Devils Unto Dust

by Emma Berquist

  “I never meant for that to happen,” Pa starts.

  “What did you think was gonna happen?” Micah yells. “You thought they would just let it go? You knew damn well they’d come after you, and if they couldn’t find you they’d come after us.”

  Pa looks down, and from the shame on his face I can tell Micah spoke right. I thought I was long past getting hurt by Pa, but here it is again, fresh pain on an old wound.

  “I’m sorry,” Pa says, lamely, as if that makes a difference.

  “It’s too late for that now,” I tell him. “If the money’s gone, then McAllister wants you. If you plead, maybe he’ll let you work off your debt. So get up and get sober, ’cause it’s a long walk back to Glory.”

  “They’ll hang me.” Pa looks at me with red-streaked eyes. “They’ll hang me for sure.”

  “They might.” My throat feels tight, and it’s hard to speak. But Pa made his bed, and now he has to lie in it. “They might not.”

  “Willie, I’m your pa.”

  “You don’t care what happens to us,” Micah says. “Why should we care what happens to you?”

  Pa ignores Micah, struggling to his knees. He inches forward and puts his hands on my arms. “Willie, come on now. You’re my good girl.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Micah says, pushing Pa away from me. “Don’t you dare try and act like you give a damn.”

  “I ain’t going to McAllister,” Pa says, pointing his finger at Micah. “You can shoot me yourself, I ain’t gonna be hanged.”

  “Fine.” Micah pulls out his rifle, and Pa takes a step back. My mind goes white and blank, and for I moment I think I’m going to see my brother kill my father.

  “Easy,” Ben says.

  “Micah, stop,” I say, moving in front of him. “Just. Stop.”

  “Why?” Micah asks, and his eyes are too bright. “This is what we came here for, right? Come on, Will, be honest for once. We both knew he wouldn’t have the money. We both knew he wouldn’t come home. We came out here to kill him.”

  I open my mouth, but no words come to me.

  “See?” Micah laughs. “You’re not even gonna deny it.”

  “Micah, stop this,” Pa says from behind me. “Think about your ma.”

  “Shut up,” Micah yells. “You don’t get to talk about her, you lost that right a long time ago. You wouldn’t even help her . . . Willie had to do it. It should’ve been you, Pa. It weren’t supposed to be her.”

  I flinch, feeling the memory bite. It was the last thing she asked of me, the only thing I had left to give her. I didn’t even look away when the gun went off. I owed her that much. It eats at me, every day it gnaws at me, even though it’s what she wanted. And that’s why I can’t allow this to happen, not because I can’t lose Pa, but because I can’t lose Micah. It would tear him up inside, and I won’t let that happen.

  “Micah,” I say, and he looks at me with dead eyes.

  “It weren’t supposed to be you,” he says hollowly.

  “And this shouldn’t be you,” I tell him. “This ain’t on you, Micah.” I pull the rifle out of his hands, very gently. I look beyond him, to where Ben stands. He meets my eyes and nods at me, just once, before I turn and aim the rifle at Pa.

  “Willie,” he says, putting his hands out.

  “Give me a reason not to,” I say.

  “I’m your pa.”

  I shake my head. “Not good enough.”

  Pa swallows hard, and gives me a ghost of a smile. “Your ma wouldn’t want this. You look just like her now,” he says.

  After all this, that’s what undoes me.

  “No, I don’t,” I say. “I don’t look anything like Ma. I look like you. I’m just like you, in fact. Bad luck follows me and I blame everyone but myself. And I’m a coward, like you. Because I can’t even do what I oughta do.”

  I lower the gun, my hands trembling.

  “That’s my girl,” Pa says.

  I turn the rifle in my hands and smash the butt into Pa’s forehead. He drops like a stone, falling face-first into the dirty hay.

  “Find some rope,” I order Micah.

  Micah complies wordlessly, and I roll Pa over onto his side so he doesn’t die in his sleep. A line of blood trickles down his forehead, and I try to pretend he’s not my father, that I didn’t do this to him.

  “I’m sorry, Pa,” I say to his sad, gray body. “You’re coming with us, one way or another.”

  52.

  We leave Pa where we found him, his hands tied and the rope looped through a hook. Even if he wakes up, he won’t be sober enough to get himself out of it.

