Gasher Creek Part 33

"I'm not worried about Jimmy," Tracker said. "I'm worried about Sylvia. We'll have to ask permission to dig him up."

The Doc pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. Dabbing at his forehead, he said, "She'll slaughter us for sure."

"Not if she doesn't find out," Tracker said. "I'll ask Tate."

"Tate?" The Doc said. "The man can barely speak without his wife's permission."

"He's got more gumption than that," Tracker said. "I've seen it."

"But you'll never get him alone," the Doc said. "Sylvia is always by his side."

"Not tomorrow," Tracker said. "Tomorrow she visits Caroline to see about the baby. That's when I'll ask. It'll be fine."

Leaning on the examination table, the Doc said, "Somehow I doubt that."

Chapter Thirty-Three.

For supper, Emily slaughtered a chicken and served it up with boiled potatoes and fresh carrots from the garden. Charlie laughed and nearly choked as Emily recounted how she had to shoo Jack from the house for doing too much work.

"If you stay much longer, we'll have nothing left to do," she said. "The house will be mended, the barn re-built, the chickens will have no eggs left to give, and the cow will be skinny from over milking!"

Jack smiled and worked on his food. He liked to hear her laugh. It was soft as a chime but bright as firelight. Or at least he thought so. In truth, it was probably as ordinary as any other laugh, although it came from no ordinary girl.

He stole looks at her while she talked to Charlie. Troy Plymouth, he decided, was about the luckiest man in the world.

After supper, Jack and Charlie moved out onto the porch for a smoke. Jack carried his chair outside, while Charlie decided on the rocker. "Nothing like a good smoke," he said, sitting down. He admired his pipe. "Shame you don't have one."

Jack shrugged, although it would've been nice to pile some good smoke atop good food.

"Well I surely am sorry about that," Charlie said, holding out his hand. Jack didn't follow, but shook his hand anyway and felt something hard in his palm. Looking down, he saw the bowl of a pipe. Its stem was tucked under Charlie's sleeve cuff.

"What's this?" Jack asked.

"With you doing all the ch.o.r.es, I got bored," Charlie said. "So I whittled you a pipe."

"My own pipe?" Jack said.

It was cherry wood by the looks of it, with a long stem and a good sized bowl. Tiny nicks scarred the surface. It wasn't smooth like the ones you'd buy in a dry goods store, but that made it better somehow. "Mine," he said.

"It's never good to smoke alone," Charlie said, handing him the tobacco pouch. Pinching some tobacco, Jack stuffed it into the bowl, then placed the stem between his teeth.

His pipe, made for him. No one had ever made him anything before.

"Huh," Charlie said, patting his trousers.

"What is it?"

"I forgot a match."

Just then, Emily stepped onto the porch with a stick lit from the fireplace. She touched the flame to the bowl. Charlie inhaled, exhaled, got it going, and thanked her. She turned to Jack.

"Go on," she said.

Jack leaned forward as the flame lowered into the pipe. He inhaled, the smoke filling his mouth. Then he exhaled and watched it linger above him. His arms and legs released their soreness. He sighed, feeling heavy from the food and light from the smoke.

Emily went back inside. A moment later, she snuck out with a chair, a lantern, and a fiddle. Charlie was looking at Samson in the corral. Moving behind Jack, she gently placed the fiddle beside the rocking chair. When Jack opened his mouth to inquire about it, she touched a finger to her lips and sat next to him. She smelled of smoke, flour, and a floral scent he couldn't place.

"You're doing fine with the ch.o.r.es," Charlie said, still looking at the corral. "I can tell you were raised on a farm."

"Thanks," Jack said.

Emily shifted in her seat, her toes next to his boot. "What did your pa grow?" she asked.

"Wheat," Jack said. "Also a few pigs and chickens."

She smiled at him, her eyes large and dark in the dusk.

"Good money in wheat?" Charlie asked.

"Not really."

Emily stiffened and rubbed her arms against the evening chill. Jack wished he had his coat to give to her, but it was inside the house. It probably stunk anyway.

As Charlie removed the stem from his mouth, he noticed the fiddle propped beside him.

"No," he said.

"Nonsense," Emily protested.

"Not now."

"One song," she said. "Something to go with the sunset."

Jack hadn't noticed it until that moment. The sky was smeared in orange and purple, looking as if a child had dragged its fingers across a freshly painted canvas. Emily gazed at it, the colors settling on her cheeks. "Heaven's lifting her skirt," she said.

Jack snorted.

Charlie laughed so hard his pipe tumbled from his mouth and he had to swat at the ashes on his trousers. "Sounds like something a fella would say after too much whiskey," he said. "As you can see, my sister learned her words from the hired help we used to take on."

"Oh, just play," she said. "You owe me that much for making me a fool in front of Mr. Devlin."

"He was laughing, too!"

"Not your horsy laugh."

"Fair enough," Charlie said, and lifted the fiddle and bow. "But it's been a long time since I've played, and my shoulder still aches."

