Devils Unto Dust(16)

“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.