Gasher Creek Part 30

"But you've been transporting an Indian," Jack said.

"I know, that's why it's ten dollars." He swatted at Jack's trouser pockets.

"What are you doing?" Jack said, slapping his hand away.

"Don't suppose you have your Cork friend stowed away in a pocket, do you? He had cash."

"No," Jack said. "He's gone to Lone Pine."

"Horrible decision," O'Malley said. Shading his eyes from the sun, he looked toward the creek and hollered, "Now come back, my fine capall, or I'll blast you!"

The horse ignored him and kept drinking water. O'Malley swore and looked back at Jack. "Nine dollars."

"We don't have it."

"Five."

Jack dug into his pockets. "I only have two dollars to my name."

"Sold," O'Malley said. "You can keep the name."

It was early evening when Jack spotted what looked to be a house in the distance.

"That your destination?" O'Malley asked.

"I don't know," Jack said. He gently shook Charlie. "Charlie, wake up."

Charlie opened his eyes.

"Is that it?" Jack asked.

Squinting, Charlie leaned forward as far as his shoulder would allow. Then he grinned.

"Yes," he said. "That's it. That's my home."

"Looks like an outhouse with a fence," O'Malley said.

It wasn't much better than that. The ranch Charlie had spoken of was nothing more than a farm house, a barn, and a corral. And the corral only held one horse, a Clydesdale. It stood near the fence and stared at them.

"That's Samson," Charlie said.

O'Malley shook his head. "Leave it to the Scottish to breed an animal that unnecessary."

"When my pa first settled this land, he owned lots of cattle and horses," Charlie said. "But that's gone now." He pointed off to their right. "There's a rich rancher down the ways, a man by the name of Troy Plymouth. He's wanted to buy this land for years. A good man, but my pa is stubborn to sell."

"Those ranch lords will always find a way," O'Malley said.

"I think you're right," Charlie said. "He's marrying my sister."

As they pa.s.sed the house, the buggy stopped.

"Off you get," O'Malley said.

Jack and Charlie climbed down.

"Well, redskin, a.r.s.ehole, I bid you both farewell. And remember, if you ever find yourselves in Dublin-leave me the h.e.l.l alone!" He clicked the reins and rolled away, cursing and swearing at the horse to go faster.

Charlie turned. "Home," he said.

Jack looked over the land. It wasn't all that bad. There was thick gra.s.s for grazing, a flat stretch beside the house if you wanted to plant, and a hill behind the house to fend off the wind. It was the house itself that gave the eyesore. Perhaps Jack had worked as an odd jobs man too long, but he didn't see much to be proud of. It was squat and dilapidated, battered by too many prairie winters and suffering from neglect. The roof needed re-shingling. The porch sagged. A shutter hung loose from one window. The other was boarded up with planks. Its siding was cracked and peeling in many places. If a storm were to blow through, Jack reckoned he'd be safer in the outhouse.

"I'll admit, it needs work," Charlie said.

"That, or an ax," Jack said.

Charlie smiled. "Come on. There's a great man I want you to meet."

As they approached the house, the front door opened. A solitary figure stepped out, obscured in the dusk.

They stopped.

"Charlie?" said a woman's voice.

"Emily!" Charlie exclaimed.

The woman leapt off the porch, crossed the distance between them, and threw her arms around him. Charlie gasped in pain but held her tightly as she wept into his shoulder. "I'm home," he said to her. "I'm in a few pieces, but I'm home."

Releasing him, she saw his shoulder and said, "What happened?"

"Fell off a horse," he said, "but it's all right." Turning to Jack, he said, "Jack, this is my sister, Emily."

"How do you do," she said, wiping her cheeks.

If Silas were with them, he would have declared her a raspberry, half-breed or not. She appeared to be a few years younger than Charlie, although slightly taller, with coal black hair framing a long, slender neck. She had a heart shaped face, eyes the color of coffee, and skin the color of the caramels sold at Frosty's mercantile. She wore a powder blue dress frayed at the hem and sleeve cuffs. Her feet were bare.

"Jack's not much for talking," Charlie said, "but I do enough for the both of us. Where's Pa, inside? I have so much to tell him."

Shaking her head, Emily said, "No, not inside. He's out back." She took his hand and led him around the house. Jack stayed behind, not wanting to intrude. He imagined Charlie's pa to be a great big man with wide shoulders and a fat happy face. Upon seeing his son, he'd probably lift him up and crush him in a loving embrace.

Jack waited to hear a gruff, exalted burst of joy.