  Micah leads the way back to Mrs. Keen’s, taking long, angry strides that leave me lagging behind with Ben.

  “He all right?” Ben asks me, watching Micah push past a stranger and turn the corner, his shoulders tight.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Pa has a way of gettin’ to him.”

  “I can see that,” Ben says. “What about you?”

  I shake my head. “I just wanna get this done.”

  We get back to the house and I slowly climb up the steps, my legs heavy and uncooperative. I trudge through the parlor and into the dining room, where Micah is picking at the food still spread out on the table. I’m so tired, but I sit down across from him while Ben goes to find Curtis.

  “You want to talk about it?” I ask.

  Micah drops a piece of chicken and rubs his greasy fingers on his pants.

  “Oh, now you wanna talk?” he asks, reaching across the table for the decanter in the center. “’Cause earlier you slammed the door in my face.”

  Micah pours himself a sizable glass of what stinks like whiskey and I frown.

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “Yeah, you’re sorry, Pa’s sorry, everyone’s sorry.”

  “I know you’re upset,” I say, gritting my teeth. “But you don’t understand.”

  “Of course not,” he says, taking a huge sip and grimacing. “I’m only your dumb little brother, how could I ever understand?”

  “Micah—”

  “It’s all up to you, right? You make all the decisions, and it don’t matter what anyone else thinks or who you’re gonna hurt.” His voice cracks on the last word and he lifts his glass again.

  “That’s it,” I say, shoving myself up. “You want to sit here and bellyache, fine. I’m going to bed.”

  “Go ahead,” Micah calls after me. “Run off and leave again, Will, just like Pa.”

  I storm past Curtis and Ben as I go, ignoring their questions and concerned faces. Micah can tell them what happened if he’s feeling so damn chatty. I barricade myself in my room, making sure the door is locked before I curl up on the bed and wrap my arms tight around my shoulders.

  Micah’s words eat at me. Because here’s the truth, sober as sunlight, final as a shut door: I am leaving him. I’ve got one foot in the ground already, and there’s no fixing it. I don’t know how to tell him, how to make him understand. I wanted to get out, but not like this. Never like this.

  Now all I want is to go home. More accurately, I want to go home two years ago, when everything was simpler. Maybe we weren’t always happy, maybe the floor sagged and we struggled to get by, but Ma was alive and I didn’t have to worry about making the wrong decisions. I didn’t have to level a rifle at my pa and lie to my brother. I don’t want the life I have now, and fate, ever agreeable, will make sure of that.

  There’s a soft knock at my door, almost hesitant.

  “Go away, Micah,” I call, and roll over onto my back.

  The knock comes again, more insistent this time. I let out an exasperated groan and get up.

  “What?” I ask, flinging the door open to find it’s only Sam, Sam with his perpetually hunched shoulders.

  “Micah’s in a rotten mood,” he says, like we’re already in a conversation. “Guess it didn’t go so well with your pa.”

  I sigh. “Come in.”

  I sit back down on the bed, pulling one
leg up and resting my chin on it. “Is he still mad at me?”

  “He’s always mad at you,” Sam says, smiling a little. “Besides, you know it ain’t about that.”

  “You know, the stupid thing is I missed Pa,” I surprise myself by saying. “I ain’t seem him in months, he causes this whole mess, but somehow . . .”

  “He’s your pa.” Sam shrugs.

  “Yeah.” I pluck at the threads in the quilt absentmindedly.

  “He was always nice to me,” he says. “I’m sorry for what I said about him the other day. And I’m sorry he don’t wanna make things right.”

  “He weren’t always this bad, you know. I mean, he always went off to drink and play cards, but he would eventually come home to Ma. After she died, it’s like—I don’t know, it’s like she took a piece of him with her. And every time he went off after that, less and less came back, and now all that’s left is what I saw today.”

  “That ain’t your fault, Will.”

  “It’s nobody’s fault. It just is.”

  “Some folks aren’t meant to be parents.” Sam looks off, like he’s seeing something far beyond the walls of this room. “My ma took off when I was four.”

  “I remember,” I tell him.

  “She left a note, saying she loved me and she’d come back for me when she was settled. It took me two years till I was able to read it, and another three to figure out she was lying.”

