by J. Birch
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “Heard of a place up north called Lone Pine. They got free land for settlers.”
“Lone Pine? Yeah, I know it. You running away?”
“No.”
“Folks tend to head north when they’re running away from something.”
“Well I’m not,” Jack snapped.
Liar.
Charlie gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he said. “Preacher habit. We ask lots of questions.”
“You like being a preacher?”
“Well, I’m not a full preacher yet,” Charlie said. “But of course I like it. I get to speak to folks about Jesus, and that’s the most important thing anyone can ever speak about.”
“How do you figure?”
“He keeps you from going to Hell,” Charlie said. “What can be more important than that?” He pressed his fingers to the boulder, leaving three spots of moisture on the surface. “But it’s not easy. You have to have the faith of a mountain. Sometimes it’s hard to believe, especially when I think about my people…”
Charlie stopped talking. The three spots of moisture evaporated.
“Chewaks don’t like Jesus?” Jack asked.
“Sometimes I think it’s the other way around,” Charlie said. “See, the Bible teaches us that when Jesus died, there was a new law. The only way of getting into Heaven was to believe in him.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, nodding. “My ma taught us that.”
“Like all good mothers do,” Charlie said. “Even my ma taught me that, although she mixed it with stories of the Old Man, the Crow, and the Winter Bear.”
Jack didn’t know those Bible stories, but his ma had never read him the Bible. She couldn’t read either. She just liked to hold it sometimes.
“So there was Jesus,” Charlie said, “a carpenter living in Nazareth. That’s far away.”
“Another country?”
“Over the ocean.”
“Oh.”
“So after this carpenter died and came back to life, he was the only way of getting into Heaven. It became the law.”
“So?”
“So there’s a problem,” Charlie said. “White man only came here four hundred years ago.”
Like every other preacher he’d ever heard, Jack was having a hard time following him. “So?” he repeated.
“Well, it wasn’t until four hundred years ago, and less than a hundred for the Chewak, that any Indian would have heard of Jesus. Yet, according to the Bible, if you don’t know Jesus you go to Hell. That means that for almost two thousand years my people have been dying and going to Hell because they didn’t know Jesus, although there was no way they could have known Jesus.”
Jack sat back and thought about Jeanie. She never went to church once their ma died of the fever, and he never saw her pray a word in her life. And because of that, she was burning in Hell? He didn’t know about all those Indians, but that didn’t seem right about his sister.
“It’s a thorn I can’t pluck,” Charlie said, giving his canteen a swish. “Tell you the truth, I’m glad to be heading home for Emily’s wedding. I don’t want to think about it for a while. All I want to do is see my pa and play my fiddle.” He mimicked the stroke of a bow. “I’m not sure if the good Lord will approve, but I reckon the Old Man will be fine with it.”
Jack shrugged. “It’s all just wind anyhow.”
“You think so?”
He opened his mouth to respond when he heard the unmistakable clop clap of horse hooves. Shutting his mouth, Jack braced his knees against the boulder and folded his arms tightly across his chest. Charlie did the same. They listened. The sound grew louder and echoed around them like applause. Jack couldn’t tell if it was one horse or an entire gang.
He held his breath.
Charlie cupped his hands over his nose and mouth.
It stopped.
“Devlin!” cried Cole Smith. “You’re caught. Come on out.”
Chapter Twelve
Funerals happened all the time in Gasher Creek. As the town boomed, so did the graveyard. Rushers got shot, rushers fell in the creek, rushers cracked their heads on a rock. As a result, a procession carving a path through the traffic didn’t garner much attention.
Unless it was a Dupois. Then the town skidded to a halt like a nervous coach horse.
Shops locked their doors and closed their shutters. Sidewalk vendors urged their customers to come back in an hour. And the two largest businesses in town—the Gasher Hotel and The Ram—looked abandoned.
At three in the afternoon, Tracker locked the sheriff’s office and turned toward the church. He didn’t want to go to Hank’s funeral. Most folks in town probably didn’t want to go to Hank’s funeral. But the death of a Dupois was like the death of a king. You mourned, whether you liked it or not. Supposedly, enough people attended Louis Dupois’ funeral to make the church floor buckle.
