“Cookout,” I say, pulling my shirt up to my face so I won’t have to smell burning bodies.
“Yeah,” Ben says, unsmiling. “Real funny.”
25.
“At the gate!” Curtis calls, his voice weary but solid. Inside the fence, what I thought was an outhouse turns out to be a small guardhouse, and a slight man emerges with a pistol in his hand. He peers at us from across the fence with small dark eyes.
“How many?” he asks.
“Five altogether.”
“Any of you touched? Afflicted, like?”
“Nary a one. Even got ourselves a doctor.”
The slim man lets out a low whistle. “That so?”
“Well, I’m not really—” Sam says, but Curtis claps him on the shoulder before he can finish.
“Not really up to seeing anyone right now,” he finishes for Sam. “Being on the road and all, but maybe get some food in him and he’ll change his mind.”
After that, the man can’t let us in fast enough. The gate doesn’t swing open, like in Glory; this one gets pulled up with ropes. We file in slowly, like cattle being led to feed, stumbling and gazing with wide eyes. A large wooden structure stands behind the guardhouse and there’s a water tower to the right.
“Reyes,” the man says, holding out a knobby hand.
“Garrett,” Benjamin answers, and they shake.
“I seen you ’round here afore. Y’all be wanting tents and food?”
Ben nods and takes out a small leather coin bag from his pocket. “Meals and five beds, if you have ’em.”
My stomach growls while they dicker over the price, reminding me it’s been some time since I’ve had a full meal. Reyes doesn’t look like he has enough imagination to haggle, but they come to an agreement. They shake on it and Reyes turns his attention to the rest of us.
“These boys know the ropes?” he asks, squinting at me and Micah and Sam.
“They’re fresh on the road,” Curtis tells him.
Reyes sniffs and spits into the dirt. I make a disgusted face until Micah elbows me.
“Right. Well, this is Backbone Station. Ain’t much to it; that there’s the mess hall,” Reyes says, pointing to the flat structure closest to us. This place was built to be a temporary stop, and it shows; the hall is only a roof and two walls, with long tables set up inside.
“Two meals a day, anything else is on you. Tents is there,” and he points beyond the hall to a scattering of white shelters. “Any cot that’s free is yours for the night. We ain’t got many here right now, but it’ll fill up some in the next few hours. Keep your valuables on you, less you want ’em gone. Water tower and hitching posts you can see, outhouse is behind the tents. Now listen close,” he says, and his eyes get even smaller. “You bring any trouble here, you go outside the gate. You start any trouble here, you go outside the gate. Got it?”
“Got it,” Micah and Sam say, one a beat behind the other. Reyes turns to his head to me.
“Got it,” I say quickly, and his eyebrows shoot up when he hears my voice.
“You’re a girl,” he says accusingly.
“I know,” I say.
“We don’t get many women out here. This ain’t a boardinghouse, we ain’t got a separate place for you to sleep.”
“I don’t expect one, but I’m hoping you can help me, Mr. Reyes. I’m looking for my—our—father,” I say, glancing at Micah. “Harrison Wilcox. He would’ve passed through here yesterday maybe.”
Reyes scratches the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t know. Lewis was on the gate then, if’n you want to talk to him.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He’ll be around the mess hall later, pale feller with orange hair and ostrich boots.”
“Thank you.”
Reyes waves his hand, dismissing my thanks. “Welcome to Backbone,” he says.
“Ben, get them watered and settled,” Curtis says. “Reyes, I got some news I need to pass along.”
Benjamin nods curtly and ushers us away, but not before I see Reyes’s face go grim. Out here, there’s only one kind of news, and it ain’t the kind you want to hear.
26.
We go to the water pump first, and though it’s warm and smells of minerals, it is the sweetest thing I have ever tasted. I swallow away the dust in my mouth and drink until I can feel the water sloshing around in my belly.
“Slow down, Will,” Sam says, tugging on my shoulder. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
“I don’t care,” I say, but I stop and let Micah have a turn. Even my feet feel better now that I’m not thirsty.
