Gasher Creek

by J. Birch

  Jack noticed another bruise along his jaw and a bit of swelling under one eye. “Them boys got you good, didn’t they?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “How many?”

  “Five, maybe more. They had knives.”

  “Whites?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jack was surprised they didn’t kill him. “All right Charlie, we’ll camp here tonight.”

  Sitting against an opposite column of rock, Charlie tipped his bowler over his eyes and said, “Dandy.” Then he fell asleep, or at least finally stopped talking.

  Jack couldn’t sleep, although he wanted to. He liked being unconscious. It was the only time he didn’t think about Sally and what he might have done—

  monster—

  to her.

  The sun crawled into the west. It touched the horizon, turned into a fire red coal, and then disappeared.

  Shadows swallowed the world.

  Charlie vanished.

  The shelf vanished.

  He thought of Sally.

  Chapter Ten

  The Doc and Don arrived at Tracker’s house shortly after sundown. Caroline had washed the dinner table, lit two candles, and surrounded the candles with plates of warm bread, salted pork, and bowls of mashed potatoes and fresh carrots from the garden. She brewed some coffee, but Doc brought a bottle of red wine that he’d purchased during his last trip to Bear Hunt. They sipped it in dented tin cups. At Tracker’s last count, Caroline had apologized six times for not having any proper wine glasses.

  Tin or glass, it didn’t matter to Tracker. He hated wine, believing it colored vinegar and nothing else. Still, he took polite sips and nodded approvingly when Doc asked him what he thought.

  “But it would taste grand in glass,” Caroline said. “Thank you again, Albert.”

  She was the only one who called Doc by his Christian name. Everyone else, even Reverend Tickie, just called him Doc. Tracker once asked her why she called the Doc by his first name, and she said, “We all have trades and we all have names, but our trades are not our names.”

  The Doc sipped his wine, saying, “I do believe this wine tastes better in tin. Now, I may not be a connoisseur such as yourself, Caroline, but that is my belief.”

  She blushed a little at the compliment. Tracker liked to see her blush.

  “Good vino,” Don said, slurping from the cup. Wine dribbled down his chin. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he picked up his knife and fork and sawed into the pork until the knife grated against his plate. Stuffing the pork into his mouth, he chewed and smacked his lips and winked at Caroline.

  “Don,” Doc said. “If I didn’t know your parents, I’d swear you were raised by wild hogs.”

  Don stopped smacking, his cheeks stuffed with food. “What?”

  Doc shook his head.

  “What did I do?”

  Tracker decided not to get involved. Concentrating on his own plate, he sawed into the meat and felt a jolt of pain in his wrist. Wincing, he set the knife and fork down.

  “Those wrists of yours still bothering you?” Doc asked.

  “Not too much,” Tracker said, pulling his hands under the table.

  “Sure they do,” Don said, chuckling. “You should’ve seen him last week when Abe Wilkes needed a hand lifting a bag of flour. He near wailed like a sick cat, and…”

  Don trailed off as Tracker gave him his best I’ll-shoot-you-like-a-mangy-dog-if-you-don’t-stop-talking-about-my-wrists kind of look.

  “I’m fine,” Tracker said.

  The Doc nodded, staring at the table as if he could see through the wood to Tracker’s wrists.

  “It’s all those years spent working in your father’s saloon,” Caroline said. “Throwing men out, getting into fights.”

  “Or my time in the army,” Tracker said. “Or as a police officer. My wrists have seen plenty of action.”

  “Could it be his gun?” Caroline asked the Doc.

  The Doc leaned back from his empty plate. “Could be,” he said, pulling on his chin whiskers. “A revolver weighs about three pounds. That could put a strain on your wrist.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my gun,” Tracker said.

  “Besides, he never uses it,” Don said, his mouth full of mashed potato. “I reckon that gun his has an inch of dust on it.”

  “Isn’t it time for pie?” Tracker asked, trying desperately to change the subject.

  Caroline bit her bottom lip.

