and brown buffalo skin, the fur dense and shaggy. I reckon that one’s for show; the wares are about what I’d expect, some calf and sheepskin, but mostly smaller hides. I see jackrabbit and coyote pelts slung over tables, and enough snakeskin to cover the rest of the walls. I run my hand over the cold scales absentmindedly, wondering how many of these Pa skinned himself.

  The spitter is talking heatedly with an older fellow, his voice slurred and too low to overhear. The older man looks uncomfortable, but he nods briskly and after a moment the hunter claps him on the back and staggers past me out the door, not even looking at my face. When he leaves, I turn my attention to who I assume is Mr. Alameda.

  “You got a nice store here,” I tell him, petting the soft fur on a rabbit pelt. “You do these yourself?”

  “Most of ’em,” he says, smiling at me. At least I think he’s smiling; he has a droopy gray moustache that covers most of his mouth and hangs down over his chin. “Not so much lately, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Looks like you’re wanting a new shirt,” he says.

  “What I want and what I can afford rarely align,” I tell him. “Are you Alameda?”

  “I am. You have me at a disadvantage, young’un.”

  “My name is Wilcox,” I say, watching him closely. “I think you may know my father.”

  Mr. Alameda blinks at me slowly. “I do,” he says. “You’d be his oldest, then?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been looking for him, came all the way from Glory to find him.”

  “And you want to know if’n I seen him.”

  “Please, sir. It’s mighty important.”

  Alameda sighs, sending his moustache waving. “Time was, your pa used to come by often. Most of those snakes are his, you know. And I paid him proper, never tried to fleece him or nothing. If he wanted to spend his money on drinking and gambling, well that was his business.”

  “Mr. Alameda—”

  “I ain’t seen him,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Last time he came by was months ago, claiming I owed him for all the times I stiffed him over the years. Now, I swear to you I never did.”

  “I know, Mr. Alameda; my pa cheats people, not the other way around. I just want to find him.”

  Alameda nods, looking relieved. “I wish I could help you, but I don’t know where he is.”

  I press on my forehead, wishing my head would stop pounding. “You sure about that? You sure that fellow there didn’t ask you to forget you seen him?”

  Alameda draws himself up. “Miss Wilcox, I don’t answer to anyone but myself. That’s the truth.”

  I look him in the eyes and he doesn’t flinch. “All right,” I say, discouraged. “Thanks anyway.”

  I head to the door, my shoulders stooped. I pause, considering, and turn around once more.

  “Mr. Alameda—if by any chance you do see him, could you give him a message for me?”

  “I could that,” he says.

  “Could you tell him—just tell him his family needs him to come home.”

  Mr. Alameda nods solemnly at me. I give him a thin smile, the best I can offer under the circumstances, and leave the smell of dead animals behind.

  47.

  “There you are,” Micah calls as I step outside. He looks relieved; he and Ben hurry over from across the road.

  “I thought I said not to wander off,” Ben says.

  “I wasn’t wandering,” I tell him. “I had a very real purpose.”

  Micah rolls his eyes at me.

  “I did,” I insist. I point at the sign behind me. “Look, Alameda. That’s the man Pa sold to.”

  “Well, I hope you found out more than we did,” Micah says.

  “No luck,” I say. “He says Pa ain’t been there in months. I left a message, but . . .” I trail off, feeling hopeless.

  Micah swears softly. “I swear a rat would leave a bigger trail.”

  “Let’s take a break,” Ben says. “We need to get back for dinner anyway. We’ll try again later, folk might be more inclined to talk once the sun goes down.”

  I doubt it, but I keep my grumbles to myself. There’s a meal in my immediate future, and that’s enough to look forward to.

  We get back to the boardinghouse and Mrs. Keen makes a fuss over us, bringing out a tray of switchel to cool us off. We sip on the ginger-water in the parlor, waiting for Curtis and Sam to come back.

  “I have your rooms ready if you’d like to clean up before dinner,” she says, looking pointedly at Ben.

  “I ain’t shaving, Mrs. Keen,” he says, crossing his arms.

  “Well, I’m sure I didn’t tell you to,” she says, nose in the air.

  Micah snorts into his glass, and I shoot him a look before Mrs. Keen can take offense.

  “I’d greatly love a wash,” I t
ell her. “And if there’s somewhere I can clean my shirt—”

  “Sakes alive, did one of these boys do that? No regard, I tell you,” Mrs. Keen tsks. “You give that to me, dear, and I’ll have it scrubbed and wringed in no time.”

