Gasher Creek Part 6

Jack stepped to his right.

Like an attentive dance partner, the coyote did the same.

He stepped forward.

The coyote rumbled. It seemed to emanate from its belly, from the ground, from everywhere. Jack felt it in the soles of his feet. He stepped back.

It stopped.

"I'm heading north," he said, trying to steady his voice. "I can't go south or they'll hang me. So you-you get out of my way, or-I'll find me a switch!"

The coyote growled. Its hackles rose like porcupine needles.

"Oh," Jack managed, before it charged.

Chapter Six.

"I'll go with you," Caroline said, propping herself up on her elbows. She lay in bed, her ma.s.sive belly filling out her nightgown.

"You can't," Tracker said. He found a clean pair of trousers and pulled them on. "You know you can't."

"It'll be like last time," she said. "Remember?"

Tracker smiled and lifted his gun belt. "Yes I do."

The last time he pulled a double shift was the night Ed Weld got the fever and Don broke his wrist attempting a handstand on a wagon wheel. They had to restrain Ed to his bed to keep him from working while Don swilled bourbon at The Ram and refused to work under such a terrific hardship. Tracker had no choice but to work twenty-four hours straight without rest. It was a slog unlike anything he'd experienced since his army days. He'd nearly locked the sheriff's office and called it a night, when Caroline showed up with hot coffee and a book by some writer named Jules Verne. She read to him while he sorted wanted posters. Then they shared ghost stories. Then they played poker. She won three hands. In the morning, she used her winnings to buy breakfast at the hotel, where they had a contest to see who could eat the most pancakes. She won again.

It had been a good night.

"You need to rest," Tracker said, tying the holster thongs to his leg.

"You just don't want to lose again," she said, smiling. "Especially the pancakes. I'd have help this time."

Tracker sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand on her belly. "He keeping still?"

"Never," she said, sighing. "In fact, he's been attempting a very complicated two-step for days."

"My legs?"

"Your blasted legs," she said, shaking her head. Then she smiled, her eyes glistening like two drops of honey.

"I'm thinking it's that smile got us in this business," Tracker said. "Not my legs."

He kissed her.

"Curse that Don," she pouted, flopping back onto the pillow.

"Now, that's not fair," Tracker said. "They beat him poorly. He looks a mess."

"I'm sure no one will notice," she said, pulling the blankets over her head.

When he reached the office, Tracker didn't bother with the door key. There was barely a door left. It hung off one hinge like a drunk clinging to a lamppost. The frame was split and splintered where they'd busted the lock.

Tracker walked in. Papers littered the floor, flecked with blood. Don's keys lay glinting in the moonlight. He sniffed for gunpowder but couldn't detect any. It was most likely a rush job: break in, beat up, and s.n.a.t.c.h away. In the city, they would've killed his deputy without a second thought. Thank G.o.d they were farmers.

Tracker lit a lantern. It didn't improve the look of the place.

"Sheriff?"

Ben Tunn stood in the doorway, touching the frame.

"Ben," Tracker said. "What are you doing here? I thought your hog was sick."

"Pa came back early," Ben said, poking his finger on a splinter, "so I came into town to fulfill my agreement with you, but..." He clasped his hands and stared at the floor. Despite his size, Ben looked like a schoolboy that had stolen the teacher's apple. "I'm awful sorry."

"Forget it," Tracker said, "it isn't your fault. Either way, they would've got him. All you did was save yourself a beating."

"Who did this, Sheriff?"

Tracker shrugged. "Men with hoods. One of them was Hank Dupois. They tried to do a run down on Devlin but he escaped. Hank's dead."

Ben's mouth dropped open. "Jack killed Hank?"

"It's unsure at this point."

Ben shook his head in wonder. "This is just like Charlie White and the Dead End Gang."

"Who?"

"Charlie White," Ben said. "He was accused of killing this man in a bar fight, see? But he didn't do it. But the Dead End Gang, whose fella it was got killed, said he did it. They tried to string him up, but Charlie White kept a knife in his boot which he used to cut himself down, stab two fellas, and escape."

"Where did you hear a story like that?" Tracker asked, picking up the stool.

Ben pulled a tattered book from his pocket.

"A dime novel?" Tracker said. "Ben, you can't believe what you read in those books. It's nothing but writers up to their usual foolishness."

"Oh, they're real," Ben said. "They have to be."

"Why do they have to be?" Tracker asked.

"Well..." Ben looked around as if the answer might lay in the cell, the gun cabinet, or under the desk. "Well-why would them writers fib?"

Tracker smiled. "For the dime." He stooped to retrieve the papers. Ben knelt down to help him.

"Leave it be," Tracker said. "I can do it."

"I want to help," Ben said.

"There's no need," Tracker said. "I have all night to collect them."

Standing, Ben said. "You want to borrow my dime novel? It pa.s.ses the time."

"Good night, Ben."

