Gasher Creek

by J. Birch

  Jack seized the moment of noise and confusion and swatted the spider away. It tumbled into the rocks and scurried into a crevice.

  Beside the boulder, Charlie sat in a dust cloud and looked up at Cole.

  “An Indian,” Cole said. “Chewak, chi’kan es-cona?”

  “I speak English,” Charlie said. “But yes, I am Chewak.”

  “What are you doing out here, hiding in these rocks?”

  “I fell asleep,” Charlie said, wiping at his knees. “I was robbed.”

  A pause, then, “Have you seen a white boy around here? He’s a fugitive from the law.”

  “I saw a bunch of white boys,” Charlie said. “They beat me senseless.”

  More silence. “You don’t dress like a Chewak.”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. “That’s what I hear.” He stood up, grinding his boots into the stones and making a racket. Jack inched around the other side of the boulder and caught a glimpse of Cole. His back was turned to him.

  Finally, he got an idea.

  “You’re the first Chewak I’ve seen in three months,” Cole said, lowering his rifle. “Used to be like gophers in these parts, but I hear the army’s moving your kind further west.”

  A rock the size of an apple sat next to Jack’s boot. He picked it up and held it to his chest. He stood, slipping alongside the boulder.

  “So, you live out here?” Charlie asked.

  Cole grunted as if it were the most absurd thing he’d ever heard, and then cried out as the rock struck his head. Twisting around, he spotted Jack and shouted, “You!” before blinking, wavering, and falling off his horse.

  “Nice throw,” Charlie said, moving to steady the horse. “You ever play baseball?”

  Jack rushed over to Cole and dropped beside him. He placed his ear against his chest and found a steady heartbeat. “We don’t have much time,” he said.

  “Are you really a fugitive?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes,” Jack said.

  “What did you do?”

  Cole groaned.

  “We have to get out of here,” Jack said. He mounted the horse, a palomino with a golden coat and bone white mane. He held out a hand for Charlie.

  “Oh no,” Charlie said. “I’m no horse thief.”

  “Me neither,” Jack said. “But we have no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice,” Charlie said, folding his arms.

  “I’m not waiting,” Jack said. “Either you come now, or I’m leaving.”

  Cole’s fingers twitched. His lips moved. They were running out of time.

  “He ain’t after you,” Jack said. “Once we part ways, you’ll be in the clear, honest. He won’t make a fuss over an Indian. Come on, Charlie, do you want to get home for your sister’s wedding or don’t you?”

  Charlie lifted Cole’s rifle. For a moment, Jack thought he might aim it at him. Then, slipping it into the scabbard, he grabbed Jack’s hand and climbed up.

  “This is a Hell bound act for sure,” Charlie said. “We can never take this back.”

  * * *

  They reached the end of the valley in the early afternoon. Jack thought he’d be anxious to see grass again, but neither he nor Charlie made a ruckus about it. In fact, Charlie had barely spoken since they’d escaped Cole. He was probably thinking about what he’d done. Stealing a horse could get you hung much faster than killing a whore ever could. You steal a man’s horse and you might as well kill his family and steal his livestock for all the mercy a judge will grant you.

  Added to that, Charlie was a preacher. Or almost a preacher. Jack didn’t know much about gospel sharps, but he reckoned they weren’t much for breaking the law.

  “Look,” Jack said, nodding at a patch of greasewood. “We’re almost out.”

  The riverbed path rose steeply, faded under a fringe of grass, and then disappeared into prairie.

  Jack slowed the horse and stopped. “We’ll rest a moment.” They dismounted and sank into the weave of buffalo and Indian grasses. Around them, the wind rustled like a mother hushing her babe. The sky looked clean and clear like a spring pond.

  They dusted the Badlands off their clothes. Jack removed a boot and poured out a small pile of dust and pebbles. Charlie wiped off his bowler. The horse wasted no time and started to munch grass.

  “Don’t let him eat too much,” Charlie said. “Without water, he’ll block up.”

  “I won’t,” Jack said. He was too envious of the horse to let him enjoy a feast. They’d found a rabbit sandwich and an apple in Cole’s saddlebag, but it was like throwing a drop of water into a valley. All it did was infuriate Jack’s stomach into growling. “What I wouldn’t give for mashed potatoes and steak,” he said, plucking a blade of grass.

  Charlie sat back on his elbows and nearly disappeared. “Coffee,” he said.

  “Coffee,” Jack said, closing his eyes. “With cream. And then pie.”

  “An entire pie,” Charlie said. “Cherry?”

  “Apple.”

  “Apple,” Charlie said wistfully. “Emily makes the best apple pie. I wonder if she’ll make me one when I get home.”

  Pulling his boot back on, Jack said, “I’m sorry I made you a horse thief, Charlie.”

  The grass obscured Charlie’s face, but Jack saw him shrug. “A man was trying to shoot you,” he said. “You had to get away.”

  “And I will take the blame if it comes to that.” He stood. “That I promise you.” It wasn’t an empty promise. If he was going to hang anyway, what was one more charge?

  “Jack,” Charlie said. “Why is that man after you?”

