Devils Unto Dust

by Emma Berquist

  I open my mouth, but the words burn and die on my tongue. I can’t form the thoughts, can’t find my voice. I cradle my injured hand in the other and look away.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, and I am. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for failing, I’m sorry for lying, and I’m sorry for being weak. Because maybe Micah could take the truth, but I can’t take him hearing it. “I was asleep. Bad dream, I reckon.”

  His lips curl down at the edges. “Why do you bother lying to me when you know I can tell?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  Micah looks over my face, my wet hair, and he takes a step forward. I throw my good hand out, blocking his path, and he stops.

  “You can talk to me, you know,” Micah says. “I just—I wish you would trust me.”

  “I do,” I say quietly. It’s me I don’t trust. “Go on and start without me. I’ll be down directly.”

  Micah is still staring at me when I shut the door. I listen until I hear his footsteps fade and brace my head against the wood, as cold and heavy as all the words left unsaid.

  49.

  I don’t have a clean scrap of cloth for my hand, but I reckon the air might do it good now that it’s drained. My new shirt is too big and I let the sleeves hang down to my fingers, low enough to hide the cut. My dirty bandage and the washrag get stuffed into my pockets; they’re covered in blood and pus, and I don’t want anyone else to handle them. The rest I think is safe, the water will get dumped and the towel will get washed with harsh lye soap. It’s reckless and weak to let it go this long, but at least no one here will get sick because of me; I don’t want that on my conscience.

  I head downstairs and through the empty parlor, following the sounds of chatter and the clink of forks. The parlor leads me to the entrance hall, and I go through the opposite door into the dining room.

  I pause at the entrance, unsure of myself; there are unfamiliar faces sitting around the end of the table, two men and a woman, and they all turn to look at me. The woman has a scar cutting across one eyebrow, and I stare for a moment until she scowls at me.

  “Down here,” Curtis calls, waving at me from the other end. I nod at the strangers and quickly make my way over to my group, which now includes Levi, the hunter from the gate. The table is long, almost the length of the room, and covered with steaming platters.

  “We saved you a seat,” Sam says, his mouth full of food.

  I sit down between the two boys gratefully.

  “Thanks.”

  Ben, Levi, and Curtis are sitting across from us, and I sneak a look down the table as I tuck my napkin in my lap.

  “Who’re those folks?” I ask in a whisper.

  “Other hunters,” Curtis says. “Don’t pay them no mind.”

  “They’re here for the food,” Levi says. “Mrs. Keen always outdoes herself.”

  “Try the corn pudding,” Sam says, spooning a lump of the yellow mash onto my plate.

  I’m slightly overwhelmed by the amount of food laid out on the table. In addition to the pudding, there’s a thick pea soup, roast chicken with some sort of sauce, currant jelly, and small boiled onions. I pile my plate with some of everything, but as I start to chew on a bite of onion I realize I’m not even a little hungry. In fact, the smell of the food is making my stomach turn, and the burnt edges of the meat remind me too much of my rotting insides.

  I force myself to swallow what’s in my mouth and take a long drink of water to wash the taste away. I put my fork down and stare at my plate, at the mound of food I have no appetite for. It looks more like a challenge now.

  “Not hungry?” Micah asks, glancing at me.

  “No, I just—I think I’ll start with the soup,” I say. I can manage that much; I have to eat, I need to, to keep my strength up. I shovel the soup into my mouth, spoonful after spoonful, before my stomach has a chance to reject it. It goes down easy enough, but it might as well be watered-down broth for all I’m enjoying it. All these years spent eating grits and beans, and now here’s a wasted feast in front of me. I would laugh, if it were at all funny.

  “Well ask Levi, then,” Ben says to Curtis, carrying on a conversation I missed most of. “Someone’s gotta have a mule for sale.”

  “I heard tell Rivera brung a couple animals down from Rath City,” Levi says.

  “Rivera’s a good hunter, but he don’t know horseflesh,” Curtis says. “I ain’t paying a dime unless I see the animal myself.”

