Devils Unto Dust(42)
“Now, Curtis.”
With a loud curse, Curtis yanks his gun free just as the coyote lunges at him. A shot goes off, I think I scream, and there’s blood on the ground. The coyote drops back, twisting his body, and I see a long streak of red against his ribs. The shot just grazed him, and once my brain catches up with my eyes, I pull out my own gun.
The coyote licks at his wound and bares his teeth, his growl turning into a high-pitched whine. The sound eats at my heart; I make a bad daughter for a trapper, I hate to hear animals in pain.
I aim at the coyote’s head, wanting to put him out of his misery. I pull the trigger and hear echoing shots from Curtis. The coyote yelps and falls to the dirt, his legs scrabbling at nothing. Poor thing; what chance did he have against humans with guns?
The blood slowly stains his fur and pools into the dirt. His eyes start to glaze over as he gives up whatever it is that makes him a coyote.
“I think it’s dead,” Micah says when the animal stops breathing.
“Right. We’re done here,” Ben says. “Nobody touch it,” he adds, glancing in my direction.
“Everyone keep your wits about you,” Curtis says. “Seems to be that kind of morning.”
I don’t touch the coyote, even though I wish I could close his eyes. Even though it couldn’t hurt me. I sigh to myself as we move away; I’m tired of watching things die.
34.
A hot wind starts to pick up in the early afternoon. It’s rare to have any kind of breeze out here in the flatlands, and I’m thankful for it. The wind buffets my cheeks like a warm breath, drying my sweat and spitting bits of dust and gravel into my eyes. Cockleburs skitter across the dirt purposefully, snagging on unwary bits of cotton and hair. I pull a sticker off my sleeve and flick it away, doing my part to spread the weeds.
“Move in,” Ben calls, and the wind snatches up his words and throws them back to me. He points to a marker by the road; Curtis nods, but it means nothing to me. He motions for Micah and Sam and they trot up from the rear.
Ben waits for us to come level to him and Curtis wraps Nana’s lead firmly around his wrist.
“Stay close now,” Curtis tells us. “We’re gonna be passing by Silver.”
Sam’s eyes widen and I suck in my breath. Silver. The name is a warning, a threat parents use to scare unruly children. Be good or I’ll send you to Silver. Count your blessings we’re not in Silver. I used to have nightmares about it, what feels like forever ago.
It wasn’t always a ghost story. Before it was a cautionary tale, it was a town. Nicer than Glory, bigger than Best, twice as many folks as Hide Town. They had a dress shop and a bank, a dance hall and a gin mill that was famous for its sour mash whiskey. Of course the sickness hit them first. And that many people, all packed together; there was no stopping it. The shakes spread like wildfire, and the whole town was sick in a handful of days. Afterward, folks figured out pretty quick to set up fences around the towns. As for Silver, it was too late to do anything but keep a distance.
“Stay together and stay sharp,” Curtis says. “We’re gonna give the city a wide berth, but there could be shakes out roaming.”
“How many are still in there?” Micah asks.
“Enough,” Curtis says.
A chill creeps up like a cold finger along my spine. The sickness kills your brain, but there’s something about Silver that calls to the shakes, drawing them in like moths to the memory of a flame. They know the town is theirs now. Who knows how many are in there, feeding off the dead and hiding in the shadows.
“Eyes open and guns close,” Ben says. “Understood?”
He looks at each of us in turn, and I swear he takes longest with me. Does he still not trust me? If fighting side by side won’t convince him I belong out here, I don’t know what will. It shouldn’t sting, but it does.
“Ben, I’ll be point man,” Curtis says.
Ben nods and Curtis moves up to the front of our grimy group. The wind whips thin blades of ocotillo and they lash against my legs. As we get closer, I can make out the crumbling walls still standing in Silver and slight movement in between. There’s a howling in my ears, whether from the wind or from Silver I cannot tell.
“Guns out,” Curtis says, just loud enough for us to hear him, loosing one of his long-nosed revolvers from his belt. I pull my own revolver from its holster and cock it and I immediately feel surer with its weight in my hand. Micah slings his rifle off his back, and Sam produces a small pistol he was hiding somewhere. Ben opts for his smaller gun, too, leaving his rifle in place. We move forward, and I feel invincible with all this hardware glinting in the sun.
We reach the outskirts of the ghost town, and even at a distance my confidence starts to fade. It’s one thing to know a place is abandoned, but it’s another to see the outline of a single boot decaying in the sun and know that a foot used to wear it, used to live in it. The houses are hollowed-out shells now, sand-swept and overgrown with tarbush. This is the future that waits for Glory, if things keep up. Whether we go one by one or all at once, the end result is the same. At least I won’t be around to watch it crumble.
We fan out along on the road, keeping Silver to the left. A high wail comes from somewhere inside and I shudder. I can’t keep my eyes off the skyline of the town, dark walls jutting up into empty air. The sky has turned sour, bruised gray and green. This whole place feels ill, like the sickness sunk into the ground and spit into the sky. It doesn’t take long to pass the town, but it still isn’t quick enough for me. Time must move slower the more alert you are, every second stretching out painfully. When we clear the last sunken building, the minutes snap back into place and my shoulders start to ache as the tension leaves them.