  I’ve never heard Sam talk about his ma; I look at his face, concerned, but he stares at whatever he sees in the distance. I don’t say anything, because there’s nothing to say that will make it better. Glory’s full of stories like Sam’s, like Ben’s, like mine. Just ’cause it’s common doesn’t mean it hurts any less. We’re all orphans out here.

  “People have a way of disappointing you, if you let them,” I tell him.

  Sam shakes his head, breaking his reverie. “They can surprise you, too, if you let them.” He smiles wanly at me. “You want to come down? I hear there’s calves’ feet for supper.”

  My stomach rolls, and I press my lips together. “I think I just want to go to sleep. Long day tomorrow. Tell Micah to take it easy with the whiskey.”

  “All right. I’ll tell him.”

  “Hey, Sam?”

  He pauses by the door. “Yeah?”

  “What you said at the station, about fixing up a cut . . .”

  “Is your hand worse?” he asks, stepping back.

  “No,” I say quickly, angling my palm away from him. “No, it’s healing. But if an infection did get bad, is there anything I could do?”

  Sam frowns. “Mostly keep it clean, maybe try some heat or bleeding. If it gets too far gone, you’re talking amputation. Or cauterization.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Burning,” Sam says, his mouth twisting. “But I don’t recommend it, not without a lot of opium. And once it hits your bloodstream, there’s nothing can be done. Why are you asking me this, Will?”

  “’Cause I’m clumsy, Sam, and I can’t always come running to you.”

  “Sure you can,” he says, grinning.

  “Well, thanks. For that, and . . . for talking with me.”

  “Anytime. We’ll be home before you know it, Will. Get some rest.”

  I listen to the door close and lie down on my side, staring at my hand like there’s an answer hiding somewhere in the crisscrossing lines, if only I can find it.

  53.

  I can’t sleep. I lie on my bed, staring wide-eyed into the darkness, watching shadows melt into other shadows and counting the hours down. I’m exhausted, but my body refuses to settle, jumping and twitching against my will. I finally drift into a sort of numb daze before dawn, and when I wake up my bed is soaked with sweat and all I remember of my fever dreams is that they were dark and full of twisted limbs.

  I start the day off in a bad state, exhausted and shivering. I’m anxious to leave; I’m restless, my skin hot and jittery and my eyes like burning coals in my head. I want to get home, and I rush through our breakfast of hotcakes with fried potatoes and eggs. I take a few bites because I have to eat something, and then I sip on my coffee and watch the others eat, silently urging them to hurry.

  Micah sits next to me, shoveling eggs into his mouth at a rapid speed. We don’t speak, both of us awkward and stilted. His eyes are red rimmed and his face looks puffy, which should teach him not to drink so much. Maybe I should’ve come down to make up with him last night, but I don’t know what to say to make it better.

  “You missed cards last night,” Micah says quietly. “Levi won three hands out of four.” He takes a bite of potato and chews with his mouth open wide.

  “Then I hope you weren’t playing for money,” I say, swatting him to close his mouth. He doesn’t apologize, and neither do I, but we don’t need to. I drain the last of my coffee, blanching a little at the sweetness. I have to ration our sugar at home, and I’ve grown used to the taste of bitter coffee.

  “Still not hungry?” Micah asks, watching me closely.

  “Anxious, I reckon,” I say, and force myself to take a bite of eggs. “Pa’s not gonna make this easy.”

  “No, he’s not, but when has he ever,” Micah agrees. “You think McAllister will really kill him?”

  I look down at my full plate. “I don’t know. I reckon he’ll try. But Pa’s always been good at getting out of tight spaces.”

  “A family trait, I think.” He smiles, just a little, and my shoulders ease.

  “Do you think the twins are all right?” I ask him quietly.

  “The twins? Sure, they’re fine. Even McAllister wouldn’t go so low as to hurt them. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just have a feeling, like we need to get home. Like something bad is gonna happen.”

  I expect him to laugh at me, but he doesn’t. “It’ll be all right, Will,” he says, meeting my eyes. I think the line between his brows is permanently etched in now. “We’ll do whatever it takes, like we always have.”