  “Um.” I lower my voice. “It’s the only one I have.”

  “I have shirts aplenty, dear, there’s no shame to be had. I’ll send a girl to your room with water and something clean. Now stand up, let’s see you.”

  I stand up awkwardly, and Mrs. Keen plucks at my shoulders and narrows her eyes. “Well, you’re a skinny thing, and long, but I’m sure I can find something to fit. Won’t be but a moment,” she says, and bustles out of the room.

  I sit back down and finish my drink, and now that it’s been offered I’m longing for a bath. I look at my fingernails and grimace; even the twins’ hands aren’t this bad.

  “What’s taking Curtis and Sam so long?” Micah asks.

  “They’ll be here,” Ben says. “I’ve never known Curtis to miss a meal.”

  “You really think we’ll find out more tonight?”

  “I reckon so. The harder drinkers and gamblers don’t come out till late. No offense, but your pa seems the sort who keeps that kind of company.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Micah says.

  The front steps creak and I motion to the boys. “Here they are,” I say, as the front door bangs open and in come Sam and Curtis.

  “You’re late,” Ben tells his brother.

  “Hogwash,” Curtis says, collapsing into a chair.

  “Any news?” I ask, not expecting much.

  “Yao didn’t notice him at the gate. We got one ‘maybe I seen him’ and the rest don’t bear repeating,” Curtis answers.

  “What about you?” Sam asks.

  “Same,” Micah says.

  “Not to worry,” Curtis says, grabbing some switchel and propping his feet on the table. “We’ll try again tonight, and if that don’t work, well, Ben and I can be very persuasive.” He gives me a wide grin that’s somehow both friendly and wicked.

  “You need any help convincing, you let me know,” I tell him, picking at my fingernails. I don’t have the time for these folks to be dancing around our questions like this. I don’t know what I expected; it’s not like I thought we’d walk through the gates and Pa would be standing right there. I guess I didn’t think this far ahead, or maybe I never really thought we’d get this far. But I’m here now, and mine is not a patient nature.

  Mrs. Keen swoops back into the room and clucks at Curtis to get his feet down.

  “Here we are,” she says to me, holding out a soft creamy shirt. “It’ll be a bit big on you, it was my late husband’s, but it’ll suit your purpose.”

  I hardly want to touch it with my dirty hands, but I take it from her. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “It’s nothing, dear,” she says, patting my arm. “Now up the stairs with you, second door on the right. There’s water waiting, just leave your dirty things outside the door.”

  I try to thank her again, but she waves it away.

  “Go on and get,” she says, shooing me until I start moving. The stairs are down a hall just off the parlor, and I scurry up with my clean shirt in tow.

  “I’m only suggesting,” I hear Mrs. Keen say, her voice carrying, “but in my experience, a lady likes a smooth face.”

  I laugh to myself as I climb; she might be right, but there aren’t any ladies here. There’s only me, and I like the beard just fine.

  48.

  The room is warm and full of light, the sun spilling in through one tall window. It’s simple and cozy, with a small iron-framed bed with a thick quilt and a wooden nightstand with a kerosene lamp. There’s a chair in the corner with a folded towel and soap, and best of all, sitting on the floor is a tin washtub filled with steaming water.

  I pull the curtain across the window and then shuck off my clothes so fast I get stuck in my pants and have to hop around on one leg till I can free myself. I shove my soiled shirt outside the door and close it, checking twice to make sure it locks.

  I step into the water slowly, one foot at a time. It’s blessedly warm, and I ease myself down, taking care not to splash over the sides. The washtub isn’t large; I could almost circle it with my arms, but I tuck my knees up under my chin and mostly fit. For a while I just sit with my eyes closed, listening to the soft lapping of the water against the tin. I wish I could make this moment last; why is it that the best parts of life are the quickest over? Water always gets cold, food has to be swallowed, and even the best dreams end when you wake up.

  When the water starts to lose heat, I take the brick of soap and work it into a washrag and start to scrub the layers of dust and grime off my body. I untie the wet bandage from around my hand and let it fall to the floor. My palm is swollen red and tight around my cut; it’s getting hard to move my fingers. I gently wipe the dirt away, taking care not to bump anything. Even that small pressure makes it throb, and the pain travels from my hand up to my shoulder.

  I scour every bit of me I can reach, until my skin is bright and pink, some part of me thinking if I can get the outside clean enough, maybe it will make a difference.

