Devils Unto Dust(31)

“Reyes,” the man says, holding out a knobby hand.

“Garrett,” Benjamin answers, and they shake.

“I seen you ’round here afore. Y’all be wanting tents and food?”

Ben nods and takes out a small leather coin bag from his pocket. “Meals and five beds, if you have ’em.”

My stomach growls while they dicker over the price, reminding me it’s been some time since I’ve had a full meal. Reyes doesn’t look like he has enough imagination to haggle, but they come to an agreement. They shake on it and Reyes turns his attention to the rest of us.

“These boys know the ropes?” he asks, squinting at me and Micah and Sam.

“They’re fresh on the road,” Curtis tells him.

Reyes sniffs and spits into the dirt. I make a disgusted face until Micah elbows me.

“Right. Well, this is Backbone Station. Ain’t much to it; that there’s the mess hall,” Reyes says, pointing to the flat structure closest to us. This place was built to be a temporary stop, and it shows; the hall is only a roof and two walls, with long tables set up inside.

“Two meals a day, anything else is on you. Tents is there,” and he points beyond the hall to a scattering of white shelters. “Any cot that’s free is yours for the night. We ain’t got many here right now, but it’ll fill up some in the next few hours. Keep your valuables on you, less you want ’em gone. Water tower and hitching posts you can see, outhouse is behind the tents. Now listen close,” he says, and his eyes get even smaller. “You bring any trouble here, you go outside the gate. You start any trouble here, you go outside the gate. Got it?”

“Got it,” Micah and Sam say, one a beat behind the other. Reyes turns to his head to me.

“Got it,” I say quickly, and his eyebrows shoot up when he hears my voice.

“You’re a girl,” he says accusingly.

“I know,” I say.

“We don’t get many women out here. This ain’t a boardinghouse, we ain’t got a separate place for you to sleep.”

“I don’t expect one, but I’m hoping you can help me, Mr. Reyes. I’m looking for my—our—father,” I say, glancing at Micah. “Harrison Wilcox. He would’ve passed through here yesterday maybe.”

Reyes scratches the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t know. Lewis was on the gate then, if’n you want to talk to him.”

“Where can I find him?”

“He’ll be around the mess hall later, pale feller with orange hair and ostrich boots.”

“Thank you.”

Reyes waves his hand, dismissing my thanks. “Welcome to Backbone,” he says.

“Ben, get them watered and settled,” Curtis says. “Reyes, I got some news I need to pass along.”

Benjamin nods curtly and ushers us away, but not before I see Reyes’s face go grim. Out here, there’s only one kind of news, and it ain’t the kind you want to hear.





26.


We go to the water pump first, and though it’s warm and smells of minerals, it is the sweetest thing I have ever tasted. I swallow away the dust in my mouth and drink until I can feel the water sloshing around in my belly.

“Slow down, Will,” Sam says, tugging on my shoulder. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

“I don’t care,” I say, but I stop and let Micah have a turn. Even my feet feel better now that I’m not thirsty.

We unload Nana and set her up at a post with water and feed. There’s one horse hitched to another post, a mangy-looking dun with ribs poking out. The horse eyes Nana with disdain, and I give the mule a reassuring pat on the nose.

“You’re better than any bony horse,” I tell her, and glare at the dun. “Mind yourself, sir.”

I pick up my small bundle and turn to find Benjamin frowning at the horse.

“What?” I ask him.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head.

“You know him?”

“Don’t think so. Come on, your boys are picking out cots.”

“They’re not my boys, Garrett. Don’t go putting them on me.”

A large pole stands in the center of the station with a red flag with black letters reading Backbone. As we pass it, I notice someone’s added words in white paint to the pole: The dead sleep free.

The tents look larger and not so white up close. The canvas is ripped in places, and dirt stains the cloth where it touches the ground. They’re solid enough, though, held up with wooden beams and tied with thick rope. Some of the tents look to be lived in, with guns and crates stacked in front. We walk by one with the flaps tied open and inside a flint-eyed hunter smokes a pipe, sitting on a camp chair with his legs propped up on a barrel. The sweet-smelling smoke drifts into my face and burrows in my hair.

“Over here,” Micah calls, and he waves from a tent. “How’s this one?”

Micah ducks back in and I follow him, pushing the canvas aside. Inside, the air is stale and smells like sweat and piss and whiskey. I wrinkle my nose, but at least it’s cooler and keeps the sun off. There are six cots, two against each side of the square tent excepting where it opens. Two barn lanterns hang on the beams, but it’s early yet for them to be lit. There’s a small table with a washbasin and little else, but I reckon it will do fine for one night.