The fences kept the shakes out, but they couldn’t keep folks in. And people still needed to go from town to town, especially when there’s nothing out here to grow. Lots of folks died those early years, trying to get supplies through the desert. I reckon people even thought the Judge was a godsend, the way he came in and set up the stations. And at first his hunters seemed like a fine idea, to protect folks on the road. But the prices got higher, and the hunters got rougher, and the Judge started charging just to live in our own homes. By then it was too late. The Judge controls the hunters and the hunters control our movements, and I’m broke and half-starving with no way to get out.
I pass Old Bess’s place and it snaps me out of a past that won’t do me any good to linger over. Her front porch is cluttered with a rocking chair, clay pots, an ill-shaped bench, and an empty barrel with dirty cups on top. Bess has been ancient for as long as I can remember, and most nights she just sits in her rocking chair, drinking cup after cup of coffee and staring out at the desert. She’s a strange old bird, but a tough one, and the only person the twins seem to listen to. My mother used to take us over to visit, and the inside of Bess’s house is even worse than the outside, filled with all manner of odd knickknacks. Ma once tried to tidy up the place, but Old Bess just yelled at her and waved her cane around until she knocked the broom out of Ma’s hands. I feel guilty as I walk by, and I lie to myself, promising to visit soon.
A volley of gunshots echoes up ahead, I reckon somewhere close to the gate. This early, that’ll be the guards warning shakes away from the fence. I barely flinch at the sound of the blasts, that’s how used to them I am—Glory’s twisted version of a rooster’s crow.
Doctor Kincaid lives with his son in the next house, which is in far better shape than the others. He could afford to live closer to town, but I think he likes the quiet. He’s been the only doctor in town for some time now, and he delivered all my siblings and me. I don’t know why he still lives in Glory, but I’m grateful he does. The door opens as I walk by and Samuel waves to me from the porch.
“Hi, Willie,” he says with a small smile. The doctor’s son looks just like him, round glasses, slightly hunched shoulders, and hair that refuses to lay flat.
“Hi, Sam. Your pa’s out?” It’s more of a statement than a question; Doc Kincaid is always needed somewhere.
Sam nods. I wonder if he gets lonely in that big house all by himself. His mother ran off years ago, lost to the safety and the comfort of the north, or maybe it was the west.
“I thought I might stop by today,” Sam says hesitantly, and I try not to sigh at him. Sam comes over so often he’s practically another brother, yet for some reason he still feels the need to ask permission. He’s nearer in age to me, but he and Micah have always been close. Sam’s a bit more outspoken, but they’re both the shy, bookish sort, and particularly awkward around girls.
“Go on ahead,” I tell him. “I’m sure Micah will be glad of the company. It’s been a hard morning.”
“Twins at it again?” Sam grins at me, looking so much younger than I feel. I open my mouth to explain, but if I start to talk about it, I’ll only feel more helpless. Suddenly I’m tired, and I need to keep moving.
“They’ll tell you about it. I have to go,” I say quickly. “I’ll see you later, Sam.”
He says good-bye to my back as I walk away, and I raise a hand without turning. I focus on the road, watching my boots slowly coat with another layer of dust. The houses get closer together and then give way to shops the nearer I get to town. What used to be Jensen’s Candy Store is now a hollowed-out square building with a faded sign. Along the side of the building is a row of small glass windows, most of them cracked or broken, with shards of glass clinging to the edges. Every once in a while, when the twins get too rowdy to be contained, Micah and I bring them out here to throw rocks at the windows. Their aim is decent; they’ll be good with rifles, I think.
Only one wall of the church remains standing, with empty spaces where the glass used to be. The ground is scattered with split pieces of wood and fractured bricks, and the rest is just sand and brush. Every year more of the wall chips away, until at last we won’t even have the sad reminder of what used to be. Ma told me when times get hard, people either turn to god or against him. People in Glory turned their backs on god years ago and haven’t looked back since. We got no use for a god in these parts; we’re already damned.
I breathe out sharply and kick up a cloud of dirt, mad at the world. I don’t need to pay attention to where I’m going; I’ve taken this walk more times than I care to remember. My feet do the work for me, following the road as it forks and taking the path to the right. I thought the walk would settle me some, but the closer I get to town, the angrier I get. I keep picturing McAllister making this same trek back, only I’ll bet he did it with a smug smile on his face. It won’t do to get this worked up before I even step foot near the hunters, so I start to hum to distract myself, then sing in a low voice.
I walk beneath the desert sun
I walk beneath the moon
I’m looking for my one true love
I hope I find her soon.
I’ll look until I die of thirst
Until I fall from grace
I’ll look for my one true love
Till I forget her face.
It’s an old song, and the tune is cheery if the words are not. At the very least it gets my mind off this morning, my feet crunching along the road to the beat. When my throat gets too dry, I switch back to humming and try to swallow some moisture back into my mouth.
I pass what remains of the school, empty since our teacher left and no one bothered to take her place, then a long-shuttered mercantile shop, and then I’m almost there. McNab’s General Store is still open, though there’s nobody in it but McNab himself. He’s a stubborn one, there behind the counter, a look of grim determination on his face. Most folks get their food from the Homestead now, rather than the store; no one wants to spend real money, not when they can trade.