We unload Nana and set her up at a post with water and feed. There’s one horse hitched to another post, a mangy-looking dun with ribs poking out. The horse eyes Nana with disdain, and I give the mule a reassuring pat on the nose.
“You’re better than any bony horse,” I tell her, and glare at the dun. “Mind yourself, sir.”
I pick up my small bundle and turn to find Benjamin frowning at the horse.
“What?” I ask him.
“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head.
“You know him?”
“Don’t think so. Come on, your boys are picking out cots.”
“They’re not my boys, Garrett. Don’t go putting them on me.”
A large pole stands in the center of the station with a red flag with black letters reading Backbone. As we pass it, I notice someone’s added words in white paint to the pole: The dead sleep free.
The tents look larger and not so white up close. The canvas is ripped in places, and dirt stains the cloth where it touches the ground. They’re solid enough, though, held up with wooden beams and tied with thick rope. Some of the tents look to be lived in, with guns and crates stacked in front. We walk by one with the flaps tied open and inside a flint-eyed hunter smokes a pipe, sitting on a camp chair with his legs propped up on a barrel. The sweet-smelling smoke drifts into my face and burrows in my hair.
“Over here,” Micah calls, and he waves from a tent. “How’s this one?”
Micah ducks back in and I follow him, pushing the canvas aside. Inside, the air is stale and smells like sweat and piss and whiskey. I wrinkle my nose, but at least it’s cooler and keeps the sun off. There are six cots, two against each side of the square tent excepting where it opens. Two barn lanterns hang on the beams, but it’s early yet for them to be lit. There’s a small table with a washbasin and little else, but I reckon it will do fine for one night.
Sam and Micah have claimed the beds at the back, so I toss my pack on the cot to the right, nearest the opening and the freshest air.
“Is this all right?” I ask Benjamin when he comes in. “You and Curtis over there?” I point to the cots across from mine.
“Works for me. I’d rather be closer to the exit anyways,” he answers. “Just in case things take a turn.”
“We’re surrounded by hunters,” Sam says dryly. “How much safer could we get?”
I snort softly, and even Ben’s lips twitch at that.
Ben throws his pack on a cot, leaving the other for Curtis. The beds are old, straw-stuffed mattresses without a coverlid. I can see the imprint of where previous bodies have slept and yellowed sweat stains where their heads have lain. But I could sleep on a gravel road; I’m that tired.
“Go on and rest awhile,” Ben tells us. Micah is already half asleep, sprawled out on the cot with his head propped on one arm.
I take off my coat and scrunch it into a pad for my head, then unroll my blanket and spread it out beneath me. It’s too hot to get under it, but once the sun drops, so will the temperature. My gun and knife come off and get shoved under my makeshift pillow where they won’t poke at me. I pull my boots off and let them drop to the ground, rubbing my sore feet. Every bone in my body creaks and settles when I lay down. The roof of the tent is vaulted, coming down low where I’m lying; I could reach out and touch it, leave my finger streaks in the dusty cloth. I turn on my side and study the beam close
to my head, next to the entrance. There are names scratched in the wood, some deep and some barely visible. Davis, I read. Rodriguez. Eames. One that could be Hicks, or maybe Ricks. Why do they carve their names, when only strangers will read them? A name is only a meaningless word with nothing to attach it to. Maybe it is enough just to be remembered, if only for your name; here is proof of life, faceless and voiceless but unmistakable. Immortality of a strange sort: a eulogy in wood. I lift my hand to trace the names when sleep takes me.
27.
Someone is calling my name, and I struggle to swim out of the depths of sleep.
“Will, wake up.”
It’s my brother’s voice, and for a blissful second I’m at home. Ma made breakfast and Pa is already up and working on the roof. The twins will be in any moment now, jumping on me and getting underfoot. I open my eyes a crack, expecting to see Micah leaning over me. But the light is wrong and the ceiling is too close and then reality comes crashing down around me.
