Devils Unto Dust(57)

“We’ll try the Occidental first,” Ben says, directing us toward a squat brown building with a bright green roof. “It’s a hotel, but they got a barroom where folks like to gamble.”

We follow Ben into the hotel, and he stops to talk with a man at a desk while I admire the lobby with its shining tin ceiling and embossed wall coverings.

“This way,” Ben says, motioning to Micah and me. “Through here.”

Micah has to pull me away, my head still tilted up to see the patterned ceiling. “Come on, Sis, we ain’t staying here.”

Ben walks us down the hall and into the barroom, which has a number of deer heads that must be at least ten years old mounted on the wall. Maybe more; I don’t remember when the last deer died out, but I’ve never seen those pale, branching antlers in my life. There are only two men in here, one on each side of the counter. Maybe it’s too early, or maybe folk in Best don’t lose themselves in drink like we do in Glory.

“’Scuse me,” Ben says, rapping his knuckles on the bar.

The bartender looks up and makes his way over to us, smoothing his moustache.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“We’re looking for someone. Harrison Wilcox, he’s a gambler. You seen him?”

“Can’t say I have. No one name of Wilcox in here.”

“Right,” Ben says. “Well, we’re staying at the Keen house. If he does show up, we’d be obliged if you took note of where he goes.”

The bartender nods and fiddles with his moustache again. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“No,” Ben says. “Thank you for your time.”

We file out of the barroom and back through the lobby.

“Well that’s one down,” Micah says, letting the door swing behind him. “Where to now?”

We try the feed shop and a general store next, and they both yield the same answer. At least the woman at the last stop is nice about it; from her we get a smile and a headshake, but the result is still the same: Pa’s not here, and no one’s seen him.

“We’ll try a saloon next,” Ben says.

“You think they’re lying?” Micah asks him as we’re directed toward another door.

“Could be,” Ben says. “Best folk are closemouthed, but I don’t see what cause they’d have to lie.”

“Maybe Curtis and Sam are having better luck,” I say, my gut tightening. Pa’s always been good at weaseling out of tight spots, but there’s five of us and one of him.

“Fourth time’s lucky?” Ben asks, holding the door open for us.

“I don’t think that’s the saying,” I tell him, ducking under his arm.

We follow him into the saloon, and I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. I wrinkle my nose; it smells rancid in here, like old milk mixed with the sharp fumes of alcohol. Spittoons are scattered around the ground, but from the state of the floor it seems most folks have chosen to ignore them. There’s some quiet chatter from two hunters at a corner table, and one sitting alone, looking full as a tick. I can’t tell if he started early or if he’s still drunk from last night.

The bartender takes his time acknowledging us, giving a glass a few extra wipes. My temper rises as he slowly walks over to us.

“Can I help you?” he asks grudgingly, folding his arms across his chest.

“We’re looking for Harrison Wilcox,” Ben says.

The bartender sucks on his teeth, looking from Ben to me and then to Micah. “I ain’t seen him and he ain’t welcome here,” he says.

Ben glances at us and I shrug.

“Pa has that effect on people,” Micah says.

“Anything else?” the bartender asks, and he doesn’t give us time to answer before he walks away.

“This is getting us nowhere,” I say, impatient. I glance at the drunk sitting on his lonesome; he looks too addle-headed to lie.

“You,” I say, weaving around a chair to stand in front of him. “I’m looking for someone.”

The man looks up at me with bloodshot eyes set in a shiny face. “I don’t know ’im,” he says, pouring whiskey into a cup of coffee, sloshing some down the side of the mug.

“I didn’t give you a name.”

“I don’t know ’im,” he says again, and he spits out a gob of tobacco juice and sputum that lands squarely on my chest.

“You—you—” I stutter. I’m so hell-fired mad I can’t even think of something bad enough to call him. “This was my last good shirt, you lily-livered bastard!” And I grab his mug and throw it in his face. He yelps and sputters, falling back in his chair, and I watch in satisfaction as the hot liquid drips down his chin. He tries to get up, cursing at me, and Ben swoops in, taking me by the shoulders.

“Time to go,” he says, steering me out of the saloon.

“Willie—” Micah tries to chide me, but it’s hard to do when he’s snickering.

“Why don’t you let me do the talking, from now on,” Ben says. “As a matter of fact, maybe you should wait outside.”

“Fine by me,” I say, disgusted, wiping at the brown stain on my chest. “Look at my shirt. Disgusting. At this rate I’ll be walking home nekkid.”