  “You’re a hardfisted bastard,” Levi laughs. “Beggin’ your pardon,” he says to me with a wink. I roll my eyes, and he laughs again.

  I listen to them argue and eat as much of the soup as I can keep down, and then I just move the food around on my plate some. Mrs. Keen brings out spice cake and stewed fruit for desert, and I take a small slice to be polite.

  “I’m too full,” I tell Micah, rubbing my belly. “You want the rest?”

  “Since when do you turn down food?” he asks.

  “You want it or not?”

  Micah narrows his eyes at me, but he jabs my cake with his fork. I push my chair away from the table and lean back. My eyes feel heavy, and the day is barely half over.

  “Will,” Micah nudges me.

  “Hm?” I look up, and he points toward the door, where Mrs. Keen is motioning to me.

  “Darling, do you have a moment?” she asks. “I hate to interrupt your dinner, but there’s someone asking for you.”

  I get up from the table immediately to follow her, glancing back at Micah. It’s Pa; it has to be. How did he find us?

  “He said it was urgent, or I would’ve sent him away,” Mrs. Keen tells me apologetically.

  “It’s fine, Mrs. Keen, I was finished anyhows.”

  She leads me through the parlor and into the entrance hall, where a man is standing with his back to me.

  “Here she is, then,” Mrs. Keen says, and the man turns around and I brace myself to see my father’s face. Instead, I see a gray moustache and it takes me a moment to place it.

  “Mr. Alameda,” I say, confused.

  “Ah, Miss Wilcox,” he says, and he looks nervous. “I was hoping I could speak to you in private.”

  Mrs. Keen looks from him to me, and I shrug.

  “Well, I guess I’ll let you two alone,” she says, giving Mr. Alameda a warning look as she leaves.

  Mr. Alameda stands awkwardly in front of me, rubbing one hand with another.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” I ask him.

  “Miss Wilcox, what I said to you before, that were the truth—I don’t know where your pa is.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Alameda,” I tell him, frowning. “You didn’t need to come all this way.”

  He swallows, and his throat moves up and down. “I don’t know where he is,” he repeats. “But—” and he pauses.

  “But?”

  “But I can guess,” he finishes, looking down.

  “Please tell me,” I say, my head starting to pound.

  “Grayson’s—the saloon—there’s an old stable out back that’s empty now. Grayson lets him sleep out there sometimes.” Mr. Alameda shifts uneasily, edging back toward the door. “That’s where I’d check.”

  “Mr. Alameda,” I say, and he stops moving to look at me. “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he says. “Good luck to you.”

  I watch him leave from the hallway, considering. The saloon isn’t far from here, if I can remember the way. The others are talking in the dining room, laughing and eating cake. Standing here in an empty room, I feel as far removed from laughter as I can be. I’m miles from them, and they don’t even realize it. I don’t belong with them anymore; I’m already gone.

  50.

  I set out purposefully, retracing our steps from earlier. I have a few choice words in mind to say to that bartender, and none of them are “thank you.” The nerve of that man, lying to our faces. I conveniently forget the many lies I’ve told over the past few days; my right
eous anger won’t be dampened.

  I turn right and look for the hotel; I’m pretty sure this is the street I want. I scan the buildings for the green roof, but I don’t see it. I swear under my breath and keep walking; maybe it’s the next clump of buildings.

  Footsteps suddenly pound fast behind me, and I duck around a corner, pressing myself flat against a wall.

  “Nice try,” Ben calls, slightly out of breath.

  “Damn,” I say. So much for doing this alone. I peel myself away from the wall and turn to face Ben, who approaches me with an annoyed expression.

  “You know, you hired us to guard you. You running off like this, it kinda defeats the purpose.”

  I cross my arms. “This is Best, not the open road. I think I can manage.”

  Ben shakes his head. “Oh, no you can’t. Someone spits on you again, you’re likely to get killed in a bar fight.”

  I snort, half amused and half aggravated. “Fine. Come on, we’re going back to that saloon.”

  “Hold up,” Ben says, looking over his shoulder.

  “What? Who else did you drag along?” I look past him and see Micah hurrying toward us.

  “I didn’t drag him, he wouldn’t stay put.”