“Will, come on, I’m hungry,” Micah says.
I sit up slowly, my back protesting. My eyes feel leaden and my mouth tastes bitter. I rub my face and swallow and peer at my brother, long shadows on his face.
“What time is it?”
“Almost six. Sun’s going down and they rang the bell for supper.”
“Where is everybody?”
“Already went to the mess hall, where we should be.”
“Nice of them to wait,” I say crossly, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
“You wouldn’t wake up, I told ’em to go ahead. Not their fault you sleep like the dead.”
I give Micah a shove and ease my way to my feet.
“Shut it. I’m still mad at you.” I pick up one of my boots from the floor and pull it on, hissing as it scrapes my heel. “Where the hell is my other boot?”
Micah grumbles, but he helps me find it and waits while I check it for scorpions and put it on.
“Can we go now?”
“Quit your bellyaching, I’m coming.”
I stand up and follow Micah to the mess hall, feeling unsteady on my feet. My head is pounding something awful; I need water, food, and more sleep, in that order.
The setting sun changes the desert, orange light spilling out across the horizon, stopping only where the sky bruises blue. Through the open walls of the hall, light and noise pour out, the yellow glow of kerosene lamps, the metallic scrape of knives on plates. Heavy wooden tables stretch from one end of the room to the other, benches tucked in beneath. There are maybe fifteen men in all, huddled together in their own companies. Curtis waves Micah and me over to where he and Ben are sitting.
“Where’s Sam?” I ask, but my eyes are on the steaming bowls in front of the brothers.
“Getting grub,” Curtis says, and points behind him. “Go and help yourself.”
We don’t need to be told twice. Micah beats me to the table in the corner, where a man with brown skin and a tidy moustache stirs the most enormous pot I’ve ever seen.
“Evening, young’uns,” he says cheerfully. “Grab a plate.”
Micah picks up a tarnished tin plate and hands one to me, and the man ladles out the stew.
“Eat up, now. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
I could love this man, I think. I give him my best smile, teeth and all.
“Thank you, sir,” I tell him.
“My pleasure, little lady.”
Salt pork and potatoes, thickened with flour; no one speaks while we eat. There’s a bowl of cornbread, only a little stale, and a pitcher of water set on the table for us. I don’t remember the last time I ate this much or this well. Micah catches my eye and we grin at each other over our plates. I’m so full I could almost forgive him. I inhale my first serving, but I take my time with my second, chewing each bite slowly and deliberately. I study the other men in the hall, keeping an eye out for Lewis, listening to snatches of conversation, nonsense mostly. There’s a rumor going around that the president might send the army to keep us locked inside our houses till the sickness dies out, and the hunters have been railing against Grant for days. I roll my eyes; the North has enough trouble, what with the strikes and the fires. Do the hunters really think anyone cares what happens down here? As long as the shakes stay confined to these few barren outskirts, the rest of the country is more than happy to ignore us. They’ve already stopped building railroads, now they’ll wait for us all to die out and then come in and raze the ground and salt it for good measure. We’re a speck on the map, a blight on the land, and no one’s coming to save us.
Most of these boys look like hard cases and hard drinkers. There aren’t many old-timers, either; most of these boys are truly boys. Hunting isn’t the safest profession; I reckon all these fellows know their odds. I count four other hunters I know from sight at the Homestead, though I disremember most of their names.
“Y’all aren’t drinking,” I say, turning my attention back to our table.
“What’s that now?” Curtis asks.
“Most of these fellers are slewed already. I never knew a hunter didn’t drink.”
“We don’t drink on a job,” Ben says.
“Why not?” Sam asks.
“Bad idea,” Curtis says. “You get loose, you get sloppy.”
“Most don’t care if they get sloppy,” Sam says. “Long as they get some money up front.”
“Where’d you hear that?” I ask Sam. I know it’s true, but I didn’t think Sam had anything to do with hunters.