  Only when my skin starts to smart do I finally let the soap drop. The water has turned a murky gray with white suds skimming atop the surface. I take a deep breath and heave myself out of the tub, grabbing the towel before I drip too much on the floor. I wrap the towel around me and lie down on the bed, not caring that my wet hair is soaking into the quilt. I smell like soap and wet skin and I want to keep feeling clean as long as I can, before I have to put my dirty clothes back on. I could easily fall asleep right now, but life insists on moving forward, and I still have so much to do.

  I reluctantly sit up and start to wring out my hair. When I’m dry I pull on the shirt Mrs. Keen lent me; it’s soft and roomy and smooth against my scrubbed skin. The sleeves are too long, so I roll them up to just past my wrists. The fingers on my left hand do not want to cooperate, and I look at them grimly; I need my hand, I need to able to use it. For that I need the swelling to go down.

  I get dressed quickly, tie my wet hair back and grab my knife and the dirty bandage before I lose my nerve. I crouch next to the washtub and rinse the snake guts off the blade, though the dirty water will hardly help. I take a few rapid breaths, grit my teeth, and position the point of my knife against my swollen palm, just at the corner of my scabbing cut. I press down, at first gently and then with more and more pressure until I puncture my skin.

  Blood wells up around the tip of my knife, and I set it down beside me. I hold the bandage against my palm and with my good hand I press around the cut I made. It hurts, badly, and I hiss as more blood leaks out. I move my fingers and press on a different spot, and then, like someone cracked an egg, thick grayish-yellow pus gushes from the wound. I gag at the rotten smell, but I keep pressing to drain the wound, letting the blood-streaked liquid run down my hand and soak into the cloth. Already the swelling is going down, and still more pus seeps out, foul and runny and sickening.

  I push at my skin until no more pus remains, until only clear pink fluid runs from the cut. My hands are covered with blood and infection, and I scrub them down with the washrag and soap. My palm feels normal-sized again, though my scabbed-over cut is still red and inflamed. The small tear I made at the corner is hardly visible now that it’s stopped bleeding, and at least this time the wound served a purpose. I run my fingers lightly over the scab; it slices diagonally across my palm, making a path from my thumb to my pinky. If things had gone differently, I doubt it would even leave a scar.

  My vision blurs, and when I blink the cut is split open, the two sides gaping wide. I watch, horrified, as the cut starts to grow. It streaks up my wrist and along my arm, the skin ripping apart and sloughing off in pale sheets. I can see the tissue underneath, only something’s wrong with it; the inside of my arm is all black and lumpy and writhing with scores of white maggots. I open my mouth to screa
m, but no sound comes out. How long has my body been like this? How can I still be alive and have something so rotten inside me?

  Bile rises in my throat, hot and sour. I barely make it to the tub in time to vomit up stomach acid and ginger into the water. I wipe my good hand over my mouth and force myself to breath in deeply through my nose, shutting my eyes tightly so I can’t see the putrid mess my arm has become. I count to ten slowly, taking long even breaths, waiting until my stomach stops rolling and settles.

  “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” I repeat to myself, rocking back and forth. It’s only in my mind; it has to be. But I still can’t open my eyes. I don’t know which is worse, that I imagined the whole thing or that it could be real, that there’s dead flesh lying just beneath my skin, crawling with filth and disease.

  Someone knocks on the door and I jerk violently.

  “Willie,” Micah calls. “Dinner’s ready, come down.”

  I open my eyes just a crack, afraid of what I’ll see, but my skin has grown back, clean and pink and whole. I lean back and gasp with relief, making a sound that’s half laughter and half groan.

  “Willie?”

  “I’m—I’m here,” I say, my voice breaking.

  “Will? Are you all right?”

  I get to my feet, trembling and exhausted. I’m really starting to lose it, but right now I don’t even care, thankful my arm is in one piece again. Whatever that was, that darkness inside of me, I never want to see it again.

  Micah pounds on the door but I don’t answer. It’s time, long past time I told him. He’s going to be so angry with me. I don’t know which will upset him more, that I let myself get sick or that I lied to him. Knowing Micah, it will be the lie.

  “Willie?” His voice is rising, loud through the wood. “Open up right now.”

  I reach for the handle and slowly open the door. Micah stares at me, his brows a flat line of worry. And I look back at his eyes, my eyes, our father’s eyes, and my throat closes up.

  “What the hell, Will?” he asks. “What’s going on?”