"Right. Good night, Sheriff," he said, stuffing the book in his pocket.

As he lumbered out of the office, Tracker dropped the papers on the desk, sighed, and sat down. Outside, he heard two men shouting at each other about a horse.

Sighing, he stood back up and went to investigate.

Tracker had hoped for a quiet night-or, as quiet as a rush town can get-but they'd locked The Ram for Hank's mourning. This left the rushers with no choice but to invade the Gasher Hotel. Sylvia claimed that she'd never suffered so many swats to the backside in one night. Neither had her husband, Tate. Of course, the restaurant saloon was much smaller than The Ram, so when it became full, the rushers had to find other ways to entertain themselves.

One man kicked a mule. Another kicked George Frosty. One man ran through the streets with no trousers on. Another ran through the streets waving a pair of trousers. A man named Ned stabbed another named Ted. There were fines for public urination, public drunkenness, and public drunkenness while urinating. After someone stole all the laundry in Chinatown, Tracker nearly quit.

For all its vice and ugliness, The Ram provided a vital service: it pacified the men. This, in turn, helped Tracker retain a tenuous hold on the town. Often, all he had to do was threaten a night in the cell to garner cooperation. A night in the cell was, after all, a night without a woman.

As the traffic of the night clacked and rattled into the traffic of the morning, Tracker paused outside the hotel to wipe some mud off his boot. This marked his first rounds of the day shift. Generally, people behaved themselves in the daylight, but he expected a few disturbances nonetheless. He just hoped he wouldn't fall asleep while someone was taking a swing at him.

Despite a raucous night, the restaurant was open. Tracker's stomach ached at the aroma of frying ham and freshly baked bread. He imagined himself digging into a plate of scrambled eggs runny with grease, thick slices of bread topped with b.u.t.ter and strawberry jam, and washing it all down with Sylvia's coffee, so thick and black you could pen a letter with it.

And the pancakes. Lord, the pancakes.

Finding no money in his pockets, Tracker moved quickly along the sidewalk until the aroma drowned in the stink of the street.

"Looking rough, Sheriff."

George Frosty stood outside the mercantile, leaning on a broom. He squinted at Tracker, his head reflecting the sunrise. He looked a little rough himself. Tracker often wondered if Frosty slept. He always wore the weathered, cantankerous look of someone needing a nap. Caroline was less kind, once comparing his head to a shrunken apple.

"Long night," Tracker said.

"You want some cayenne pepper for your tired blood?" Frosty asked.

"No thanks, George," Tracker said, quickly moving past him. He knew the questions were coming. Frosty might be able to do without sleep, but he needed gossip the way other people needed water.

"Liquorice root?" he said, swiping at the sidewalk with his broom.

"No."

"Heard Hank is no longer with us."

"Have yourself a good morning, George."

"Was it Devlin killed him?"

"And a good day."

"Heard he escaped!"

Tracker left the sidewalk. Usually his rounds stretched as far as the sidewalk, but he decided to head over to the livery and have words with Cole Smith. He didn't hold a grudge against Cole and wanted him to know that. The boy only wanted to catch Devlin for his friend. Tracker could respect that kind of loyalty.

Across the street, he saw Liza hanging bed sheets. The sunlight illuminated the blonde crown of her head and betrayed her shape through her dress. She stood on her tiptoes, fixing clothespins to the line.

Tracker nearly b.u.mped into two men staring at her.

"Don't you have business somewhere?" he said to them.

"We do now," one man said, grinning.

"Hey," Tracker snapped, getting their attention. They saw the badge. "Show that girl some respect."

"Respect?" one of them said. "Sheriff, she's just a wh.o.r.e."

Tracker stepped closer. "Keep moving," he said.

The two men looked at each other, and then kept moving. They moved as slowly and casually as possible without falling over.

Shaking his head, Tracker continued on to the livery. He reached the gates and stopped. They were shut and locked.

"He ain't there, Sheriff," Liza called.

Tracker crossed the street. "Morning Liza," he said, weaving around a wagon.

"Cole ain't there," she said. "Homer Alder is looking after the horses, but he always sleeps late."

Reaching the clothesline, Tracker said, "Do you know where Cole went?"

"He's gone after Jack."

"He what!"

Liza flinched and jerked her hands up. She gripped a clothespin in her fist, her cheek twitching as if struck. Tracker took a step back. Lowering his voice, he said, "It's all right, you did nothing wrong. I won't hurt you, I was just surprised is all. When did he leave?"

"Early this morning."

Tracker looked past Hannigan's Tree as if he could somehow see Cole hightailing it across the prairie. But he was gone. Hours gone.

He flexed his fingers. His wrists ached.

He supposed he could send a message to Brush to be on the lookout for Smith and Devlin, but Cole would most likely have Jack by then. What happened after that was a flip of the coin. Sure, Devlin was a stick, but a man can go wild for a chance at freedom.