Devils Unto Dust(40)

Stop it, I tell myself. I am not some self-pitying fool, given to bouts of misery and mawkish tears. My mother did not weep when she got sick, or if she did she didn’t let us see. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe it’s not the sickness, only some fast-moving infection from whatever lingered on my knife. Whatever it is, I will not spend my last days curled up with my grief. I will be strong, and I will be silent. I can’t tell anyone, not yet. If I tell them, they’ll kill me. Or the Garretts will make us turn back, and I can’t let that happen. I need to find Pa, because my family needs him now more than ever. So I’ll wait, until I know for sure, until the very last moment. I’ll hold on as long as I’m able, and then do what needs to be done. I won’t let myself become a monster, I won’t hurt the people I love. I will bring Pa back and it will be the last thing I do.

“I’m awake,” I say, my voice raw. I sit up clumsily, my limbs heavy from the drugs, my back sore from the cot. My head begins to pound as soon as I raise it, but my eyes are clear and the pain in my nose is bearable.

Curtis whistles when he sees me. “That is one colorful face, little lady.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“What about mine?” Ben asks. His eye is a smarting shade of purple tinged with pink.

“It looks better on Willie,” Curtis says.

I rummage through my sack until I find my mirror, glad to have use for it. I press the catch and flip it open to examine my face. It’s not as bad as I thought; my nose is swollen but not misshapen. I angle the mirror up and see what Curtis meant: the skin beneath my eyes is bruised blue and green. I grimace and snap the mirror shut.

“Not the worst I’ve had, but bad enough,” I tell Curtis.

“What was the worst?”

“That honor goes to one Micah Wilcox,” I say, pointing at my brother.

“I had to do something to stop you kicking me,” he says, grinning. A stab of regret clenches my stomach, and Micah’s smile falters.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, forcing a laugh that echoes harsh and hollow in my ears. “Just trying to remember why I was kicking you.”

Micah frowns, but I hold a smile on my face like a false note hanging in the air long after it’s done sounding. Finally he shrugs. “I think I put a scorpion in your bed, but it could’ve been a snake.”

“Scorpion,” Sam says. “I helped you catch it.”

“Then I owed you those kicks,” I tell him. I put on my gun and knife and gather all my belongings together with my duster and blanket. When no one’s looking, I change my ripped shirt out for the spare one and hope it lasts longer than its predecessor. Before I get up, I strip off a length of fabric from my rag bundle and tie it around my hand, then tug my sleeve down as far as it will go. I can’t let anyone see the infection, whatever it is, spreading up my arm.

When the boys have their coats and bags together, I tug on my boots and we leave the tent. It’s early morning yet; the moon is still visible in the sky, a ghostly horseshoe mocking the sun. My legs are stiff and my muscles protest moving again so soon. We stop by the hitching post on the way to the mess, empty now except for Nana. She looks mighty put upon as we load her up, like a tired mother trapped with unruly children.

The mess hall is quieter than it was last night; there’s no relaxed chatter or drunken laughter. Breakfast is a somber affair when no one knows what the rest of the day will bring. And I suspect the drinking last night didn’t improve anyone’s mood this morning.

Our group, too, is quiet while we eat. Breakfast is a plate of eggs over mashed beans, with real boiled coffee to go along. I’ve been drinking watered-down belly wash so long, I forgot how good it tastes. It’s strong and sweet, and after my second cup I feel wide awake and looser. The coffee fills me with an optimism I know is false, but I can’t help feeling hopeful; even my headache is better.

“Listen up, folks,” Curtis says as we finish eating. “The second day is always the hardest. You’re tired from yesterday and we got even longer to go. But this is where we’re gonna start to see some action, so I need y’all alert and focused. Understood?”

We nod solemnly across the table; I understand the stakes out here now more than anyone. I knew when I left Glory that I was risking my life. Would I have chosen differently, if I had known what would happen? Even now I can’t say for sure. I did what I thought I had to do, and I have to live, or die, with the consequences.

We fill up on water and leave the station with little fanfare; the gate closes behind us and it’s like we never left the open desert. As we head forward, I take a quick inventory of my injuries: bruised face, stiff legs, cut hand, and a poison spreading slowly through my body. I’ve never started a day off in worse shape. But I’m still here. I’m still here, and I’m still walking. And for now, that’s enough.





32.


We see a body the second mile in. Ben, from the lead, whistles two notes, high and then low. I shield my eyes from the glinting sun and look where he points, to a mound of rags off the road. We make our way over slowly, subdued by the presence of death so early in the day. It seems out of place, in the brightness of morning.

“Stand back,” Curtis says as we gather slowly around the tangle of limbs and scraps of clothing. He unholsters his gun and he and Ben level their weapons at the unmoving body. I put my hand on my revolver, but I don’t draw it. I see a tangle of brown matted hair, knotted and patchy in places. From the length, I guess it’s a woman, but she’s facedown on the ground.