Gasher Creek

by J. Birch

  Tracker’s eyes opened. Caroline was shaking him. “Wake up,” she groaned. “Someone’s trying to break down our door. Please make them stop.”

  “Devlin,” Tracker said, rolling out of bed.

  Something had gone horribly wrong. The boy got out of his cell and Don shot him, or Don shot him while he tried to get out of his cell, or someone came for him and Don shot that someone.

  “Don?” Tracker said, still trying to shake off the sleep as he stood.

  He pulled open the front door.

  It was Liza again.

  “Sheriff,” she said. “Come quick!”

  * * *

  Tracker slipped into his coat as he left the house. He rubbed his hands together and blew into them.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” Liza said. “But all Hell’s come down.”

  “What happened?”

  “They took Jack.”

  “Took him?” Tracker said. “Took him where?”

  “To do a rundown behind Hannigan’s Tree.”

  “He dead?”

  “Escaped.”

  “How?”

  “Hank chased after him, they scuffled, Jack won.”

  “Hank rode a horse?” Tracker asked, buttoning his coat.

  “I hardly believed it myself,” Liza said, her voice shivering. “They took Hank to the Doc’s. He’s hurt bad.”

  Up ahead, Tracker could see Doc Ansen’s house lit up. A shadow moved across one of the windows. Across the street, The Ram was bright but silent. Even the livery looked livelier than The Ram. A small group of men milled around its open gates.

  “Where’s Don?” Tracker asked.

  “I don’t know. I came to you first.”

  Tracker gave his wrists a painful twist as he tried to assess the situation:

  One man on the run.

  One man injured at the Doc’s.

  One man possibly dead.

  “All right,” Tracker said. “I’ll head to the Doc’s and find out what’s going on. You run and fetch Deputy Weld.”

  They were close enough to the glow of Main Street’s gaslights for him to see the quizzical expression on Liza’s face. “Sheriff,” she said cautiously, “Deputy Weld is dead and gone … remember?”

  Tracker caught a cold breath. “Yes. You’re right, Liza, of course he is. Go see if Deputy Kivel is all right. Can you do that for me?”

  “I can,” she said. Wrapping her shawl tightly about her, she ran ahead.

  Tracker felt the fool for saying Ed’s name. Of course he was dead, he knew that. He saw the hole in his head, was at his damned funeral. Still, he couldn’t fault himself for wanting him at his side.

  As Tracker hurried toward the Doc’s, he noticed the group of men turn and stroll away from the livery. A lone figure remained crouched against a stall door. Tracker could tell it was Andy Dupois. Even his silhouette looked scrawny.

  “Andy!” Tracker shouted, rushing across the street. He reached the livery and stopped short as a pitchfork stabbed the air. “Leave him be!” a man shouted. “Oh, pardon Sheriff.”

  “Smith,” Tracker said.

  Cole Smith lowered his pitchfork and propped it against a stall. A childhood friend of Andy’s, Cole took over the livery business from his pa, Asa, who died the previous year. He was tall and lean, with thick arms from working with horses and blonde, almost white hair from a Swedish ma he never knew. “He’s very handsome,” Caroline once said about him. Of course, that made Tracker instantly dislike him, but he was good at keeping his horse, Bucko, fed and watered.

  “Hank and a bunch of his boys did a rundown on Devlin,” Cole said.

  “I know,” Tracker said. “He escaped and his pa is injured.”

  “Is he dead?” Andy asked, looking up at Tracker.

  “I don’t know yet,” Tracker said. “We’ll see to him in a moment. First, I need you to talk to me.”

  “Go on, Andy,” Cole said. “Sheriff won’t bite.”

  Andy glanced at Cole. “I didn’t want to hurt Jack. I had no choice.”

  “I’m not going to arrest you, Andy,” Tracker said. “I just need you to tell me what happened.”

