Devils Unto Dust(21)

Benjamin pushes back his hat and glares at me with red-rimmed eyes.

“You got something for us, or you just here to visit?” he asks in his rough voice.

I tug open the purse around my neck and slap the stack of bills onto Benjamin’s open palm. He counts it calmly, then folds up the money and puts in into his front pocket.

“Well?” I ask him, folding my arms across my chest.

“What do you want? We’re square.”

“An apology would be nice, but I guess that dog won’t hunt.”

“You got a big mouth for someone so small.”

“All right, that’s enough,” Curtis interrupts. “Ben, you know better. I’m not going out there if you’re gonna be tetchy the whole time. If you two can’t be civil, you can be quiet.”

I look down at my feet, embarrassed. I’m acting no better than him, and I feel like a reprimanded child.

“I can be civil,” I say.

“Ben?”

Benjamin nods curtly.

“Shake on it, then,” Curtis orders.

Benjamin holds out his hand, and I clasp it briefly. His hand is warm and callused, his handshake firmer than I would expect given his obvious disdain.

“That’s settled, then. Porter, how’s it looking?” Curtis asks.

“Mostly clear,” Amos tells him. “Spotted a couple near the road, maybe a half mile down to the right. They’re lying low enough our shots aren’t scaring ’em off.”

“We’ll take care of them,” Curtis says. “Ready?”

“When you are,” he says, nodding. “Happy hunting.”

“Open her up,” Curtis says, and Amos whistles for his partner and they put their shoulders to the gate. It opens with a terrible reluctant screech that makes my insides crawl.

“Eyes out,” Curtis says. Amos claps me on the back as we walk through the gate, and suddenly we’re past the perimeter, breathing in the hot fumes of the open desert. I don’t look behind, not even when the gate screams shut. It occurs to me that it’s too late to back out now, and there’s some small comfort in that. For better or worse, this is happening. The desert stretches out endlessly before me, and I could walk forever, as long as the road leads away from Glory.





PART TWO:


THE


ROAD


In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

I said, “Is it good, friend?”

“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it

“Because it is bitter,

“And because it is my heart.”

—Stephen Crane





17.


For the first few minutes we don’t speak at all; the only sound is the soft tread of our boots on the dirt and the occasional snort from the mule. Two roads lead to and from Glory: the winding High Road that goes north, and the Low Road. This is the one we take, headed straight east, cutting a long razor across the land. The path isn’t easy to see, just a slight depression in the ground from years of repeated use, but the brothers walk purposefully and I trust them to know the route. A change comes over Curtis, a stiffening of the spine and an alertness that overtakes his easy manner. I do not see such a difference in Benjamin, but my guess is he doesn’t leave his vigilance in the desert. My opinion of him raises a hair; he must know, like I do, that a perimeter locks in danger just as much as it keeps it out.

I hum to myself for a bit, feeling lighter than I have in days. I dislike being caged, even if it’s a big cage and even when I know it’s for my own protection. My memories of Glory before the perimeter are hazy at best, but I remember a time when people weren’t always afraid. When I didn’t feel trapped, when I didn’t worry about money or Pa coming home drunk. Ma used to sing, silly songs she would make up while she cooked or knit. She sang less and less often, and then she stopped altogether. The way I remember it, the day she went quiet was the day the fence went up, when the ugly wire started looming taller and taller. I feel like singing out here, like filling up the vast empty space with sound.

“Sign,” Curtis calls, and I stop mid-hum. He points ahead to a small dirt mound to the right of the road. The dirt moves and separates into two figures and my stomach drops to somewhere above my ankles. I take a step back, as if that would help.

“Those’ll be the ones Amos saw,” Ben says, his voice remarkably even. He pulls his revolver from his belt and Curtis follows suit.

My palms are sweating, and I hastily wipe them on my pants before I reach for my own gun. My hands are tight and it takes me two tries to cock it. I tell myself I shouldn’t be afraid; I’ve seen shakes before, killed them before. Never like this, though, never without a perimeter in sight, never without somewhere to run to. Where can I run to out here, when there’s no place to hide?

Curtis gives me a steadying look. “When we start shooting, they’re gonna come for us,” he says.

“I know,” I say. My voice comes out only slightly high, but I hate that I give away any fear.

“Ready?” Ben asks.

“Ready,” Curtis answers.