"That's not the arm you fiddle with and you know it," Emily said.

"Come on," Jack urged him. "In those Badlands you said you wanted to come home to your family and your fiddle. Well, now you got both."

Charlie plucked a string, making a soft pling sound. He smoothed his thumb over the horsehair bow.

"It's been rosined," Emily said.

Charlie handed his pipe to Jack. He placed the fiddle under his chin, raised the bow, and started to play.

And the fiddle wept. It wept as if Charlie's heart bled into the instrument. He squeezed his eyes shut, a look of anguish on his face as the strings wailed, built to a scream, and then plunged into a growl.

He stopped. "No good."

Jack and Emily both opened their mouths to protest, when he added, "Unless you both help me with a dance."

"Us?" Jack said. He glanced at Emily but lost his nerve. He stared at his boots.

"Go on," Charlie said, poking him with the bow.

Jack didn't dance-not properly anyway. He'd only danced a few times in his entire life and that was mostly stumbling and stepping on toes. He was about to explain this to Charlie when Emily slipped her hand into his palm. It was small, red about the knuckles from kneading dough, and light as a bird.

"His shoulder does ache him," she said. "It's the least we can do."

"Come on," Charlie said, giving Jack another poke.

"Ow," Jack said. "But I can't-"

Emily stood and pulled him off the porch.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, but the lantern illuminated a patch of gra.s.s large enough for them to stand in. As they faced each other, she slipped her fingers between his and clasped his hand. Then she placed his other hand on her hip.

"You've danced some?" Jack asked, trying like h.e.l.l to ignore the pounding of his heart.

"Some," she said, gazing into his eyes. "And you?"

"Only a few turns with my sister when we was young."

"Move closer," she said.

Jack inched a toe closer.

"Closer, Mr. Devlin," she said.

"You two ready?" Charlie asked.

"As ready as we can be," Emily said.

Charlie touched the bow to the strings and started to play. Emily swayed to the gentle lull of the music. The melody dipped into a low, solemn moan, and she drew closer. The scent of her hair filled Jack's nostrils. Her hip, thinly veiled under the soft cotton of her dress, moved under his fingertips. She closed her eyes. Turning, they swept out of the lantern light and into the darkness. She pressed her body to him. They revolved slowly, their feet scratching the gra.s.s.

Suddenly, the fiddle howled and they gripped each other tightly. It was an angry, terrified sound.

Then it stopped.

They clung to each other in the silence. Jack could feel Emily's heart pounding in her chest. She said, "I-," and was interrupted by a great, racking sob. Turning, they saw Charlie stand from the rocking chair and drop his fiddle.

"Charlie!" she shouted. She broke away from Jack and chased her brother into the house.

Jack stood in the dark, shivering.

Chapter Thirty-Four.

The hotel restaurant glowed like a star. Sunlight blasted through the windows, glanced off the bar mirror and filled the room with light. Tracker sat at a corner table adorned with a white tablecloth, a white deck of cards, and a lamp. The lamp, fitted with new chimney gla.s.s and a fresh cotton wick, burned brightly.

Adjusting the cuffs of his white suit, Tracker looked around the restaurant. He never realized it was so large. Other tables, each with their own tablecloth, cards, and lamps, stretched endlessly into the distance and melted into a single swell of light. Staring at it, he wondered if they'd ever had a full seating, and if Sylvia could cook that much pot roast.

Dismissing the thought, Tracker picked up his cards. If he wanted to win this hand, he had to concentrate. It didn't look promising with only one white eagle and two black coyotes. Sure, he could play his spare coyote, but one of the others would call him on it.

On his right, Sally absent mindedly stroked the bruises under her eye. She was naked save for a stained bed sheet draped over her shoulders. Glancing at Tracker, she said, "I know what you're up to, Sheriff."

"What's that?"

She smiled coyly. "I don't got much but one eagle, so if I call Old Man you could slap a pair of coyotes on me."

"He don't have any black coyotes, you nit," Hank Dupois said, sitting on the far side of the table. The scratches on his cheek glistened as he sneered at Sally. He wore a black vest over a dusty white shirt. Dirt tumbled from the b.u.t.tons as he breathed.

"And I suppose you got the monopoly on coyotes," Ed Weld said, sitting across from Tracker. He wore a shirt blackened from a glut of old blood. A deputy's badge sat on his chest.

"I ain't saying nothing," Hank said, tilting his cards away from the others.

Ed shook his head and looked at Tracker. "He's a real piece of work, ain't he?" Blood leaked from the bullet hole in his forehead.

"Well Sheriff?" Sally said impatiently. "What's it gonna be?"

Tracker didn't want to play the eagle, but if she held a black coyote then both their coyotes would cancel each other out. Still, he didn't like the scheming look on Hank's face.

"Make your move, Sheriff," he said. He lifted his flask, tried to take a drink, and upended it. "d.a.m.n. Empty."

"All right," Tracker said. "I'll-"