The path swings back to the left, and now the two rows of shops that make up Main Street come into view. In between the empty buildings are the shops that are still in service, the bootmaker’s and the boardinghouse, the pharmacy and the firearms store. There’s always a need for guns and medicine, especially out here. The storefronts are plain and sandblasted, the paint faded from signs and the windows dusty, but they have wide wooden banquettes to walk along and a welcome overhang to keep off the sun. I step onto the porch of the pharmacy, both to catch my breath and prepare myself, leaning against one of the beams that support the overhang.
My destination is at the end of Main Street, where a large, square, two-story building sits between the rows of shops. The Homestead started out as the courthouse, but now it serves as a trading post and a saloon, and the place where the shake hunters gather. The second story is a brothel, though it’s not advertised as such. I hate the Homestead; I hate the smell of the whiskey and the drunken laughs, I hate the men who populate it, but my need is stronger than my hate today. I square my shoulders and push away from the beam and run face-first into two hunters.
6.
I jump back, rubbing my chin where it glanced off something metal and cursing myself for being so addle-headed as to not see where I’m going.
“Sorry,” I mutter, and try to force my way past them.
“Not so fast,” the man on the right says, moving to block me. “Where you off to in such a hurry, little sister?”
He has deep-set eyes and a squashed nose. I don’t know him, but the man next to him is called Vasquez, a regular at the Homestead.
“You know damn well where I’m going,” I say crossly. “So let me get on with it.”
“What you got in the bag?” Vasquez asks, nodding at my sack.
“Nothing worth troubling yourself about.”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” the stranger says. “Hand it over.”
I clutch the sack tighter and wonde
r if I can reach my gun before they get theirs, and if a bag of biscuits is worth killing over.
“Don’t be stupid, girl,” Vasquez says, his hand on his pistol. “Do what Grady says.”
I clench my jaw hard, but relax my grip on the bag, glad I kept my money tucked away. The stranger, Grady I guess, closes in and lifts it from my shoulder while I glare at him; at least I can refuse to hand it over, a small and meaningless victory.
He opens the bag and digs his hand in, and to satisfy my anger I picture how he’ll look when the shakes tear his arms off. Bloody, I reckon.
“What the hell is this?” he asks, holding up a fistful of chimes.
I don’t answer, and he lets them fall to the ground, where they land with a jangle. He pulls out the snakeskins next, and the biscuits, and then rattles the empty bag.
“That it?” Vasquez asks, looking doubtful. He makes a long gargling sound and then spits a shiny glob into the dirt. It’s not enough to steal; they have to be disgusting as well.
“I told you it weren’t worth your time,” I say.
Grady scowls at me. “You’re hiding something.”
Now my hand is on my gun, and I make sure they can both see it.
“That’s enough,” I say. “You’ve had your fun. Don’t make this more trouble than it needs to be.”
Vasquez sniffs, to prove he’s not impressed. “Come on,” he says to his friend. “She ain’t got nothing.”
Grady looks me up and down and sneers.
“Yeah,” he agrees, shoving a biscuit into his mouth, which only partly muffles the name he calls me. He drops my bag on the ground and they walk away from me laughing. I squeeze my hands into fists and slowly count to ten to make sure I don’t accidentally shoot them both in the back. Then I kneel down in the dirt and slowly repack my bag.
Hunters. I hate hunters.
I stand up and compose myself, sling my bag over my shoulder, and push open the door to the Homestead.
The noise hits me first, the roar of men’s voices all speaking over one another and the tinny sound of a piano underneath. It’s dark in here, and I take off my hat and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dimness after the bright afternoon sun. Tables are spread out across the room with mismatched chairs, more than half of them occupied. To the right stretches the bar, a long wooden counter that’s lost most of its shine, stools and spittoons placed in front, a tall redheaded woman behind it. The floor under my boots is sticky with old liquor and tobacco spit as I make my way toward her. She’s arguing with a sloppy-looking fellow who’s swaying on his feet.
“Jus’ one, Elsie, tha’s all I’m asking fer,” he says, his voice thick and slurred.
“Jessup, go sit down before you fall over. And don’t even think of starting something tonight, or you can find another place to do your drinking.” Elsie glares at him mean enough to send him stumbling away. “And that goes for Dollarhide, too,” she calls after him, her hands planted on her hips. She turns and catches sight of me, worry flitting across her face. It’s gone just as quickly and she gives me a wide grin.
“Well, here comes trouble.”
“Hello, Miss Elsie,” I say with a small smile, pulling myself onto a stool.
“What can I do you for, Willie?”
“I’m here on business.”
“What do you got for me?” Elsie says, pouring me a glass of prickly pear juice. “Did you want something else, sweetheart? Coffee?”
“No, ma’am, that’ll suit me fine.” I put my sack on the bar and take a large gulp of the juice. It’s not cold, but at least it helps clear the dust from my throat.
Elsie opens my sack, carefully taking out the biscuits and the chimes, which are only slightly dusty. They aren’t worth much, but it’s something, and I already owe Elsie more money than I could ever hope to pay back. She’s kind that way; she was close with Ma and always looks out for us. She also knows more about the shake hunters than anyone in town, and I trust her judgment.