  “My pa sought his justice,” Andy said, wiping his nose. “He went to the jail and got Jack. We dragged him off to Hannigan’s and he did his rundown. But Jack got away. When we found my pa, he was in bad shape, scratched and hit. We brought him to the Doc’s. Doc told all of us to get out. The others scattered like cats. I came here.”

  “How many others?” Tracker asked.

  “A dozen or so,” Andy said. “We all wore hoods.”

  Tracker knew he’d never find out who helped Hank. The whole county was in debt to the Dupois family for one thing or another. They were good for loans when the bank didn’t budge, they used to keep the longriders out of Gasher and the rustlers off ranch land. If Hank needed help to kill someone, he’d get it. Everyone owed.

  “All right,” Tracker said. “Let’s go see your pa.”

  Cole closed up the livery and followed Andy and Tracker over to the Doc’s. They entered the waiting room just as Doc Ansen emerged from the examination room. He was wiping his hands with a handkerchief. His bifocals sat on the tip of his nose, fogged with sweat.

  “Doc?” Andy asked.

  “Andy, I was just going to look for you,” he said. “Your pa—he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Andy said, slipping a knuckle over his lips. The floorboards creaked as his body trembled. “How?”

  “It’s too early to tell,” Doc said. “I’ll have to examine him further. There’s no sign of violence other than the scratches on his face. He may have hit his head. His heart may have quit on him.”

  “I want to see him,” Andy said.

  Doc stepped out of the way. Andy crept past him into the examination room. A moment later, they heard a slight sob.

  Tracker turned to Cole. “Were you a part of this?”

  Cole shook his blonde head. “No, Sheriff, you know how Hank is. He only trusts folks from around these parts.”

  “You’re not from Gasher Creek?” the Doc asked.

  “Originally from Seaview,” Cole said. “I came here as a boy but that makes no difference to Hank.”

  Tracker nodded, remembering Hank in hitches over the town’s election of a Bear Hunt lawman. “If he asked, would you have helped him?”

  “No,” Cole said. “I abide the law. Still, I wouldn’t shed a tear over the death of a murderer and rapist.”

  “Alleged,” Tracker said.

  Cole grunted. “Is there any doubt?”

  The side door opened. Liza’s cheeks were flushed from running, her blonde hair loose around her ears. Her dress was splattered in mud. “Sheriff,” she said, “I—”

  Catching sight of Cole, she stopped talking.

  “Liza?” Tracker said.

  “Go on, girl,” Cole said. “You got something to say?”

  “I,” she said, then hesitated. Still staring at Cole, she said, “I found—”

  “She found me,” Don said, pushing past her.

  Doc Ansen squeaked with alarm.

  Cole winced.

  “Is it that bad?” Don asked.

  “Uh,” Tracker said.

  He looked like the victim of a stampede. His entire face was bruised green and yellow with a bit of purple around the chin. His eyes were wet, bloodshot, and swelling shut. His nose pointed slightly to the left. Blood soaked his shirt.

  “You need an ointment,” Doc Ansen said.

  “I need a coffin,” Don replied.

  “Liza, you help Andy get home,” Tracker said. “Doc, keep searching for the cause of Hank’s death. Cole, I’ll need your assistance tonight.”

  “You got it, Sheriff,” Cole said.

  Looking at Don, Tracker said, “Can you ride?”

  “No,” Don said, dabbing his nose. “Wait—why?”

  * * *

  In Bear Hunt city, a man can go his whole life without experiencing night. He can experience
shadow; the streets and alleys are crammed with them. But true night could never breech the glow of the city’s thousand flickering gas lamps. It wasn’t until Tracker joined the army at age eighteen that he first saw true night, the kind that blindfolds the land.

  Tracker, Don, and Cole set out from Gasher Creek, accompanied by Gil Forbish, owner of the feed store, and Hans Hefler, a teller at the bank. Although Gil and Hans were not Tracker’s finest choice for apprehending a fugitive (Gil was fifty-five with regular attacks of the gout, and Hans fainted every time he got a nosebleed), they were trustworthy enough, and no friends of Hank Dupois. Hank never had a need for feed, and he routinely declared all bankers as crooks.