  When he saw it, Tracker knew something was amiss. As a lady trained in all things lady-like, she never bit her bottom lip unless she was hiding something. She’d nearly chewed it off during the first month of her pregnancy.

  “What is it?” Tracker asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, fidgeting now.

  “Is it the baby?” Doc asked.

  “You bake an extra pie?” Don asked hopefully.

  “No, no, it’s nothing,” she said, blushing again. “It’s just—oh—father’s buying you one!”

  Doc, Tracker, and Don looked at each other. Tracker said, “A one of what?”

  “An O.M. Lightfeather.”

  Don choked. The Doc burst out laughing, smacking his knee so hard that his bifocals slipped off his nose.

  “What in creation is an O.M. Lightfeather?” Tracker asked, thumping Don on the back.

  “It’s a revolver,” Doc said. “Similar to the Colt, but for—pardon—the dainty gentleman.”

  Don started howling with laughter. “I can’t breathe,” he exclaimed, “and I don’t care!”

  “I told him about the pain in your wrists,” Caroline said, “so he ordered one for you. It’s very prestigious, Tom. It comes all the way from Seaview city.”

  “Oscar Matthews is an actor,” Doc explained. “He does a gun show, travels all over the world. But he’s small, see, small wrists, so he had these guns made special for him. He liked them so much, he manufactures and sells them.”

  “I don’t need a dainty gun,” Tracker said coolly.

  “They’re quite expensive,” Caroline said.

  “I’m no gent,” Tracker said, taking a drink of the foul tasting wine. Lowering the cup, he said, “Tell your father to send it back.”

  “I can’t do that,” Caroline said. “It would break his heart.”

  “Not to mention robbing me of a good belly laugh when I see it,” Don said.

  “Now, don’t dismiss this off hand,” Doc said. “A lighter gun might just be the answer to your aches.” He removed his glasses and wiped the tears off his cheeks. “Why, even I’ve considered buying one for myself, and—”

  He and Don crumbled into laughter.

  “Doctor, deputy, compose yourselves,” Caroline said, swatting Doc and kicking Don. “If not, there will be no pie for either of you.”

  “My—ha—heartfelt apologies,” the Doc said.

  “Sorry, Sheriff,” Don said, pinching his lips tight. His cheeks trembled. He snorted.

  “Dainty guns,” Tracker said, shaking his head. “Any chance for my father-in-law to see me the fool.”

  “Now Tom, that’s simply not true,” Caroline said, standing up. She turned to the windowsill to fetch the pie, but Tracker caught her grinning.

  * * *

  The after pie discussion was a sober affair as Tracker told them about the bruising on Hank’s neck. The Doc leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his fingers steepled under his nose. Don looked sleepy, but concerned. Caroline busied herself with the dishes, but he knew she was listening.

  After he finished, Tracker sat back and took a sip of coffee.

  “So what are you saying, Tom,” the Doc said. “You think because their bruises looked similar, they weren’t bruises?”

  “I’m saying it’s odd,” Tracker said. “Could it be some kind of paint? Make it look like they were choked?”

  “And who would do that—Andy?” Don said, stifling a yawn. “Andy and Sally got along well enough, and he’s tore up about his pa’s passing.”


  “Rest assured they were bruises,” the Doc said, “the kind you get when life is squeezed out of you. I’ll stake my trade on it.”

  “Then what else can explain their similarity?” Tracker asked.

  The Doc thought about it, his glasses fogging in the steam of his coffee. “Funny thing about bruises,” he said. “They can take all sorts of shapes. Sylvia once dropped a plate on her foot and many folks said it looked just like Australia.”

  “I saw that,” Don said. “It was funny until she hit me.”

  “But I’ll wager you don’t see many Australian bruises,” Tracker said.

  “Not at all,” Doc said.

  “If I dropped a plate on my foot, it’d probably look like something else.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Squinting at the Doc over the candlelight, Tracker said, “I don’t follow.”

  “A bruise is an explosion of blood under the skin,” the Doc said. “And when it explodes, it creates an amorphous blotch, like a cloud. I’m assuming you gazed at clouds as a child. I’m sure Caroline did.”