Instead, he heard Charlie cried out.

Rushing around the side of he house, Jack said, "Charlie? Ch-"

He stopped.

Charlie knelt on the ground, gripping Emily's arm. Ahead of him, halfway up the hill, lay a fresh mound of dirt.

Chapter Thirty.

Tracker liked a stubborn deputy. Stubborn was good in a fight. Stubborn didn't back down if someone tried to humiliate the badge in front of others. Stubborn could save an innocent life from a bullet, even if that meant taking one in the chest. But there was a big difference between courage stubborn and stupid stubborn. And as they made their way down the sidewalk, Tracker tried to decide which stubborn his deputy was.

"It's nothing to fret over," Ben said.

"Bob Alder and Silas Furber have seen him," Tracker said, scanning Main Street.

Ben sidestepped a rusher. "Sheriff, I am your deputy, ain't I?"

"You are."

"It's my job to deal with the troublemakers in this town, ain't it?"

"Yes," Tracker said. "I just don't know if you can handle him."

Ben smiled. "Oh, you don't have to worry about that. I've prepared."

"Let me guess," Tracker said, stopping in front of the bank. "You've read about him."

"Dime Adventures number sixty-three: George 'Two Shot' Texal," Ben said proudly.

Tracker rubbed his forehead. "What have I told you about those books?"

"That they contain not one ounce of truth. But this one's different. I learned that Texal is left handed, that he walks with a limp on account of he got stabbed in the knee in Pan Hope, and that he's got four teeth in his head. The fifth one is buried in the handle of his knife for good luck. You know why they call him Two Shot?"

Tracker shrugged. "He carries two guns?"

"No. Because he always needs to shoot twice before you're dead."

They started walking again.

"All right," Tracker said. "I'll not quarrel with you any longer. You'll have to deal with these sorts of men eventually. But even you, with your head full of stories, can agree that this man is dangerous."

"Anyone with a nickname usually is," Ben said.

"Good. So if you spot him, what are you going to do?"

Ben tapped his badge. "Arrest him."

"Wrong," Tracker said. "If you spot him, you'll fetch me and we'll arrest him together."

"But-"

"On this, I must insist," Tracker said, looking him in the eye.

Ben didn't seem to like it, but he said, "All right then. But if a writer comes snooping around for the story, I want to be on the cover."

Tracker didn't reply to that.

They pa.s.sed the mercantile, still closed. Tracker had spent most of the day pulling fuses from the tempers of rushers, farmers, and local ranchers who depended on Frosty for supplies. He told them the mercantile would open again once the old man's fever settled, but no one bought the story. Frosty had got himself knee-walking drunk and boxed a horse. Everyone saw it, and no one would forget it.

Stepping off the sidewalk, Tracker said, "You hear anything about Cole Smith yet?"

"No," Ben said. "But don't fret, Sheriff, he'll be back."

"It's been five days. It shouldn't take five days to find one boy lost on the prairie."

"You think he found Devlin, and Devlin killed him?"

"Or the other way around."

"Cole wouldn't do that," Ben said. "His word is good. Remember, he was the one who brought in w.i.l.l.y-"

"Thompson, I know," Tracker said. "But that only took him two days. Two days for a notorious cattle rustler, and five for an odd jobs man?"

Ben replied, but Tracker didn't hear it. He was staring at a black plume of smoke trailing out from behind The Ram. "Look," he said.

"Oh no," Ben said. "Not another fire!"

They hurried across the street, ducked the clothesline, and ran around back. Skidding to a halt, they saw Andy Dupois tending a bonfire.

"Oh good," Ben said, "The Ram isn't on fire." He sniffed. "But I have no idea what he's burning."

Looking into the fire, Tracker said, "Books."

They approached the bonfire as a pile of books shriveled into flames and smoke. It was blistering hot. The heat struck Tracker like a slap. Ben kept a safe distance, touching the heel of his hand to his cheeks. Andy stood closest to the fire but didn't seem affected. Tracker wasn't surprised. There wasn't much left to him-Gasher Creek's own human scarecrow.

"Hey Andy," Ben said. "Why are you burning your books?"

"I don't want them anymore," Andy said.

Tracker was glad Caroline would never see this. If she did, she might try to dive in and save them.

He read some of the t.i.tles: The Wonders of Geology, Saturn and His System, a stained copy of a book called, Botany, and Principles of General and Comparative Physiology.

"No dime novels?" Tracker asked.

"I don't read that s.h.i.t," Andy said.

Ben sagged a little.