Devils Unto Dust(87)

“Gee, thanks, Sam.”

He smiles at me again. “You know Micah would be furious you let a shake eat up your arm.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m awful mad at him, too.”





70.


We’re almost home. I would hold my breath until we go through the gate if I could; every mile we pass safely seems to tempt fate. Part of me didn’t think I would really get home again. Maybe the desert decided it’s taken enough from me; it’s a different me that’s going home, anyway.

The closer we get to Glory, the closer the boys get to the horse; they huddle around me, Curtis in front, Ben in back and Sam flanking my side. From this height I feel like someone important, a queen surrounded by her guard. The thought makes me laugh to myself; it’s a sorry kind of queen with hand-me-down pants and knotty hair.

The numbness wears off after a couple hours, and now the skin of my arm is sore and hot. I don’t worry until the itching starts, and then I keep good on my promise and tell Sam.

“How long has it been itching?” he asks.

“It just started. I wouldn’t think much of it, but it happened like this last time, on my hand. It got all red and puffy and wouldn’t stop itching.”

Sam gives a jerky nod. “All right. Keep the bandage on and don’t scratch it.”

“What does it mean?” Ben asks him, but I already know what he’s going to say.

Sam pauses, then lets out a long breath. “It’s a sign that a wound’s infected.”

He glances at me and I shrug; it’s what I expected. I suppose I should act more concerned, but there’s no point. I’ll fight it off or I won’t, and either way I’ll do it on my own terms. I’ve used up all my capacity for grief and anger, I have nothing left to give. It’s easier this way, not to feel so much, to let it all drain away. This is what Ma meant, when she told me to be hard. It’s not about being strong, like I thought. It’s about giving up what makes you weak. The fever burned the fear out of me and the desert burned out the last of my softness. All that’s left is grit.

When the gate comes into view, it feels unreal. I’ve been imagining it for days and it looks too solid, too tall to be true. I fight the urge to whip the horse into a gallop, but the last mile stretches my nerves taut and sharp.

“Home, sweet home,” Sam says as we come up on the fence. I never thought those words about Glory, but I find myself agreeing with him.

“Who’s that?” calls the guard.

“Garrett,” Curtis calls back. “Open up, we got four coming in.”

After a moment, the gate begins its horrible screeching and slowly opens for us. My heart beats wildly, still convinced something will go wrong.

“Come on, then,” the guard says, and Curtis leads the way inside. I thought I recognized the guard’s voice, and sure enough Amos Porter is waiting for us.

I let out a breath as the gate closes, the sound sharp and final.

“When’d you get a horse?” Amos asks.

“It was Dollarhide’s,” Curtis answers. “He won’t be needing her anymore.”

Amos grunts, taking the news in stride, then his face breaks into a smile. “Well, I’ll be! Is that you, Willie?”

“Hey, Amos,” I smile back at him.

“Thank god you’re back. You know there’s hunters after you?”

“I know.”

Curtis halts the horse and I fling my leg over and slide down as best I can. My back and my rear ache from riding so long, and I wince when I hit the ground.

There’s a stilted moment when we all realize we’ve actually made it back. I glance at Ben and Curtis; this may be the last walk I take with them. It makes me strangely wistful.

“And I see you came home, too, Doc Junior,” Amos says to Sam. “Your pa’s been hounding me night and day. Next time you feel like taking a trip, you might oughta tell him.”

“Sorry, Amos,” Sam says.

“Where’s your friend, then?” Amos asks him. “Your brother, Willie, you hiding him?”

I brace myself. “He won’t be coming back.”

His smile fades slowly, the corners of his mouth dragging down. “I’m sorry for your loss, young’un.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, come on,” Curtis says, always taking the lead. “Can’t stop now.”

We take our time walking the small distance down the road. I breathe in the smell of Glory, the tang of wire from the fence and the yeasty scent of bread coming all the way from the Homestead. It stirs up memories, both good and painful. We walk toward the center of town, the street empty and the shops deserted, just like always. I find myself appreciating the quiet; I have to get my head in the right place before I walk into the saloon.

The silence is disrupted when we get closer to the Homestead; rowdy voices drift out, and someone is singing loudly and off-key. I take a deep breath and push the door open, ready to get this over with. One last task and then, like the song says, it’s home, sweet home.





71.


I didn’t expect anything to change, but it still feels odd that nothing is different in here; the tables, the spittoons, even Elsie behind the bar, everything is right where I left it. It’s like Glory stopped in place when I went away, waiting patient and lifeless until I returned and it could start moving again.