  I give an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, he’s like that.”

  We stand in silence, waiting for Micah to catch up. I glance sidelong at Ben, squinting against the sun.

  “Killed in a bar fight, I ask you,” I mutter to him. “I would never die in a bar fight. Undignified.”

  “We’ll see,” Ben says.

  Micah stomps up on the banquette and glares at me. “Can’t you sit still for one minute?”

  “No,” I tell him. “Alameda says Pa’s in the old stables behind the saloon. Can you take us there?” I ask Ben. “I forget which way it is.”

  Ben takes the lead, just like we’re back in the desert. Micah grumbles under his breath, but he falls in with us. Ben takes us across the street and to the left, and we turn and there’s the green roof of the hotel. I wasn’t that far off, but I reckon it’s better Ben found me than let me wander around the town for who knows how long.

  The saloon is right where we left it, sitting small and quiet; I glare at the door like it personally insulted my looks.

  “Alameda said the stable’s out back,” I say.

  “Probably best to avoid going inside,” Ben says, raising his brows at me.

  “Good,” I tell him, jutting my chin out. “Then I won’t hurt my fist on that bartender’s teeth.”

  “Come on,” Micah says, shaking his head.

  He tugs my arm and we head toward the small gap between the saloon and the shuttered horse tack shop next to it. We squeeze by a wagon wheel that’s leaning on its side and pop out behind the saloon. I consider kicking over one of the whiskey barrels stacked against the wall, but they look heavy and it may take some time. Instead I focus on the stable, or what used to be a stable. Even when there were plenty of horses to keep, it couldn’t have housed more than two or three of them; now it’s a hollowed-out shack that still stinks of horse and moldy hay.

  We approach warily, not sure of what we’ll find. The afternoon sun glints lazily off the nails and hinges in the wood. One of the stalls is open, the gate hanging wide, the wood too warped to close properly. The empty stall is filled with matted-down hay and rusted cans, all mixed with horsehair and piss. I purse my mouth, disgusted; of course this is where Pa would be sleeping.

  A rustling comes from the next stall, and Micah and I both reach for the closed gate. He gets there first and unlatches it, letting the heavy door swing open. Slouched against the corner on a bed of rags is a greasy man with a whiskey bottle in his lap. His head hangs down to his chest, his eyes closed and his mouth half open.

  My heart is like a fist in my chest. “Pa.”

  51.

  He looks like he’s dead. For a moment I let myself think it, let myself think how it would be easier, and then a low snore comes out of his mouth.

  “Pa.”

  He doesn’t move, and I say it again, louder.

  Still nothing. I reach down and shake him, more violently than I intend. He snorts loudly and flails an arm out and I step out of the way.

  “Pa, wake up.”

  Pa stares at me with bloodshot eyes and looks around the stable, disoriented.

  “Willie—where am I?” His voice is slurred, but it’s still the same playful drawl that used to sing us to sleep. It brings back memories I don’t want or need right now.

  “We’re in Best, Pa. We been looking for you.”

  “Oh.” Pa slumps back against the wall, his mouth drooping open. His eyes start to close and anger washes over me, prickly and pointless. It’s not as if I was expecting Pa to change, but it still smarts; we’ve been through hell and back while he’s been snoring here, drunk out of his mind.

  “Micah,” I say, glancing at him, and he nods once, his mouth tight and mad. He doesn’t say anything to Pa, barely even looks at him. I grab Pa’s whiskey bottle and splash the alcohol on his face.

  “Hey, what—” he sputters. He lurches to his feet, swinging out wildly with his fists. Micah and I each grab an arm but Pa goes limp in our grasp.

  “You want some help?” Ben asks.

  “No, we’ve got him,” I say, straining under Pa’s weight. He’s half conscious and cumbersome and sweating whiskey, and it’s embarrassing enough without Ben having to carry him.

  Micah and I ease Pa down until he’s in a sitting position, propped up against the stable wall; he rolls forward, his limbs spilling over like boiled rope.

  “Just like old times, huh,” I say bitterly, wiping sweat away from my eyes.