“Biscuits, those can go with supper tonight, and chimes. Micah make these?”
I nod and Elsie smiles. “I thought so. Clever boy, even if he never comes to see me. You want this back?” She holds out the worn cloth the bread was wrapped in.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, feeling my cheeks get hot at the obvious proof of how poor we are.
“And some skins, too. You do them yourself?”
“Micah killed them, but I skinned ’em.”
“Well, you did good,” Elsie says. “Now what are you needing, dear?”
“Flour, hominy, beans, coffee, dried fruit.” I rattle off the list I made in my head. I’d love to get some meat, even salted, but beans are cheaper and they’ll go farther. “Lamp oil, a spool of thread, and a brick of that yellow soap if you still have it.”
“Anything else?”
I take another drink and meet Elsie’s sharp gaze. “Some information, if you’ll give it to me.”
Elsie blinks, her face carefully blank. I don’t say anything, just stare back and after a long moment she sighs. “Damn. I was hoping McAllister would let it go. He bother you?”
I give a quick jerk of my head that could be a nod.
“I’m sorry, Willie. I didn’t think they’d be after you already.”
“I didn’t even know Pa was back.”
“He came in a few days ago. I tried to get him to go home, I really did—”
“It ain’t your fault, Elsie. He wouldn’t have done us much good at home, anyhows. Did you see what happened?”
“Some of it. McAllister was sitting with Fullerton and them and he was winning big. Making a lot of noise about it, too, which didn’t go unnoticed. Then this morning he’s down here screaming that someone lifted his winnings.”
“And that someone was Pa,” I say bitterly.
“Looks that way. Harry took off sometime in the night, but everyone heard McAllister bragging. If it hadn’t been your pa, someone else would’ve done it.”
“Any idea where he might be headed?”
“That I don’t know, but I can ask around. I’ll get Ned to find out who was on the gate last night.”
“Thanks, Elsie.”
“Anything you need, Willie, you let me know. I’m sorry I didn’t keep a closer eye on him for you.”
I shrug. “Ma couldn’t control him, neither. I don’t know why she married him.”
Elsie smiles crookedly. “She loved him, that’s why. Sense and love don’t always go together.”
“Well I wish she’d had a little more of one and less of the other. McAllister wants four hundred dollars, and I ain’t got anything close to that. So now I gotta go to the Judge with my tail between my legs, and that ain’t a conversation I’m looking forward to.”
Elsie doesn’t argue with me, doesn’t say it’s a bad idea, doesn’t ask any questions. She gives me no pitying glances, for which I am grateful. It is easier to be strong when those around you are, too, and determination is etched into every line on Elsie’s face. She reminds me of my mother, a hard woman in a hard land, and I resolve to be the same.
“All right, then. Do what you need to do.” Elsie looks over my head, scanning the sea of faces across the room. “The Judge is at the back. Be firm, be polite, and hold that tongue of yours.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I push my empty glass across the bar and hop off my stool, squaring my shoulders for the unpleasantness to come.
7.
I weave through the tables toward the farthest corner of the floor. Even through the smoke and the dim lighting I make out the Judge, his balding head sitting atop the massive bulk of his body. Three hunters sit with him at his table, and they fall silent when I approach, stopping a few feet away.
“Miss Wilcox,” the Judge says in his deep, cultured voice. He emphasizes the Miss, and already I am annoyed. But I try not to scowl, as it will only encourage him to bait me further.
“Your Honor.”
“I assume you’ve come to pay your dues?” H
e gazes at me with disinterest, like I am of no more consequence than a horsefly, a look he has perfected.
“Yessir.” I dig in my belt for the twenty dollars and hold it out. The Judge nods to the man on his right, who takes the money from me and hands it to the Judge. He doesn’t even bother to count it; I reckon it’s nothing to him. He’s rich enough to leave Glory, to sit pretty in some place out west. He stays because he wants to, because here he doesn’t have to bother pretending to be a decent man. None of them do.
I swallow hard. “I also—well, I wanted to ask you.”
“What?”
I can’t seem to get the words out right. “I was hoping—I heard it was possible—”
“Spit it out, girl.”
“I would like to take out a line of credit with you, sir.”
“Would you?” The Judge sits back in his chair, and he can’t keep a smug smile off his face.
“I need—well, my father left me with a debt, and I intend to pay it off.”
“And how much is this debt?”
“Four hundred dollars.”
“That wouldn’t be the money your father stole from Angus McAllister, would it?”
My cheeks flush and I duck my head. He knows damn well what the answer is, he just wants me to admit it; I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“I see. Well, honorable as your intentions may be, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He’s enjoying this, and I count to five in my head before I answer.
“Please, Your Honor. I have three younger siblings.”
“If you think appealing to my better nature will change my mind, you’re wrong. I am not a charitable man.”
“I’m not asking for charity,” I spit at him. Then I take a deep breath, trying to regain control. It’s almost physically painful to say, but I get it out. “Please, sir. I’m begging you.” The words leave a sour taste in my mouth.
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