Devils Unto Dust(63)

I give an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, he’s like that.”

We stand in silence, waiting for Micah to catch up. I glance sidelong at Ben, squinting against the sun.

“Killed in a bar fight, I ask you,” I mutter to him. “I would never die in a bar fight. Undignified.”

“We’ll see,” Ben says.

Micah stomps up on the banquette and glares at me. “Can’t you sit still for one minute?”

“No,” I tell him. “Alameda says Pa’s in the old stables behind the saloon. Can you take us there?” I ask Ben. “I forget which way it is.”

Ben takes the lead, just like we’re back in the desert. Micah grumbles under his breath, but he falls in with us. Ben takes us across the street and to the left, and we turn and there’s the green roof of the hotel. I wasn’t that far off, but I reckon it’s better Ben found me than let me wander around the town for who knows how long.

The saloon is right where we left it, sitting small and quiet; I glare at the door like it personally insulted my looks.

“Alameda said the stable’s out back,” I say.

“Probably best to avoid going inside,” Ben says, raising his brows at me.

“Good,” I tell him, jutting my chin out. “Then I won’t hurt my fist on that bartender’s teeth.”

“Come on,” Micah says, shaking his head.

He tugs my arm and we head toward the small gap between the saloon and the shuttered horse tack shop next to it. We squeeze by a wagon wheel that’s leaning on its side and pop out behind the saloon. I consider kicking over one of the whiskey barrels stacked against the wall, but they look heavy and it may take some time. Instead I focus on the stable, or what used to be a stable. Even when there were plenty of horses to keep, it couldn’t have housed more than two or three of them; now it’s a hollowed-out shack that still stinks of horse and moldy hay.

We approach warily, not sure of what we’ll find. The afternoon sun glints lazily off the nails and hinges in the wood. One of the stalls is open, the gate hanging wide, the wood too warped to close properly. The empty stall is filled with matted-down hay and rusted cans, all mixed with horsehair and piss. I purse my mouth, disgusted; of course this is where Pa would be sleeping.

A rustling comes from the next stall, and Micah and I both reach for the closed gate. He gets there first and unlatches it, letting the heavy door swing open. Slouched against the corner on a bed of rags is a greasy man with a whiskey bottle in his lap. His head hangs down to his chest, his eyes closed and his mouth half open.

My heart is like a fist in my chest. “Pa.”





51.


He looks like he’s dead. For a moment I let myself think it, let myself think how it would be easier, and then a low snore comes out of his mouth.

“Pa.”

He doesn’t move, and I say it again, louder.

Still nothing. I reach down and shake him, more violently than I intend. He snorts loudly and flails an arm out and I step out of the way.

“Pa, wake up.”

Pa stares at me with bloodshot eyes and looks around the stable, disoriented.

“Willie—where am I?” His voice is slurred, but it’s still the same playful drawl that used to sing us to sleep. It brings back memories I don’t want or need right now.

“We’re in Best, Pa. We been looking for you.”

“Oh.” Pa slumps back against the wall, his mouth drooping open. His eyes start to close and anger washes over me, prickly and pointless. It’s not as if I was expecting Pa to change, but it still smarts; we’ve been through hell and back while he’s been snoring here, drunk out of his mind.

“Micah,” I say, glancing at him, and he nods once, his mouth tight and mad. He doesn’t say anything to Pa, barely even looks at him. I grab Pa’s whiskey bottle and splash the alcohol on his face.

“Hey, what—” he sputters. He lurches to his feet, swinging out wildly with his fists. Micah and I each grab an arm but Pa goes limp in our grasp.

“You want some help?” Ben asks.

“No, we’ve got him,” I say, straining under Pa’s weight. He’s half conscious and cumbersome and sweating whiskey, and it’s embarrassing enough without Ben having to carry him.

Micah and I ease Pa down until he’s in a sitting position, propped up against the stable wall; he rolls forward, his limbs spilling over like boiled rope.

“Just like old times, huh,” I say bitterly, wiping sweat away from my eyes.

“Yeah,” Micah says. His face is blank, removed. “This is the last time I’m doing this, Will, I mean it.”

“I know.” I bite the inside of my cheek and glance around until I find a crate that looks like it may hold my weight. “Um, Ben—”

“Coffee? Food?” he supplies.

“Yes, thank you.”

Ben walks away as I settle down on the crate. “Pa,” I say, nudging his shoulder, and he grunts at me.

Micah bangs the butt of his rifle against the stable wall, over and over. I grit my teeth, and Pa raises his head and clutches it with his hands.

“What in the sam hill—”

“Sorry,” Micah says loudly, with one last thump.

I sigh, but he’s not doing anything I’m not tempted to do. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence as Pa and I stare at one another; it’s been a long time since I met my father’s eyes.