  Caroline returned from the washbasin, wiping her hands on her apron. “I did,” she said, lowering herself into her seat. “Most times, I saw turtles.”

  “And I saw sheep,” Doc said. “No two clouds are alike, yet they all take shape in the human eye. Sometimes we see lots of strange things in clouds, but sometimes we see the same thing over and over, whether sheep, turtles, or Australia.”

  Don smiled. “I once saw this woman with the largest pair of…” His smile faded. “Sorry.”

  Tracker said, “You’re telling me the reason those bruises look identical is because I imagined it?”

  “Coupled with a long shift and little rest, it’s not inconceivable.”

  “But what about the pattern?” Tracker asked. “Green, brown, and blue.”

  “I’ll grant you it’s rare to see such a sight, but it does happen.” The Doc reached into his pocket and pulled out a pipe. “Let me ask you, Tom. Do you think Jack Devlin is guilty?”

  Tracker shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “Honestly?” Doc said, tapping the bowl onto his palm. “Might I conjecture that this has less to do with bruises and more to do with your ideas about the boy?”

  Tracker stood and retrieved a pouch of tobacco and a box of matches from the mantle. Handing them to the Doc, he said, “Perhaps. He certainly didn’t strike me as a killer. Now, I know that anyone from a young child to an old maid can murder—I saw it all the time in Bear Hunt—but there was something different about Devlin. My gut didn’t itch.”

  “You’re what?” Doc said, stuffing his pipe with tobacco.

  “When you work as a police officer, you learn to read people. I could always tell someone was guilty because my gut would start to itch. I didn’t get that with Devlin.”

  “Well, itchy guts aside,” the Doc said, striking a match, “we have two dead bodies, and Devlin was the last to be seen with both. That’s guilt in my eyes.”

  “Perhaps we’ll never know,” Tracker said.

  “No need to fret over that,” Don said. “Cole is the best bounty hunter in town. He’ll bring him back.”

  Puffing on his pipe, the Doc said, “I never thought I’d utter these words: I agree with Don. This isn’t the first man Cole’s gone after. He brought in Willy Thompson when he was only fifteen.”

  “Willy Thompson?” Tracker said, impressed.

  “Who’s Willy Thompson?” Caroline asked.

  “A cattle rustler,” Tracker said. “A bold one. He’d steal cattle anytime he pleased. Day, night, it didn’t matter. And if anyone interfered? He’d just shoot them. I saw him hang in Bear Hunt.”

  “Cole went after him after he cheated Hank on a whore,” Don said. “Only took two days to hunt him down and bring him in. Compared to Thompson, Jack Devlin will be a barrel shoot.”

  “Oh yes,” the Doc said. “Before the week is out, that boy will hang like a Christmas goose.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Jack.”

  The voice was strange and far away. Jack hovered above sleep, hoping he could sink again.

  “Jack, wake up.”

  He didn’t want to wake up. There was peace in the darkness.

  “Jack.”

  Leave me be!

  Someone grabbed his shoulder.

  Instinctively, Jack twisted away. A moment later, he felt his body tumble. A moment after that, he slammed onto the ground. His eyes flashed open; he was now fully awake and fully in pain. It felt as if someone had punched him in the back. His backside burned as if full of buckshot.

  Charlie looked down at him from the top of the rocky slope. “Good … morning?” he said. He slid down after him, kicking up a cloud of dust and pebbles. He reached the bottom and said, “You okay?”

  “What—happened,” Jack coughed.

  “I tried to wake you and you fell.”

  Jack felt the seat of his trousers and discovered a small hole. He touched bare skin and winced. His fingers came away bloody.

  “You injured?”

  “No worse for wear,” he said. “Why did you wake me? It’s still dark.”

  “Not for long,” Charlie said, nodding at a ribbon of light in the east. He helped Jack to his feet. “I sure wish we could find ourselves some breakfast.”

  “You keep wishing,” Jack said. “I’ll walk.”