  Jack took the reins and eased the horse’s head up. “I was his odd jobs man,” he said, rubbing the horse’s neck. “He claims he paid me for work I didn’t do.”

  “He’s chased you all the way out here for that?”

  “He’s crazy.” Looking back at the valley, Jack imagined Cole raging and cursing at the rocks. His pace would be slow, but he was coming. “I think it’s time we head out.” He dropped the reins and then rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “I need a horse and you need a horse. The proper thing to do is fight for it.”

  Charlie grabbed his hat and stood. “I’ll not fight you. It’s barbaric.”

  Jack frowned.

  “It means savage.”

  “Oh,” Jack said. “Well, we can’t chop this poor creature in half, now can we?”

  Gazing out over the prairie, Charlie said, “You’re still heading to Lone Pine, aren’t you?”

  “I might be,” Jack said. “Why?”

  “Hear me out,” Charlie said. “We travel together and head north to Brush town. Once there, we part ways. I’ll head east to my pa’s ranch, and you can take the horse and go on to Lone Pine or wherever else you fancy.”

  Jack ground his heel into the grass. “I don’t know,” he said.

  Charlie stuffed his hat back on. “I know what you are, Jack.”

  He knows you’re lying. He’s using his Indian magic to see the monster—

  Moving behind the horse, Jack said, “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t deny it,” Charlie said. “You’re a wind hugger.”

  Jack stopped. “A—what?”

  “You’re like the hands we used to hire at the ranch,” Charlie said, “wanting nothing to do with nobody. The biggest toad in your own pond. Well that’s fine with me, mister, but let’s look at the facts. We have one horse. I have a direction but you don’t, so what’s the foul in helping me out? After all, I saved your hide back there.”

  “You saw a spider!” Jack exclaimed.

  “It was a joint effort,” Charlie conceded, “but you can’t deny my part in it.”

  No, he couldn’t. Still, he hadn’t asked the Indian to help. It was a sour swallow, and no doubt.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Jack said, ripping out a handful of grass. “Let’s give it to the wind. I’ll head in the direction it lands.”r />
  “What?” Charlie said. “That’s just foolish.”

  Jack threw up the grass. It scattered north.

  Charlie grinned. “Well how about that!” he said, clapping his hands. “North it is!”

  “You’re right, that was foolish,” Jack said. “All right, Indian, I’ll help you find your way to Brush. But then we’re even.”

  “Agreed,” Charlie said. “You won’t be sorry.”

  Jack checked the saddle, already sorry. He didn’t much want the Indian’s company, but he supposed he did owe him for his help. And it might not be all bad. He could probably scrounge a few days work in Brush before heading out. There was bound to be some odd jobs he could do—

  Or women to kill.

  Cringing, Jack wrapped his hand around the saddle horn.

  Like father like son.

  The thoughts seized him like a pair of rough, cold hands.

  God dammit, Jack, your dream come true! Ride her, Jack, ride her!

  “That’s the biggest coyote I’ve ever seen.”

  Jack twisted around to see what Charlie was pointing at. The black coyote stood about fifty paces away, watching them.

  “Just Look at it,” Charlie said, mouth agape. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  Nodding slowly, Jack said, “Yeah. I have. It’s been following me from Gasher Creek. The first night I was outdoors, it pounced on me and knocked me senseless. I don’t know why it didn’t eat me.” His fingers crept along the saddle until they rested on the stock of the rifle. Slowly, he pulled it out of its scabbard.

  “What are you doing?” Charlie asked, grabbing the reins.

  “If you can keep quiet, I’m going to shoot it,” Jack said, moving away from the horse. “The last thing we need is a hungry coyote following us.”

  He lifted Cole’s rifle and found the coyote between its sights. Its golden eyes stared directly at him. Its maw hung slightly open, revealing rows of jagged teeth.

  Jack cocked the hammer. He held his breath.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The shot echoed over the prairie like a thunderclap. When the smoke cleared, the coyote was still staring at him.

  “Impossible,” Jack said. “It should be dead.”

  “Maybe you’re a bad shot,” Charlie said, but he wasn’t sounding convinced.

  “Let’s get going,” Jack said. “Now.”

  They mounted the horse and headed north. The black coyote followed at a distance, slipping through the tall grasses with ease, disappearing into the thick at times but always re-emerging. Jack gave a kick to the horse and it broke into a gallop. The coyote kept pace with them.

  “Leave me alone!” Jack shouted.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Only when you’re waiting, do you hear the ticking of a clock.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  The hands of the wall clock drew closer to seven-thirty.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Don was tardy. He was always tardy. In fact, Tracker couldn’t remember a shift when Don was on time. Of course he always had an excuse, what Tracker’s pa used to call a jaw breaker. It usually revolved around similar themes: either his ma was sick and he had to fetch her water, or he was sick and had to claw his way out of a coma, or his pa was fixing the roof and needed help. One time (and Tracker would never forget it), Don claimed that his ma was sick, he was sick, his pa was sick, and the roof caved in.

  About a week before his death, Ed Weld had stood before the office door and held his stool like a baseball bat. “As soon as Don opens the door, I’ll swing,” he said. “Folks will hail me the Cap Anson of Gasher Creek!”

