Devils Unto Dust(4)

It was different when Ma was alive. Ma knew how to stretch the pantry, she took in extra sewing on the side; she tried to teach me but I’ve never been much good with a needle. Things were tough, sure, but we got by. Pa—well, he was still Pa, but at least when he came home he had stories to tell, and he could always make Ma laugh. He would send money when he remembered, or when he won a big hand. Now, he never comes home unless it’s to sleep off the drink and ask for cash that we don’t have.

I keep waiting for something to change, but I don’t know what that will be. All I know is that I can’t keep on like this, I can’t take care of all of them. Micah helps with the skinning, but between the two of us we only found three snakes yesterday, and two of those were rat snakes, not worth much. We have no money and there are four of us to feed. Hattie Jensen put a pillow over her baby’s face eight months ago. The Judge put her outside the perimeter, but we all understood why she did it. If it’s a choice between dying quick or starving, I know what I would choose. But I don’t even have that luxury because I can’t leave my family to die.

I wipe the plates down with a stiff rag and order the twins to clean their hands again. I can see the grime under Calvin’s fingernails, and I vow to start enforcing some rules around here, though even Ma could barely control the twins. I don’t think they’re scared of anything, especially not me; that’s what happens when you grow up in a place where danger is as commonplace as weeds. They’ve never known any other life, and maybe that makes it easier.

I’m debating whether or not to sweep; I’m fighting a losing battle with the dust, and some days it doesn’t feel worth it. A knock at the door makes the decision for me.

“Micah,” I call over my shoulder. Micah’s friend, Sam, can be expected at least once a day.

“Hold on,” I say, and I shove back the sticking lock on the door. I open it wide to find two hunters waiting on our front porch.





3.


The younger one’s name is Yancey, I’m fairly certain. He’s a sorry-looking fellow, sallow cheeks and thin hair that he hides under a wide hat. The other one, with the dark hair and the mean mouth, I don’t know. I’ve seen him at the Homestead, playing cards with Pa, but I never had reason to get his name.

“What do you want?” I’m not rude as a rule, but I don’t like surprises, especially on my doorstep.

“You Harrison Wilcox’s daughter?” the stranger asks.

“Who wants to know?”

“Name’s McAllister. We’re looking for your father.”

“He ain’t here.”

“That right?” And before I can stop him, Yancey shoves his way past me into the house.

“Hey,” I yell, grabbing at him and missing. “You can’t just—”

“If you’re hiding him, you better tell me now,” McAllister interrupts.

Yancey knocks over a chair and my entire face goes hot. I start to call him all the dirty names I can think of, and the commotion brings Micah out of the back, the twins trailing after him.

“Willie?” he asks, confused.

“He ain’t here,” Yancey says to McAllister.

“I already told you that,” I say, furious. “Now get the hell out of my house.”

“One moment,” McAllister says, and he very deliberately pulls out his gun. I go still, and he nods at me. “Now how ’bout we have us a talk.”

I glance at Micah, but his eyes are on the gun. My own still hangs on the wall, useless with McAllister between it and me.

“I don’t think so, missy,” McAllister says, following my gaze. “After you,” and he motions to the table with his gun.

Damn. I turn around, trying to remember where Micah left his rifle. McAllister takes a seat at the table where we just ate our breakfast, and my lip curls with resentment. Who the hell does he think he is, pointing a gun at me in my own kitchen?

“Sit,” he tells me.

“Let them go,” I order him, nodding at my family. Yancey stands to Micah’s side, daring him to move. “You don’t need them.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Micah says.

“I’m staying if he’s staying,” Calvin says.

“If Cal stays—” Catherine starts.

“Enough,” McAllister says, his voice clipped. “Sit.”

I glare at Micah and pick up the overturned chair. Trust them to be difficult when I least need it. I sit and McAllister levels his gun at my chest. I cross my arms to show him I’m not impressed, not by him or his bootlicker. I’m scared, but more than that I’m angry. I know their kind, bullies and cowards, and I won’t show him fear.

“Now then,” he says, “like I said, we’re looking for Harrison Wilcox.”

“Why?”

“’Cause he has something that belongs to me, that’s why.”

I close my eyes for the briefest moment. “What’d he steal now?”

“Four hundred dollars. I won it fair off some boys last night. I maybe celebrated overly much, and when I woke up my money was missing, and your pa with it.”

It figures. Only a fool would spout off about money at the Homestead; serves him right that Pa took it off him.