Gasher Creek Part 44

Troy looked astonished. "Oh, but you can't. We have cherry pie." He leaned closer. "And iced cream. Isn't that something?"

Jack didn't know what that was, but he still said no.

"What about Emily? She'll want you there."

And he wanted to be there for her. His stomach ached to see her again, but not as Troy's wife. He wanted to see Charlie's sister. He wanted to see the girl he'd danced with.

"I'm just not hungry," Jack said.

Troy shrugged. "Suit yourself, Devlin. I'll see you in a week." He gave him a rib rattling slap on the back and then jogged over to his wagon. "And I'll bring the missus with me!"

The missus. What a terrible word.

Jack turned to look at Samson. The horse stared at him.

"I'm sorry," Jack said, "but what should I have done? You go with him and you'll be in an even bigger corral surrounded by other horses. You want that?"

Samson moved toward him.

Jack stepped back from the rails. Up until that moment, he'd never seen the Clydesdale do much more than blink. The horse stopped at the fence and stared down at him.

"You do understand, don't you?" Jack said. As he reached up to touch his muzzle, Troy's wagon rolled past. Jack dropped his hand and headed back to the house.

Inside, it was dark and silent. Shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs. Jack sat at the supper table and looked around.

Emily's broom stood in the corner.

Emily's towel lay over the washbasin.

The door to Emily's room stood open. Her bed quilt lay crumpled on the floor.

It was going to be a long week. A long, boring week, with nothing to do but look at the various reminders of her and Charlie. What else could he do? There was no point in fixing the roof-Troy Plymouth was only going to tear the house down. He'd have to milk the cow and feed the chickens, but that would occupy a small portion of his day. His only alternative was to chop wood. A lot of wood. Maybe he could fix Charlie's fiddle and give it a try. He once plucked a guitar string-it was a start.

Jack stood and walked over to Emily's bedroom. He lifted her quilt and spread it over the bed, revealing a large, rusty blood stain.

"d.a.m.n," he said, as the tears welled in his eyes. He sat on the bed and wiped them away.

The only thing worse than the long, boring days would be the nights. How was he going to sleep with a house full of ghosts?

BANG!.

Jack cried out at the crack of a shotgun. He dropped to the floor. The front door was slightly ajar, but he couldn't see who was out there. He scrambled out of the bedroom and dropped beside the fireplace. He groped his arms, his chest. They'd missed.

His pulse throbbed in his ears. His mind raced.

Someone at the wedding recognized you and came to collect the bounty- It's Sheriff Tracker, out to blow your head off- It's Cole Smith, he's still alive- Take your medicine like a man.

He spotted Charlie's shotgun above the mantle, but it might as well have been on the moon. If he went for it, he'd make a clear target through the window. Jack clambered under the supper table and pressed his back against the wall. He listened: Nothing.

He slipped his fingers up between the wall and the table and inched it forward. The legs squeaked on the floorboards. He stopped and listened: Still nothing.

After pushing a few more inches, Jack crept up until his head hovered just beneath the window ledge.

He raised his hand and dropped it.

No gun shot. No missing fingers.

Holding his breath, he counted to three.

One, two, three!

He popped his head above the window ledge- Samson- and dropped again.

He exhaled. All he saw was Samson, no one else who- He paused.

"Samson?" he said. He lifted his head again. Samson stood in front of the porch, blood trickling down his neck and shoulders. Behind him, the rails of the corral lay snapped and splintered.

So much for a shotgun showdown.

Jack crawled out from under the table. He stepped outside. Seeing him, Samson nickered and swished his tail.

"Well, now you've given me something to do," Jack said, looking at the corral.

The Clydesdale approached him and sniffed his outstretched hand. Jack patted his neck, careful of the wounds. "I understand," he said. "If I was stuck in a corral, I'd try to break out as well..."

He turned and looked at the house. He looked inside. Beyond the door lay shadows and silence.

Empty chairs.

Empty bed.

A blood stained quilt.

Samson snorted and shook his head.

"You're right," Jack said, nodding. "Let's get the h.e.l.l out of here."

After saddling up, he and Samson left the Sewell ranch. They didn't look back. Samson carried him easily, moving with a dignified trot he wouldn't have expected from a draft horse. Jack touched the thick, coa.r.s.e hair of the Clydesdale's mane and settled into the saddle. It felt good to move again.

If they kept a brisk pace, they'd reach Brush by early afternoon. Once there, they'd join a wagon trail heading to Lone Pine. He'd need food, but that would be easy enough. Half a day's sweeping would garner him a loaf of bread and maybe a few apples for Samson. Then they'd be off. He couldn't wait to see the look on Silas's face.

They stepped onto the old wagon trail and the prairie opened up. Samson bared his teeth and stretched into a canter. "Yes," Jack said, grinning. "The rails are gone, boy. Let's go."

Samson leapt forward and surged into a gallop. Jack doubled the reins around his fists as they thundered over the land. The Clydesdale sucked in great lungfuls of air, his muscles hammering like the rods of a locomotive.

Chapter Forty-Two.

The storm was growing worse as Tracker and Bucko picked their way along the soggy ground. The rain battered them. The fog blinded them. Tracker b.u.t.toned the collar of his slicker in an effort to stay dry, but it didn't help much. Rain poured off his hat and drizzled down his back. He shivered.

He may have felt like a young man upon setting out, but his zeal had burned sooner than expected, replaced with a stiffness in his back and an ache in his thighs. A young man could put up with the weather, but he didn't have the patience. He wanted to go home. He needed to be home. A private's longing for his sweetheart could never rival the ache for a wife. It was difficult to press on.

