First I’m standing at the entrance to her and Pa’s bedroom, my hand pressed ’gainst the knot-strewn door. I ain’t brave enough to push it open and step through—Pa would have me by the ear—but it’s cracked today, and I find the courage to peer through the slender gap.
Sun’s streaming in their one window, lighting up the space. I’m young and short still and can barely see over the foot of the bed. The quilt’s disheveled and lumpy. I ain’t seen her in over six months. I ain’t seen her in so long, I’m starting to forget what she looks like or even where we stood the last time we were together.
A memory of a kitchen that ain’t ours surfaces, and a table that wobbled ’cus one leg were too short. A basket sat on it, woven with bits of brightly dyed wicker. I remember a lot of color in that house. Colors and shapes that felt like Ma. We don’t got none of that stuff no more. It’s like she got sick and Pa threw it all out.
Ma ain’t moving in her sleep. I wonder if she might already be dead and Pa just ain’t noticed. His hand reaches over my shoulder, startling me as he yanks the door shut.
“What’d I tell you ’bout staying clear of this room, Kate?”
I tilt my head back. He’s towering overhead and looking mighty displeased.
“I wanna see Ma. I miss her.”
“I know you do. But I don’t want you getting sick.”
“You get to go in the room,” I says, pouting. “You go in there every night.”
“’Cus I’m big and grown and strong. Yer little and can catch what she’s got too easy. Now how’s ’bout you help me with dinner while Ma sleeps?”
The memory dissolves, blowing like sand till it settles on a new moment.
Our neighbor Joe Benton is bringing me home in his cart. His dog had a litter that morning, and Pa took me over to see the pups. I watched ’em so long, he left to tend to our land. All day I stared at those tiny creatures, so plump and pudgy that they looked like rolls of dough. They couldn’t even open their eyes yet.
I get a bad feeling during the ride home—a prickling sensation on my skin, a sense of dread. Something ain’t right, only I got no idea how I know it.
When Joe’s cart bumps over the rise separating our claim of land from his, Pa’s in the distance, standing beneath our mesquite tree. It ain’t till we’re nearer that I can make out the shovel in his hand, the hunch to his back, the dirt he’s throwing into a hole.
I scramble outta the cart and go racing toward him. It takes my little legs forever to get there, and when I do, I can see there ain’t no bottom to the grave. It’s already filled in, the dirt fresh and dark and nearly level with the grass. I only know what I’m looking at ’cus I helped him bury our barn cat not a week back.
“I wanted to see her!” I scream at Pa, pounding his thighs with my fists. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
“She didn’t look like herself no more,” he says when I’m through attacking. “I thought this would be best. She’ll rest easy beneath this tree—sheltered in the winter and shaded in the summer. We can visit her together.”
“I wanted to see her,” I says again.
“I know. But remember her like this: healthy, smiling.” He passes me a photograph taken when I were still a baby. I’s seen one just like it in a lunch box Pa uses to store important papers.
I don’t take the picture from him.
I get up and stomp to the barn and cry by myself in Libby’s stall.
Later that night, I find Pa’s put the photograph under my pillow. I keep it there for years, till Pa buys me a copy of Little Women and the photo starts serving as a bookmark. It stays tucked between those pages till it burns up in the fire, and I swipe Pa’s copy from his lunch box, ’long with all that remains of his life.
When I wake, back turned to camp and last night’s dreams still fogging my head, the sun’s already up. For how long, I ain’t sure, but the sky sure is light enough. I reckon I woulda woken earlier if it weren’t for the canyon walls leaving our camp in shadow.
I shove to my feet and stumble farther beyond the cottonwoods, till I find a private spot to relieve myself. As I’m fastening my trousers I notice footprints in the dry dust. The toe of a boot, the gouge of a heel. My heart goes a thumping in my chest. Someone were here, this close to camp. Definitely one man. Maybe even two. Apache? No, not with those pointed boot toes. Maybe Rose himself. Or the ghost shooter.
I follow the tracks best I can, but they’re half scattered by the wind and disappear where the canyon floor becomes mostly rock.
Rounding a bend, I come to an abrupt halt.
Far to the south and climbing toward the sky like a church steeple is Weavers Needle. It’s a beacon among the ragged terrain, a marker you couldn’t miss if you tried. I hold up my hand, gauging its size ’gainst my fingers. I reckon it’s another three or four miles off still, but that would mean the horse-head landmark is within our grasp. If’n we get to it tonight, we’ll be in position to watch the sun rise tomorrow morning and mark the mine’s location when it shines over the rock steed’s neck.
It should make me happy, this progress, but every hair on my person is suddenly standing on end. I get the feeling I’m being watched, that I ain’t alone. I turn the way I came, expecting Lil to be sneaking up on me, but the canyon’s empty. When I turn back toward Weavers Needle, there ain’t nothing but wilderness as far as I can see.
Still, something ain’t right. The tracks, the stillness, this feeling in my chest. Just like that time with Ma, I can sense something foul.
I spin round and race back to the cottonwoods.
I stumble into camp. Lil’s there, loading up her pony, and Waltz’s burro grazes nearby, but otherwise she’s alone. Their beds, their pistol belts, their gear—all gone. There ain’t a sign of ’em.
My hands go to my lower back, but no—I gave Jesse the journal last night, let him look. I scramble for my bedroll, digging frantically through my gear, hoping in vain he put it back after reading it. But it ain’t there.
The journal’s gone, and the Coltons went with it.
“They left early,” Lil says. “The stars still shone.”
“Why the hell didn’t you stop ’em?”
“I want them far from me. They seek to destroy everything I value.”
“Damn it, Lil, they took my journal!”
It shouldn’t be a shock. We were using each other, the Coltons and me. That’s all it ever were, our deal, and the boys ran when they no longer needed my help, when they secured the means to their end. They got the maps now. They don’t gotta put up with me or Lil. If they travel swift, they might not even have to face the Rose Riders. They could beat ’em to the gold and leave these mountains rich men without raising their pistols once.
Lil swings a makeshift sack over her shoulder and nudges her pony to action.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Home.”
“And our arrangement? Yer supposed to be my scout!”
“You lied to me. Our arrangement no longer has worth.”
“Lil, you can’t leave me here. You can’t leave me alone.”