  “No moon,” Hans said. “It’s like trying to light a house with a single candlestick. We’ll not find him tonight, Sheriff.”

  Tracker leaned forward in the saddle and held out his lantern. “He may be injured,” he said. “If so, then there’s a chance.” He gave a reassuring pat to Bucko, his five-year-old quarter horse with a chocolate brown coat and white speckles on its haunches. It was a reliable horse, built for speed. He’d need that speed to catch Devlin.

  “Now, maybe it’s just because I was beaten within an inch of my life,” Don said from the back, “but I’m afraid I agree with ol’ nosebleed. We’re riding inside a big empty nothing, Sheriff. Can’t we set out in the morning?”

  “Ol’ nosebleed?” Hans said indignantly. “Are you referring to me, young man? It’s not my fault the dry air—”

  “Sheriff’s right,” Cole said. “We can’t give up.” He moved past the others and took the lead.

  “Stay close,” Tracker said.

  “Right, Sheriff,” Cole said. A shotgun lay in its scabbard by his knee.

  “Devlin’s a twig without muscle,” Gil said. “I wager we find him within the hour.”

  “Let’s hope,” Tracker said. “We can’t allow him to roam free.”

  “So you think he did it?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first man to kill a whore, but it’s not up to me whether he’s guilty or innocent.” Noticing the pace of Cole’s horse, Tracker said, “Smith, I told you to stay close, we need your light—”

  A startled whinny interrupted him. Hans’ horse shook its head and rose onto its hind legs, throwing Hans free of his saddle. The banker crashed into the grass and cried out in pain. Cole’s horse snorted and backed up so quickly that it nearly tripped. “Whoa,” Cole said, pulling sharply on the reins. “Settle you bastard, settle!”

  Bucko stopped. His ears pulled back.

  “Something’s out there,” Gil said.

  They listened. The wind rustled the grass around them. Cole leaned over so far that his chest brushed his horse’s mane. Suddenly, he grabbed the stock of his shotgun and pulled it free of its scabbard.

  Gil pulled his shotgun.

  Don pulled his revolver.

  Hans fell back into the grass and covered his head.

  “Whoa!” Tracker said. He gripped his gun but didn’t draw. “Speak to me, Cole.”

  “I saw something,” Cole said. “Something big, like a bear.”

  “A bear?” Don said. “This far from the mountains?”

  “I didn’t say it was a bear, I said it was something like a bear.” Despite his horse drifting nervously to the left, he held his aim steady.

  “Coyote,” Gil said, as if caught in a daydream.

  “What coyote?” Tracker asked.

  “At the hotel, I heard talk of a black coyote near Hannigan’s Tree. Biggest coyote ever seen. We should turn back, Sheriff.”

  “No,” Tracker said, wrapping the reins around his fist. “I’m not turning back because of the words of some drunken lynchers.”

  “Between this dark and our spooked horses, we don’t have a chance of finding Devlin now,” Don said. “Also, I have the powerful need to pass out.”

  “I think I’m getting a nose bleed,” Hans added.

  “Maybe Don’s right, Sheriff,” Gil said. “In this dark, he can see us better than we can see him. I say let him run. Either he’ll starve on the prairie or he’ll wander into the Badlands. He goes in there, he’s not coming out.”

  “I’ll not rest on that,” Tracker said, “but we will head back. In the morning, I’ll send a message to Brush town and inform Chuck Garnell.”

  “That old fool won’t lift a finger,” Cole said. “I say we wait until daylight and strike out after him.”

  “I don’t have the man power to chase Devlin all over creation,” Tracker said. “I’ll send word to Garnell in Brush and Seth Manlin over in Leverton Mills.”

  “Manlin is sour on rye,” Cole said. His hair glowed white in the lantern light.

  “Home, Smith,” Tracker said.

  Cole smirked. “I can’t believe you’re going to let that bummer free because you can’t stand being away from your missus. It’s a baby, Sheriff, not a bar of gold.”