  Breakfast ends, and I try not to push everyone out the door. Curtis loads up his new rucksack with canteens of water, rope, crackers, everything he managed to replace. Mrs. Keen is beside herself that we’re leaving; I get the feeling that she likes a full house. I hope the woman has children who will give her grandchildren soon, she has so much love that it’s spilling out her ears. She gives us each a small bundle of food for the road, and only Ben manages to escape without a hug, and only because he runs outside when he sees her coming.

  “Thank you for loaning me the shirt, Mrs. Keen,” I tell her, holding it out, but she presses it back to me.

  “Keep it, dear,” she says. “I’ve no use for it any longer, and lord knows Mr. Keen don’t need it.”

  I won’t turn down a free shirt, and it obviously makes her happy to give it to me. “Thank you,” I say, and I allow her to hug me again.

  “Come back and see me, Daisy. A soul gets lonely, on her own.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I say, gritting my teeth at my embarrassment of a name. I whip my head around to glower at my brother, but he holds his hands up in surrender. A snicker from Ben tells me who the real culprit is, and I do my best to ignore him as Mrs. Keen waves us off.

  Curtis leads the way to the stable, and my cheeks grow warmer the closer we get. It’s bad enough Ben had to see Pa like this, now Curtis and Sam get to see what kind of useless father I have. We push open the door where we left him, and it’s as bad as I think it’s going to be. Pa has vomit on his chin and shirt and he looks even worse in harsh light. I swallow hard, and almost take a step back.

  “Come on, Will,” Micah says, coming to stand next to me. “We gotta do this.”

  I take a deep breath, then open a canteen and douse water over Pa’s head. Sputtering, he opens his eyes wide. He sees the ropes around his wrists and tugs, confused.

  “What the—”

  “Morning,” I say loudly, and Pa glances around wildly, noticing the group of people staring at him.

&
nbsp; “Willie? What’s going on? Get these off of me.”

  “No,” I say, hoping I sound steadier than I feel. “Here’s the deal, Pa: you’re going back to Glory.”

  “The hell I am—” he starts, but I cut him off.

  “Don’t talk. Just listen. Really listen, because I’m only gonna say this once, and it needs to get through that whiskey-addled brain of yours: you’re coming.”

  “We’re done asking, Pa,” Micah tells him. “See, there’s five of us, and one of you. You can walk with us, or you can be dragged by us. Up to you.”

  Pa looks at me, searching my face for sympathy that he won’t find. He looks behind me, to where Ben and Curtis stand shoulder to shoulder and Sam has his arms crossed over his chest in an unsuccessful attempt at intimidation. He’s lost, and he knows it.

  “You’re right,” Pa says, his voice raspy. “You’re right, this is all my fault. I’m sorry. I’ll come with you, I’ll turn myself in.”

  I don’t believe that for a minute; Micah and I exchange a cynical look. We both know Pa’s routine by heart, he’ll act contrite and wait for us to let our guard down. Fine, I’ll play along if it gets us moving.

  “Great,” I tell him. “Glad to hear it. The ropes stay on.”

  Pa scowls at me, but he doesn’t argue. Micah unwinds the rope from the stable hook and wraps it around his own wrist. He tugs roughly and Pa staggers to his feet. No one helps steady him, and Micah doesn’t wait for him to regain his balance before starting to walk off. You lie down with dogs you expect to get fleas, and Pa is getting a tight leash and no mercy all the way to Glory.

  54.

  Levi’s not on guard this morning, so Curtis merely nods at the stranger while we wait for the gate to open. He barely blinks at Pa, but I reckon he’s seen more exciting things than a man with his hands bound. We clear the wall and I breathe a sigh of relief; maybe things didn’t work out the way I planned, but at least it’s half over. I found Pa, for better or for worse. Now all that’s left is the long walk back and a short good-bye to everything I love.

  I step into the desert and take a deep breath of the hot air, letting it fill up my lungs like it could scald away the disease inside me. After a night in a strange bed, the desert almost feels like coming home. It’s comforting, to see the barren land and the fat tumbleweeds doing their lazy roll. Things out here are simpler, purer. I know the danger in the desert, I know what to expect. A shake won’t disappoint you, won’t lie to you or let you down. They kill you because they’re hungry, because their liquified brains tell them to attack. When they hurt you, it’s clean, sharp, without malice or intent behind it. I can respect that. You can’t hate the rawboned dog that bites you, only the master that starved him.