Ben Tunn, ever apologetic hog farmer, called to Tracker as he approached the office. He looked like an overstuffed undertaker in his black suit and waistcoat. Tugging at his collar, he said, “Sheriff, did you know that cold water could shrink a man’s clothes? I scrubbed this suit to make sure I didn’t smell like the hogs, but gosh.” He wiped a sleeve across his sweaty forehead.
Somehow, Tracker didn’t think it was the cold water that caused such a snug fit, but didn’t say anything.
“Where’s Don?” Ben asked.
“He’s in the procession,” Tracker said, and looked up Main Street. Removing his hat, he said, “There he is.”
Seeing the procession, Ben tore off his hat and crushed it in his hands.
Carriages swerved to either side of the street. Mules brayed as their owners goaded them away from the coffin. The street cleared and everyone piled onto the sidewalk to watch.
Hank’s coffin proceeded down the street on the shoulders of six men. Don was one of the six, looking respectful for once in a new black suit. He’d bathed, brushed his hair, and, to Tracker’s amazement, shaved his face. He even wore his badge.
Andy held a spade and walked in front of the procession. Liza, in a blue dress, walked at his left. Delilah strutted on his right, wearing a large black dress that revealed a healthy amount of cleavage. She lifted the hem of her skirt as she walked through the muddy street, showing off her calves.
“Goodness,” Ben said, averting his gaze.
After the procession moved past, Tracker said, “All right, let’s get this over with.”
They stepped into the street and followed the others. “Sheriff,” Ben said, “I was thinking I might sweep the office when the funeral is done.”
“That’s not necessary,” Tracker said.
“Wash the walls?”
“No.”
“I noticed your door was still, broken, I could—”
“Bob Alder is doing it,” Tracker said. “Listen, Ben, you don’t have to repay me any favors. I hold no ill feelings against you for not watching Devlin.”
He nodded. “Yes Sheriff. It’s just that—”
“If I need help with anything, you’ll be the first I speak to. Fair enough?”
Ben brightened a little. “Fine,” he said. “That suits me just fine.” Suddenly, the bottom button of his waistcoat popped off and fell into the mud. “Oh no,” he moaned.
“Sheriff!”
Tracker turned to see Sylvia Platter marching toward him.
“You go sit with your pa,” Tracker said to Ben. “I’ll be along shortly.”
“Good idea,” Ben said. “Sylvia sees me with a button missing and she’ll tan my hide.” Pretending to scratch his belly, he turned away and started for the church.
“Good afternoon, Sylvia,” Tracker said.
“Don’t,” she said, approaching him. “Don’t say that. It’s bad luck to greet someone on the way to a funeral.”
“Oh,” Tracker said. “I didn’t know that.”
With her fiery red hair tucked into a black bonnet, Sylvia’s long pointed nose a
nd prominent cheekbones stood out in sharp relief. “Have you seen my boy?” she asked. “I haven’t seen him. He needs to be here. He must pay his respects to the dead.”
“I haven’t seen him,” Tracker said.
“No one has,” she said, crossing her arms. “That boy’s a ghost. And do you know why? His father.”
“Tate’s missing as well?”
“No,” she said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. Tate Platter finished locking the hotel and then hurried to catch up. “Lazy with the switch,” she said. “Children need a good swat now and then, don’t you agree?”
“I—”
“If more boys got the devil smacked out of them there would be fewer men for your jail cell, don’t you agree?”
Reaching them, Tate said, “Morning Sheriff.”
“Don’t say that!” Sylvia snapped.
“I’m sorry, dear,” he said. Although taller than Sylvia, Tate hid it well with a permanent slouch that increased in proximity to his wife. He had wispy brown hair, a drooping moustache, and brown eyes that rarely left the ground. When he spoke, his voice trembled as if he’d just spent the afternoon in an ice house. “Sorry to be a bother, Sheriff, but perchance, did you—I mean, have you seen our—”
“I already asked him and he doesn’t know,” Sylvia interrupted. “That means he’s out in the long grass catching filthy bugs again, or playing in that ditch we call a creek.”
