The boy chokes back any further tears and uses both hands to pinch his lips closed.
Dewey’s beard is longer and bushier than ever on the day of his release. He’s wearing his fringed jacket and hole-riddled mule skin hat, sitting on his cot reading the Bible. “Revelation. Eighteen. And the building of the wall of it was of jasper: and the city was pure gold, like unto clear glass.”
A jailer approaches with heavy footsteps and unlocks the door. “You paid yer price, Dewey, you scum-sucking pig. You’re a free man.”
Dewey stands, looks back at the soot-covered walls and the patch of sky through the window one more time, then walks out with the dog-eared, dirty and much-read Bible. The jailer stops him. “Leave it for the next man. That Good Book is the property of the state of Kansas.”
In the background, the sandstone administration building of the State Penitentiary of Kansas. An old horse with a new saddle is tied to a post. “All right, now, Dewey,” the jailer says, “here’s yer horse, yer saddle, and yer ten dollars, compliments of the United States of America. Now ride the hell out of here and don’t ever let me see that ugly face you got ever agin.”
“Pretty doggoned old horse, there. Looks pret’ sick, too.”
“Name’s Comanche. She’s got some miles in ‘er yet.”
Dewey folds the bill into his pocket, mounts Comanche and rides off.
Nelly places burned prairie dog parts onto tin plates. She, Jonah and James bite into the meat. It’s extremely tough and they struggle to chew it. “It tastes like dirt,” James says and spits it back into his plate. Nelly slaps him hard. Jonah says, “If you don’t like it, go to bed hungry.” James cries all the way to his pallet on the floor.
Jonah says, “That boy’s a half-wit. He ain’t no good fer nothin’.”
“Maybe God’ll bless us with another one. A better one.”
“A boy with a strong back. And one that ain’t marked on the head like that ‘un.”
“And good pure blood.”
“Amen, girl. Amen.”
A dusty, windy Dodge City street. Dewey rides into town, swatting grasshoppers from his face and flicking them out of Comanche’s eyes. He ties up in front of the Hotel Dodge & Saloon.
The bartender, alone in the saloon, sits on a stool with his shoulders and folded arms resting on the bar, sound asleep. Dewey enters quietly, sits at the bar, plunks down a coin. No reaction from the bartender other than snores. Dewey plunks the coin louder. This time the bartender wakes up.
“Gi’me a shot o’ yer best sheep dip, there, Sleepy.” The bartender moves languidly toward the backbar, yawning. “Now lookit, Mister Take-Your-Time, I ain’t had a drop o’ liquor in ten long, dry years. And it’s painin’ me watchin’ you move around like a goddamned tortis.”
“Ten years?”
Dewey spits on the floor. “In prison. Fer killin’ a man that moved a little too slow fer mah likin’.”
The bartender speeds up his service and quickly pours Dewey a glass of whiskey. Dewey gulps it down and the bartender pours another one. “Them two’s on me, friend. Ten years is a damned long time.”
“You know what else I ain’t had in ten years? A woman. Somethin’ to stick my willy in.” He tents a five dollar bill onto the bar. “That there’s my last five dollars. What I want, in the followin’ order, is a decent meal, a room for the night, a bottle of that sheep dip and a woman.”
“Well, sir. I reckon we can accommodate you for a night. The dinin’ room’s open. Here’s yer bottle. I’ll see what I can do about that other service.”
“Send ‘er up to my room about ten. I’ll be drunk as a skunk and ready fer love.” He gulps down the whiskey with exquisite pleasure.
Dewey is the only one seated in the dining room. He gulps whiskey. The bartender, doubling as a waiter, approaches the table. “Yes, sir. What would you like? We ain’t got a menu. You tell me what you want and I tell you if we got it or not.”
“I ain’t had a juicy steak in a got-damned decade. I’d like one thick as the Bible and bloody as Jesus. Tell yer cook to take the cow out of the shade a few minutes. That’s all a good piece of meat needs. You understand what I’m sayin’?”
“Yessir. But we ain’t got no steaks today. Alls we got is prairie stew.”
“What’s in it?”
“Taters, turnips, carrots, onions and meat.”
“What kinda meat?”
“I ain’t too sure. The cook’s done took sick and went home.”
“Bring it on, I guess.”
As Dewey waits for his food, his bottle half empty, he quotes the Bible from memory. “He causeth the grass to grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man: that he may bring forth food out of the Earth…. Psalms, one-fourteen, verse five.”
His stomach growls.
The bartender serves the stew with a piece of moldy bread. Dewey takes a bite of the stew. “What is this? Rat meat?”
“No, sir. That ain’t rat.”
“Got-damned prairie dog is what it is. I got fed better meat in jail.” He dumps the stew on the bartender’s shoes.
In one of the hotel’s rooms, Dewey lies in bed, naked and drunk. A lamp burns low on the bedside table next to a near-empty whiskey bottle. He belches.
There’s a gentle knock on the door.
“Come on in, Honey. I’m ready as rain.”
The door opens slowly and a very frail young woman enters, ghastly pale, eyes glazed, uneasy on her feet, fevered. She stands at the foot of the bed, averting her gaze.
“Ain’t you a skinny little thing? Don’t just stand there a’lookin’ at the wall, Honey. Come over here and get under the sheets with me. I like my women kinda bony.”
She sits on the side of the bed and removes her shoes. The effort leaves her short of breath and sweating profusely. Dewey, oblivious to her condition, sits up and begins kissing the back of her neck, reaching around and unbuttoning her dress. “What’s your name, my little prairie flower?”
“Annabelle.” Just saying her name gives her a coughing fit. Still unfazed, Dewey pulls her into the bed and kisses her roughly while struggling to get the rest of her clothes off.
“You oughtn’t kiss me too much. I’m sick with somethin’. It might even be the cholera.”
Dewey ignores the warning and kisses her hard while he fumbles for his member.
At the homestead, Jonah nails prairie dog pelts to the side of the house for drying. The dog nibbles on a prairie dog carcass. In the house Nelly sews pelts together, making a coat. But quantities of hair fall out of the pelts, rendering the task hopeless. James watches her as he plays with a stuffed prairie dog. Nelly shakes her head in disgust, throws her work on the floor. James smells the coat and holds his nose.
“It stinks, don’t it?” Nelly says, flinging it out the front door.
In the barn, Jonah spits in the dirt, stamps his heel and picks up one of the prairie dog cages. “I ain’t givin’ up, fellers. Some day you’re gonna make me richer than God. I just ain’t figured out how yet.”
He hears the rumble of thunder and moves outside. A storm approaches. Fierce winds kick up, lightning strikes. Prairie dogs hustle down their holes. The barn leans perilously.
In the house Nelly checks a pot on the stove as hard rain pelts the roof. In the pot, prairie dog parts boil with hominy and chili peppers. She ladles some into a bowl for Jonah, then another bowl. “James, come here and eat this.”
“No.”
“Eat it!”
James drags himself to the table nearly in tears. “It makes me sick.”
Nelly’s face flushes with anger. “Eat it or I’ll unscrew your navel and let your legs fall off.” James eases a small spoonful into his mouth, gags, spits it back up. Nelly knocks him out of the chair with a hard backhand. He cries, jumps onto his pallet, pulls up the covers.