“Willie, I’ve been helping my pa stitch since I could hold a needle. I hear plenty of stories. Remember Pickett? He killed his own client halfway to Barstowe. Didn’t feel like taking him back.”
“What happened to him?” Micah asks.
“Died in a bar fight, nasty knife wound.”
I shake my head. “Ma said time was, Glory was a nice enough town. People didn’t try to rob you in the street, folks didn’t gamble away their savings. We even had lawmen, of a sort. Damn the Judge and his hunters. What did he expect, when he let killers loose in our town?”
“I don’t suppose he cares,” Micah says. “No offense,” he adds belatedly.
“We ain’t all like that,” Ben says. “Some of us are just trying to get by. Judge might be our boss, but we don’t deal with him any more than we have to. I don’t know Pickett, but I reckon he got his.”
“And we won’t kill y’all,” Curtis adds with half a smile. “That’s just bad for business.”
Micah regards Curtis thoughtfully, chewing on a dry piece of cornbread.
“You know, for hunters, you boys ain’t so bad,” he says.
Sam and I start to laugh, but Curtis nods his head solemnly.
“Here’s how,” he toasts, and raises his glass of water in salute.
28.
A clang comes from the left, and we look over to see a pale, slender man standing up and banging his cup against a table.
“’Scuse me,” he calls, and it takes a moment for silence to come over the hall.
“Thank you,” he says. “Sorry ter interrupt your supper, but we got some news for y’all heading west. The well on mile eighty-eight’s been spoiled.”
There’s a low murmur as the news is repeated.
“We got some folks heading out tomorrow to seal her up, but in the meantime take whatever water you can carry and spread the word. Tha’s all.”
As the voices get loud again, I stand up and make my way over to the man, Micah on my tail. I’m betting this is Lewis; he has a shock of reddish blond hair and a spattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks.
“Are you Lewis?” I ask.
“I’m him,” he says, turning to meet me. We’re the same height, and he meets my eyes directly. “What can I do you for y’all?”
“Reyes says you were on the gate yesterday. I’m hoping you remember seeing my father, Harrison Wilcox?”
Lewis frowns, his brow wrinkling. “What’s he look like?”
“Like m
e,” Micah says, scowling, “but with a few more pounds and a lot more years.”
“He mighta been with a man called Washburne,” I add.
Lewis squints at Micah, considering. “I seen a man looked like him, but he didn’t give the name Wilcox.”
That’s the first smart thing Pa’s done. “That’s him.”
“Comes ’round a lot, don’t he?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He passed through often enough. Did you see him leave?”
“Can’t say for sure. Maybe I did.” Lewis rubs his hand through his bright hair.
“Please, sir. It’s important. I need to know where he headed.”
“Well, I suppose I saw him goin’ east. Least that’s how I remember it.”
I nod in agreement, but the news somehow leaves me feeling more tired than before. At least I know we’re going the right way. “Thank you, Mr. Lewis.”
We walk back to our table quickly, my head heavy. Curtis sees me and raises his eyebrows.
“Well?”
“He was here,” Micah says.
“I’m not sure when he left, but I reckon it was early,” I say. “And he was going east.”
“So what now? You think he’ll stay in Best once he gets there?”
Curtis and Ben just wait, their faces carefully blank. Micah and Sam look at me, expectantly. The pressure starts to gnaw at me again, the familiar weight of responsibility settling onto my shoulders. This is what I tried to escape, came all the way out here to duck, and still it follows me. I don’t want them to look at me like this, like I’m the one with answers when all I feel is lost. But it has to be this way; there’s no one else I can look to, and they all look to me.
“I think so,” I say, filling my voice with confidence I don’t feel. “At least for a few days. I’ve never known him to go any farther.”
Micah frowns at me, but Sam claps him on the shoulder. “See? We’ll find him, nothing to worry about. Willie always knows what to do.”
His words pain me, but I force a smile. “’Course I do.” I sit back down and pick up my fork before realizing that for once I’m actually full. There’s even food left on my plate, a rare luxury.
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