“I’ll have a look around,” Tracker said. “You two go on to the church.”
“There’s no time,” Sylvia said. “You’ll miss the funeral.”
“Don can represent the sheriff’s office,” Tracker said.
“Oh no—no, no, no,” Sylvia said, wagging her finger. “That baby of yours will be born backwards if you don’t attend. Didn’t you know that? Of course not. Honestly, men are such—”
“I’ll take my chances,” Tracker said.
“Chances?” Sylvia said. “Sheriff, surely you must be—what is it!” she snapped as Tate touched her elbow.
We’ll be, uh,” he said, “we’ll be late for the—”
“Yes, yes, you’re right,” she said, smoothing the arms of her dress. “Unlike our sheriff here, we don’t want ill luck by not attending.”
“I’ll come as soon as I find your boy,” Tracker said. “I have an idea where he might be.”
* * *
George Frosty was one of the richest men in town, although you’d never know it. He wore the same clothes every day, never ate at the hotel, and lived above his store in a room the size of a water closet. But without him, Gasher Creek would have turned into a ghost town years ago. Prospectors, ranchers, and farmers depended on the mercantile as much as they did on gold, cows, and rain. It was the place to go for all the essentials: tea, coffee, hammers, saws, nails, boots, and, of course, pick axes and sifting pans. Frosty also ran the post office and could guess, with amazing accuracy, how long it would take your package to get to its destination, and vice versa.
But George had one fault that made his mercantile a necessity and not a pleasure: he could talk. Incessantly. Buying your essentials could cost you twenty minutes of gossip. Because Tracker was partial to brown sugar, he’d send Caroline in to purchase it. She used the excuse of her pregnancy to keep her visits short.
Tracker reached the mercantile and paused in the doorway. A ten-year-old boy with shaggy brown hair and a dusty black suit stood inside.
Jimmy Platter.
Tracker knew he’d find him there. If Jimmy wasn’t in a field picking flowers or digging near the creek, he was in the mercantile talking to Frosty. Some folks (his ma in particular), thought Jimmy asked too many questions, but Tracker always encouraged his curiosity, as did Frosty.
“The prickly weed can also be used for scrapes,” Frosty said, leaning on his counter. “Rub it on the injured skin and those scrapes will clear up in a flash.”
Jimmy admired the weed in his palm. “Gosh,” he said. “Can you eat them?”
Frosty cackled. “I suppose you could. Nothing that grows in the creek will hurt you. Why, even the mud can be used to soothe a sunburn.”
The boy was quiet a moment before saying, “So … it couldn’t have killed Whiskey?”
“I don’t reckon so,” Frosty said, scratching his head. “I’ve seen deer eat the prickly weed and it doesn’t seem to trouble them. Andy’s dog was old. He probably just dug one too many bones and flopped over. You keep right on pulling your prickly weed and catching your toads, Jimmy,” he said. “Nothing is more important than learning about the world around us.”
“Yes sir,” Jimmy said excitedly.
Tracker slipped into the store. He leaned on the counter next to the candy jars and nodded at Jimmy.
“Hi there Sheriff,” Jimmy said. “I’m learning about prickly weed and Dotser toads.”
“Doser,” Frosty corrected him.
“It’s this toad that lives under the creek. Can you believe that, Sheriff? It digs itself in the mud and lives there!”
“Well, I’ll be,” Tracker said. “The things I learn from you, Jimmy.”
“Frosty told me,” he said, beaming at the old man.
“The things you’d learn if you ever stopped long enough to shoot the breeze,” Frosty said to Tracker. “Jimmy understands the importance of shooting some breeze, don’t you Jimmy?”
The boy seemed to ponder the idea very seriously before saying, “I … think so?”
Frosty clapped his hands.
“Unfortunately, there’s no time to shoot the breeze today,” Tracker said. “I’m here on official business. Seems a little boy is missing.”
