Devils Unto Dust(58)

Ben and I lock eyes for a second, and I glance away quickly, feeling my cheeks go hot.

“Damn shame, is what it is,” I say, keeping my face down.

“Look, just cool your heels for a while,” Ben says. “It’s almost time to head back, anyway. Don’t wander off.”

I snort at him. “I got nowhere to go.”





46.


I lean back against a half-rotted hitching post, with only my thoughts to keep me occupied. I don’t mind; I like my own company, for the most part. Although lately I’ve been too quick to give in to self-pity and melancholy; a side effect of dying, I reckon.

My head hurts. It’s not a sharp hurt, but a constant dull throbbing; it’s the kind of hurt where if I don’t think on it, it recedes into the background, like someone humming softly. I rub my temples and focus on the people walking past, trying to make up lives for them. This woman with the straw hat and the brooch at her neck, she’s in an awful hurry. She’s almost skipping, and I bet she’s going to meet her fellow. He’ll be young, and handsome, but too poor for her folks to approve of. She doesn’t care about the money; they’ll marry this month, in secret, before anyone can tell them not to.

And this man here, with the bowler hat and only the top button of his coat fastened, he looks like a lawman, or he would if we still had lawman around these parts. The man walks past, his eyes alert and focused, but I lose sight when someone stumbles past me and trips stepping off the banquette.

It’s the hunter that spit on me, and he’s so drunk he doesn’t even notice I’m standing here. I glare daggers at his back as he weaves his way across the street. I push myself away from the post and debate whether to follow. Ben told me not to wander, but I doubt this fellow can go too far in the shape he’s in, and I owe him for my shirt. I look over my shoulder, but Ben and Micah are still wasting time somewhere inside, trying to get answers from the most unhelpful people as ever lived. I grumble to myself and hurry across the street, following the man as he turns a corner. I lose sight of him for a moment and then see him duck into a storefront marked Alameda. I frown at the sign, the name ringing a bell; this has to be the place Pa sold to. What are the odds the fellow came here by chance?

I open the door and the smell of hides hits me like a solid thing, that mix of rank meat and bitter smoke. The back wall of the store is half covered with a giant black and brown buffalo skin, the fur dense and shaggy. I reckon that one’s for show; the wares are about what I’d expect, some calf and sheepskin, but mostly smaller hides. I see jackrabbit and coyote pelts slung over tables, and enough snakeskin to cover the rest of the walls. I run my hand over the cold scales absentmindedly, wondering how many of these Pa skinned himself.

The spitter is talking heatedly with an older fellow, his voice slurred and too low to overhear. The older man looks uncomfortable, but he nods briskly and after a moment the hunter claps him on the back and staggers past me out the door, not even looking at my face. When he leaves, I turn my attention to who I assume is Mr. Alameda.

“You got a nice store here,” I tell him, petting the soft fur on a rabbit pelt. “You do these yourself?”

“Most of ’em,” he says, smiling at me. At least I think he’s smiling; he has a droopy gray moustache that covers most of his mouth and hangs down over his chin. “Not so much lately, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Looks like you’re wanting a new shirt,” he says.

“What I want and what I can afford rarely align,” I tell him. “Are you Alameda?”

“I am. You have me at a disadvantage, young’un.”

“My name is Wilcox,” I say, watching him closely. “I think you may know my father.”

Mr. Alameda blinks at me slowly. “I do,” he says. “You’d be his oldest, then?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been looking for him, came all the way from Glory to find him.”

“And you want to know if’n I seen him.”

“Please, sir. It’s mighty important.”

Alameda sighs, sending his moustache waving. “Time was, your pa used to come by often. Most of those snakes are his, you know. And I paid him proper, never tried to fleece him or nothing. If he wanted to spend his money on drinking and gambling, well that was his business.”

“Mr. Alameda—”

“I ain’t seen him,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Last time he came by was months ago, claiming I owed him for all the times I stiffed him over the years. Now, I swear to you I never did.”

“I know, Mr. Alameda; my pa cheats people, not the other way around. I just want to find him.”

Alameda nods, looking relieved. “I wish I could help you, but I don’t know where he is.”

I press on my forehead, wishing my head would stop pounding. “You sure about that? You sure that fellow there didn’t ask you to forget you seen him?”

Alameda draws himself up. “Miss Wilcox, I don’t answer to anyone but myself. That’s the truth.”

I look him in the eyes and he doesn’t flinch. “All right,” I say, discouraged. “Thanks anyway.”

I head to the door, my shoulders stooped. I pause, considering, and turn around once more.

“Mr. Alameda—if by any chance you do see him, could you give him a message for me?”