  “Yeah,” Micah says. His face is blank, removed. “This is the last time I’m doing this, Will, I mean it.”

  “I know.” I bite the inside of my cheek and glance around until I find a crate that looks like it may hold my weight. “Um, Ben—”

  “Coffee? Food?” he supplies.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Ben walks away as I settle down on the crate. “Pa,” I say, nudging his shoulder, and he grunts at me.

  Micah bangs the butt of his rifle against the stable wall, over and over. I grit my teeth, and Pa raises his head and clutches it with his hands.

  “What in the sam hill—”

  “Sorry,” Micah says loudly, with one last thump.

  I sigh, but he’s not doing anything I’m not tempted to do. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence as Pa and I stare at one another; it’s been a long time since I met my father’s eyes.

  Pa finally breaks the quiet by hacking; he coughs loudly and spits something on the floor, then wipes his mouth with his sleeve. I wrinkle my nose.

  “Well, you found me,” he says, breathing heavily.

  “You look awful,” I tell him.

  “Yeah. You ain’t wrong about that.” He gives a hollow laugh that dies as Micah stares at him stone-faced. Pa rubs the back of his neck and the silence resumes, a heavy and suffocating noose around our throats.

  “Here.” Ben returns and places a plate of stew and a cup on the ground in front of Pa.

  “Who’s this?” Pa asks, tilting his head up to see Ben’s face.

  “Benjamin Garrett. He’s a—he’s a friend.”

  “Then hello, friend,” Pa says, putting out a hand.

  “Sir.” Ben makes no move to shake it, crossing his arms over his chest and standing next to Micah. Pa lets his hand drop and picks up a spoon.

  “Well, I thank you for the vittles.” Pa shovels the food into his mouth quickly, like he’s afraid someone will take it out from under him. He starts to sit up straighter as the food hits his stomach; I doubt he’s had anything but whiskey today. “I seen you before, ain’t I?” he says to Ben, mid-chew.

  “I reckon you seen me at the Homestead,” Ben nods.

  “You a hunter, ain’t you?” Pa frowns at me. “Since when you keep company with hunters?”

  “Since I need to,”
I answer. “You know why we’re here, Pa.”

  He blinks at me, and it hits me how much he’s aged from my memories of him. The lines around his mouth are deep, pulling his face into a permanent frown, and his skin sags down from his cheeks to hang over his chin.

  “I think I’m done,” Pa says, pushing the plate away. “Nice of y’all to stop by.”

  “Pa, don’t,” I start, but he’s already taking a long swig of whiskey. I reach down and grab the bottle and turn it upside down, letting the alcohol splash into the dirt.

  “Hey,” Pa yells at me, struggling to get up.

  “Where’s the money?” I ask him, done with being polite.

  He slumps back against the stall and avoids my eyes.

  “They came into our house.” I struggle to keep my voice even. “McAllister and his man, they came in and they threatened us.”

  “Give us the money and we’ll leave you be,” Micah says flatly.

  Pa raises his head and blinks watery eyes. “It’s gone,” he says. He sniffs hard and clears his throat. He digs a hand into his pocket and pulls out a few rumpled bills. “Tha’s all I got left,” he whispers, holding it out to me.

  I take the money, look at the bills, and close my eyes briefly. It’s less than twenty dollars. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “Washburne took it and ran. Didn’t even feel him lift it off me.”

  Micah scoffs angrily. “That’s a surprise.”

  “I’m still your pa,” he snaps at us. “And I woulda sent y’all some of that money. It were for all of us.”

  “Do you know where he went?” I ask, ignoring the lie.

  “No. Could be anywhere by now.”

  “Then what good are you?” Micah says. “You couldn’t even hang on to money you stole.”

  “Micah, enough,” I say. I breathe out slowly, telling myself I’m prepared for what happens next. I knew it would come down to this; I knew that money was as good as gone when Pa took it. “Pa, get up. We’re leaving.”

  Pa shakes his head. “I ain’t going anywhere. I’m staying right here.”

  “Like hell you are,” Micah says, erupting. “Those men were looking for you.”