  “You okay to walk?”

  “Never mind about me, let’s just go.”

  They continued along the riverbed path. Jack moved slowly, his backside throbbing. Charlie slowed to keep pace with him. Daylight broke above them, filtered through the valley, and chased shadows back to their crevices and crags. It didn’t help much. The place almost looked worse in the sunlight.

  Glancing around, Charlie said, “I know a little something about this land. My ma said it was special.”

  “This place?” Jack said. “What’s so special about it.”

  “It’s supposed to be an ancient land where creatures lived long before anyone else, even the Chewak. The grandfather of the buffalo.”

  “What made those tracks back there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where’d they all go?”

  “She didn’t know.”

  Jack couldn’t see how a giant grouse could be the grandfather of a buffalo, but he supposed Indians believed strange things like that.

  They walked in silence for a while, their boots echoing off the hillocks. The sun rose high above them and cooked the land. Sweat spread over Jack’s back. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, swallowed dust, and coughed. His throat was parched, but the swish of Charlie’s canteen still didn’t tempt him. Besides, drinking would only make him hungrier.

  “So,” he said, trying to take his mind off his stomach, “raised on a ranch, huh?”

  “That’s right,” Charlie said.

  “Where abouts?”

  “Near the town of Pan Hope.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  Charlie pulled down the brim of his bowler. “Beautiful country up there. It was hard to leave. I’m mighty glad to be heading back for my sister’s wedding.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “I went to Bear Hunt to study.”

  “Study,” Jack said. “You mean schooling?”

  Charlie nodded. “I’m going to be a preacher. Are you a God fearing man, Jack?”

  “I don’t suppose.”

  “Why?”

  “Never went to church much. My pa said it took time away from working the field. My ma took us sometimes.”

  “You don’t read the Bible?”

  “I can’t read.”

  “Oh,” Charlie said, and then brightened. “I’ll teach you.”

  “We’re going to be here that long, huh?” Jack said.

  Charlie threw his head back and laughed, his teeth glistening in the sunlight. It was a loud, boisterous laugh that reverberated around them.

  “I can s
ee why you got robbed,” Jack said. “All of creation can hear you.”

  Charlie tucked the canteen under his arm. “My ma told me you have to laugh loud enough for the Old Man to hear.”

  “The Old Man?” Jack said. “Who’s that, your pa?”

  “No, the Creator.”

  “That Bible stuff?”

  “Chewak stuff,” Charlie said. “She said the Old Man made the sky, the prairie, even these Badlands, although I’m not sure why he’d want to do that.”

  “Me neither,” Jack said.

  “Maybe this was a testing ground,” Charlie said. “A place where my ancestors came to see the White Eagle. Legend says the White Eagle is the size of a horse, with wings the length of mountain pines. And he’s pure white, not one spot on his feathers. My ma told me he’s a tear from the Old Man. When you see the White Eagle, you’re supposed to find your purpose—path—something like that.”

  “You ever seen it?”

  “No,” Charlie said.

  “Any Indians you know seen it?”

  “I don’t know any except my sister,” he said. “But that’s going to change. When I finish my studies, I’m going to travel to the reservations and preach the good word. In return, I hope to learn their ways and language. My ma taught me all sorts of things, but she died when I was young so I’ve forgotten most of it.”

  “Except for white eagles,” Jack said. Squinting up at the sky, he said, “Well, I don’t see no eagles, but I reckon we’ll have our share of buzzards soon enough.”

  Charlie laughed again.

  * * *

  As noon burned down, they decided to rest. Leaving the riverbed, they slipped behind a giant boulder at the edge of the path. Although it provided shade, it offered no respite from the heat.

  Jack couldn’t resist any longer. When Charlie offered, he grabbed the canteen and gulped two mouthfuls. It hurt to swallow, but the water tasted gritty, warm, and good. He was still worried about getting sick, but at that moment sick was preferable to death from thirst.

  Charlie took a swig from the canteen before closing it. “So, where are you headed?” he asked, licking the water off his lips.