He pressed on.

Despite being on foot, and injured, and caught in a storm, there had been no sightings of Andy Dupois. Tracker should have caught him long ago, but his fugitive had managed to put distance between himself and Gasher Creek. He may have doubled back to Leverton Mills, but the Dupois weren't welcome there on account of the O'Shea family. He may have veered off into the Badlands, but Tracker didn't believe he possessed the grit. Besides, if he were injured, he'd have a hard enough time walking without the trouble of navigating around the rocks on the riverbed path. Keeping to the prairie was his best option.

So where was he?

Patting Bucko's neck, Tracker said, "You got any ideas, now is the time to speak up."

Bucko slowed down. He didn't stop, but his movements grew stiff and reluctant. He snorted.

"What is it," Tracker said. He wiped water out of his eyes and peered into the fog ahead of him. He saw a shape in the storm. It was lying on the ground, motionless.

Tracker pulled on the reins and dismounted. He crept closer. He reached into his slicker and touched the grip of his Lightfeather. For a few moments, he held out the hope that it might be Andy. But then, that would be a lucky turn of events, and his week hadn't exactly been lucky.

Seeing the dead mule, he stopped and removed his hand from the gun.

No, it wasn't Andy.

But it was promising.

Tracker crouched to examine it. It was a paint mule, its dark coat speckled with white around the haunches. It'd been shot in the head and belly. The wounds were fresh, a few hours old at the most. He ran his hands along the legs but couldn't find a break. The animal was shot out of rage, not necessity.

Everyone in Gasher Creek knew of Hank's hatred for horses. They didn't obey his commands and often tried to cripple his other foot. Did the same hate apply to Andy?

Tracker climbed back into the saddle and made a wide arc around the dead mule. He continued north. For once, he was thankful for the thick camouflage of the storm. If the mule had belonged to Andy, then it revealed two things about his fugitive: One, he was angry, and two, he was armed.

Chapter Forty-Three.

Wind beaten and thirsty, Jack reached Brush shortly after noon. Samson snorted as they neared the town limits, his ears twitching at the sounds of wagons, horses, and people. "I understand," Jack said, patting his neck. "But we won't be here long." South of them, a storm was moving closer, its clouds the color of a bruise. Sometime during the night it would sweep through and punish the town, but Jack hoped to be well on his way by then.

Leaving the wagon trail behind, they pa.s.sed the NO GUNS sign, now peppered with buckshot. Apparently, Brush was still without a sheriff. If someone didn't step up soon, the rustlers and longriders would ruin the town. Folks didn't like coming to a place where they could get shot without provocation.

Jack entered the main thoroughfare. It was worse than before, congested with homesteader wagons eager to reach camp on the other side of town. He maneuvered as best he could, but Samson was so large it was like trying to squeeze a buggy through an alleyway. Luckily, a couple was quarrelling in the wagon beside him and a gap opened. Moving ahead, Jack pulled up to a hitching post in front of a cafe. After dismounting, he wrapped the reins around the post and gave Samson's shoulder a good scratch. "Now you stay out of trouble," he said.

The horse dipped his head to the water trough and started to drink.

Stepping up onto the sidewalk, Jack surveyed the street and decided on the Turtledove. Wh.o.r.ehouses were always in need of odd jobs work. A few hours of washing tubs or emptying spittoons would be enough for a loaf of bread.

He moved quickly down the sidewalk, hoping another saddle b.u.m hadn't already s.n.a.t.c.hed the ch.o.r.es. Reaching its doors, something caught his attention and he stopped. Turning, he looked at the hitching post.

Up you get.

He approached it slowly, his fingers twitching.

A chunk was missing from one side. It must've have been shot off in the fight. Touching it, Jack looked out at the street as if expecting to see a puddle of blood or a discarded firearm. But the bodies and the guns were long gone. Wagon wheels and horse hooves had churned the blood into the mud. Besides the frayed hitching post, you'd never know it had happened.

But it had happened.

This was where Charlie saved his life.

"Hey cowboy, if you want to ride something, leave them horses alone and come visit me."

Turning, Jack looked up at the balcony. A woman with rusty red hair leaned over the railing and winked at him.

"That's it," she said. "You..."

Her smile faded into shock. "Jack," she said.

Jack stared at her and turned cold. Darkness seemed to swallow the world, leaving only her ice colored eyes. His breath caught in this throat as he said, "Liza."

"Oh my G.o.d," she said, gripping the rail. "Oh G.o.d, Jack..."

Jack didn't think. He just ran, shoving through a group of ranchers as they steered toward the Turtledove.

"No, wait!" she shouted.

He didn't wait. A wanted man doesn't wait. He ran hard, his boots like gunshots on the wooden sidewalk. Reaching Samson, he leapt into the mud and fumbled with the reins.

Samson's head was still in the trough.

"Come on," Jack said. "Stop your d.a.m.n drinking and let's go!"

But Samson, large enough to do whatever he pleased, kept right on slurping water.

Liza broke through the crowd and ran after him, her skirts hiked, the laces of her boots dangling behind her.

"Jack, wait," she said, rushing up to him. She was out of breath, her face and neck flushed, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s heaving in the open neckline of her dress. "I need to speak to you."

Jack looked around. Across the street, two women paused to watch. A man on horseback glanced at Liza but then looked away.

"I'm alone," she said.

"Bulls.h.i.t," Jack said, scanning the tops of the buildings.

Smacking the hitching post with her fist, she said, "Listen to me, you fool. If anyone here should be hung for Sally's death, it's me."