  Tracker let his hand drift to his side, but he didn’t touch his gun.

  He stared at Cole.

  Cole stared back.

  “Just so’s you all know? I’m in very real pain,” Don said.

  “Right,” Cole said, snapping the reins. He headed back toward Gasher Creek. The others followed.

  Tracker held back a moment. As the others disappeared, the world closed about him until it was just himself and Bucko in a patch of lantern light.

  He stared into the darkness, and cursed.

  Chapter Five

  Jack ran. He fell.

  * * *

  Jack opened his eyes. The wind screamed in his ears. Grass blades groped his face like cold, dead fingers.

  * * *

  God dammit, Jack, your dream come true!

  Her breasts on his chest. Her breath hot on his forehead. Her eyes large, black, and empty. Her mouth, open and slack. Her tongue bloody.

  I couldn’t I wouldn’t no I protected her I loved her like Jeanie I’d never hurt her I’d never hurt any woman not Sally not Jeanie—

  Jack opened his eyes and cried out. He tore a handful of grass from the ground. Dew ran down his arm as he squeezed.

  He’d remembered something, a scrap of memory. Sally had been naked on top of him, breathing on him with a rank, bloody breath. She’d been hurt, beaten—

  Like father like son.

  “Oh God,” Jack moaned. “Oh God!”

  So he had been with her. He’d done something to her, he must have. He tried to remember more, anything. Had he really killed her?

  Ride her, Jack, ride her!

  A voice. Had someone else been in that room with him? Or were they just his own twisted, demented ramblings.

  Thunder rumbled above him, briefly interrupting his thoughts.

  Thunder of Heaven…

  When he was a boy, his ma had once told him that thunder was the sound of the Almighty’s golden chariots coming for sinners. “But not you, Jackie,” she’d reassured him, stroking his head. “You’re no sinner.”

  Now it growled—an angry, hungry sound, reminding him of Andy’s dog Whiskey as it gnawed on leftover chicken bones. Jack rolled onto his back and waited for the storm. He wanted a torrent to beat him, to punish him, to fill his lungs. Not a bad way to die, really. Better than a noose.

  He waited, and watched.

  He saw a star.

  Then he saw another.

  Then the moon appeared, white and round as a dinner plate. The clouds were moving on.

  But he’d heard it. He’d heard thunder.

  Unless … it wasn’t thunder.

  Jack sat up. Looking around, he saw nothing but acres of grass licked with moonlight. There was nothing there.

  Just us murderers.

  He stood. In the moonlight, he felt as exposed as a stage actor in a spotlight. He started walking, his legs stiff from lying in the wet grass.

  He looked behind him.

  Nothing. Just grass and shadows and—

  Another growl.

  Two golden eyes appeared.


  “What,” he said, before the thing moved and he lost his voice.

  It was a coyote.

  It was the biggest damn coyote he had ever seen.

  It crept toward him with slow, languid steps as if slipping through water. From snout to tail, it was as long as a horse and half the height. It was skinny, the corpse of a coyote reanimated. Its fur glistened in the moonlight like ink. Two ears sprouted from its skull like spearheads. Its large, whiskey colored eyes watched him.

  Jack didn’t move. He knew enough about dogs to know that if he moved, it would pounce. No doubt, a coyote that size could make him an easy meal.

  “You followed me, didn’t you,” he said. “You were what those fellas saw at Hannigan’s Tree.”

  It blinked.

  “I’m not worth the trouble. Try some of them fat ranchers back in town. Eat Hank, if you haven’t already.”

  Jack tried an experimental step backward, and the coyote took a step toward him. It watched him carefully, but its fur stayed down.

  “You want to walk with me, that’s fine,” he said. “I’ll not argue with a fella as big as you. But try to bite me and we’ll have at it.”

  It was a foolish thing to say, and he knew it. The only thing he’d have at was dying a very quick and bloody death.

  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 massive 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.”