Jimmy’s smile faded. “Me I bet,” he said.
Tracker nodded. “Your ma’s looking for you.”
“Oh, let the boy be,” Frosty said, waving Tracker away. “He can do chores later.”
“This ain’t a chore,” Tracker said. “Well, come to think of it…”
Jimmy looked at his suit, at the weed, at his suit, and then exclaimed, “Oh no, the funeral!”
“The funeral?” Frosty said. “Oh no!”
“Throw that weed outside and catch your folks,” Tracker said.
“Yes sir!”
“And Jimmy?” Tracker called after him.
Jimmy skidded to a halt just outside the door.
Tracker pointed at the boy’s dusty knees. Jimmy gave them a swat and then dashed off, shouting, “Thanks Sheriff!”
Frosty rushed around the counter, a ring of keys jangling in his hand. “I best hurry,” he said, “lest that gospel sharp give me the evil eye.”
Tracker waited outside. Locking the door, Frosty said, “Come on, we’ll run together and pray Hank’s ghost forgives our tardiness. The last thing anyone needs is the wrath of a Dupois!”
Chapter Thirteen
“I know you’re around here, Jack,” Cole said.
Charlie stared at Jack. Jack shook his head, thinking, don’t move. Don’t even breathe, Charlie. He didn’t know much about Cole Smith, but he did know that he used to do some bounty hunting for Hank.
He was good. Willy Thompson good.
“You’re close by,” Cole said. “I can smell you.”
Charlie sniffed his armpit. He shrugged.
“Come on out and you’ll get a fair trial in Bear Hunt. That’s a promise from me and Sheriff Tracker.” Then, cocking the hammer of a firearm, he muttered, “Come get some.”
No one would have heard his muttering out on the prairie, but the echo of the rocks amplified everything.
Charlie’s eyes grew wide and frightened.
Jack swallowed.
Now he knew. Cole wasn’t trying to arrest him. Cole was trying to kill him.
Blinking back the sweat, he tried to think. He needed a plan. He looked at Charlie, who looked back at him as if waiting for the plan.
Taking a very shallow breath, Jack forced himself to concentrate.
Plan A: surrender and hope that Cole wouldn’t shoot him.
<
br /> Of course, Cole would shoot him.
Bad plan.
Plan B: they sit and wait for Cole to leave.
That’s assuming Cole was bluffing about their smell. If not, he’d dismount and search every boulder and column until he found them. And then he’d shoot them.
A little better, but still no good.
Plan C: they try to jump him.
It was two against one, but Cole was mounted and carrying some kind of firearm. Plus, Jack was a farmer and Charlie was a preacher. Plus, you couldn’t move an inch without disturbing a handful of stones. Cole would shoot them on the principle of being stupid.
Out of ideas, Jack’s mind reverted to blank panic.
“You’re trying my patience!” Cole shouted.
Jack tilted his head back and gazed at the sky. It was a bright, blue day. Perhaps, once he was shot, he’d keep his sights on the heavens and feel the sunshine on his face for as long as he could. He’d watch the blue and wait for it to happen.
It might not be so bad.
As he stared, a black speck appeared above him. At first, he thought it was a grain of dirt in his eye, but it grew larger. Then he thought it might be the falling feather of some passing crow, but it stopped in mid-air.
Then it started again.
Jack’s stomach clenched as he realized it was a large, black spider. It lowered toward them on an invisible thread of webbing. Charlie looked up and clasped both hands over his mouth.
“Don’t make me come look for you,” Cole said. “I don’t much like spiders, and these hills are crawling with the deadly sort.”
The spider descended faster. It was the size of a child’s fist, pure black, and hairy. Long, ragged pincers sprouted from its head. It probably held enough venom to kill a horse.
It drew closer to Jack, its legs reaching out for him like ancient, withered fingers. Jack could see its eyes.
Closer—
he needed to move but didn’t dare—
closer—
please, no, Jack thought frantically.
As one of its legs scraped his forehead, Charlie yelped and tumbled out from behind the boulder.
“What the!” Smith exclaimed.