  Tracker had fallen apart, laughing. “You knock Don’s head off, and they might just give you a medal!”

  Of course, when Don opened the door, Ed slipped the stool underneath him and started whistling nonchalantly. “Oh, hello Don,” he’d said. “Grand evening, don’t you think?”

  Tracker smiled at the memory. He opened the desk drawer, retrieved Ed’s badge, and held it in his palm. Ed had always showed up on time, even on the day he’d died.

  The office door opened.

  “Don,” Tracker said, dropping the badge back into the drawer. “It’s about time you—”

  A figure staggered through the doorway, silhouetted in the dusk light. Tracker leapt to his feet, pulled his chair around, and helped the man sit.

  “Shut the door,” the man implored him. “They may yet be out there!”

  Tracker shut the door and lit the desk lantern. As the light grew, Tracker said, “Reverend Tickie?”

  The reverend looked like hell. Someone had bruised and blackened both eyes. His nostrils were bloody. The shoulder of his suit was ripped, his clerical collar stained with blood. “I was savaged,” he moaned.

  “Tell me what happened,” Tracker said.

  Tickie looked at him. “This town is a Sodom and Gomorrah,” he said. “I have tried to lead my flock to salvation but there is too much sin in this town.”

  “I understand,” Tracker said, “but I need to know exactly what happened to you.”

  “The wickedness of men,” Tickie said. “That’s what happened to me. It lives in every man’s heart, Sheriff, but some men choose to bathe in it, grow drunk on it like whiskey.”

  “All right,” Tracker said, silently cursing Don for being late. “Tell me about some men, specifically the some men that beat you down.”

  Clearing his throat loudly, Tickie said, “This afternoon, I was about my business at the church. Due to Hank’s funeral, I was behind on my preparations for this Sunday’s service. As I stood at the pulpit, rehearsing my sermon, two men rushed in and demanded money. What money! No one ever gives money to the church. I live on food handouts from the congregation. I’m not like those high-falutin’ priests in Bear Hunt or Seaview, who have giant churches and platefuls of offerings—”

  The door opened and Don sauntered in, singing, “Took her by her lil-y hand, took her to the prom-ised land, on her backside I did—Reverend!”

  “Evening Don,” Tracker said, making a point of glancing at the wall clock.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Don said.

  “And drunk,” Tickie said, sniffing.

  Don, who’d lived with Tickie much longer than Tracker, hung his head and said, “Yes Reverend. Well, I did have a few drinks at The Ram, but that’s to be expected on a day such as—”

  “Drunkenness, lad, is never warranted,” Tickie said. “I buried the man and I’m not toddling with the drink.”

  “No Reverend,” Don said.

  “No Reverend, indeed,” Tickie said. “I carry a Bible instead of a bottle.”

  Tracker didn’t see a Bible, but Tickie’s hat was suffering in its absence. “Reverend,” he said. “I apologize for the interruptions. Please continue.”

  Tickie muttered something Tracker was certain wasn’t a prayer, then said, “Yes, well, as I was saying, I was inside the church practicing my sermon—it’s about the five greatest guilts—when those two beasts burst in. I said I had no money, so they beat me and told me to leave town.”

  “Do you know who they are?” Tracker asked.

  “No.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “Yes,” Tickie said. “Brutish.”

  Don, standing behind the reverend, smirked. Tracker, under the scrutiny of Tickie, didn’t have that luxury. “Brutish,” Tracker said, nodding. “Anything else?”

  “Thick arms,” Tickie added, holding up his hands as if to choke someone.

  Don snorted. Tickie twisted around, saying, “I’m glad you think this is humorous, but I find no humor in it at all. It’s a shame. A shame that our town is turning into a … a devil’s trough!”

  “The color has attracted all sorts of folks,” Tracker said. “We just have to wait it out.”

  “Wait it out?” Tickie said. “In a few months there will be nothing left but saloons and whore houses.”

  “Not under my watch,” Tracker said.


  “Your watch?” Tickie screeched. “You allow rapists and murderers to run off into the night like jack rabbits!”

  Don’s smirk disappeared. Tracker folded his arms and said, “Pardon?”

  “That Devlin fellow, who, might I add, never once stepped foot inside my church, did those awful things to that whore and you just let him run off.”

  Don stepped back, waiting for it, but Tracker didn’t hit the reverend. One, because he’d spent just enough years at a Lutheran church in Bear Hunt to have a modicum of respect for the clergy. And two, because Caroline attended church every Sunday and he didn’t want to embarrass her. But if it had been any other man, he would’ve cracked his jaw.

  “Jack Devlin,” he said in a measured tone, “was lynched by Hank and got away. Cole Smith is, at this very moment, on his trail. I haven’t allowed the boy his freedom, reverend. He’ll be back.”

  “Grand,” Tickie said. “With Cole on his trail, you have more than enough time and opportunity to apprehend the men that attacked me.”

  Tracker sat on the edge of the desk. “I doubt that,” he said.

  Tickie looked struck. “Why not?”

  “Based on your description of brutish? It may prove difficult.”

  “They also had beards,” Tickie said. “Big beards.”

  “Most of the men in this town have big beards.”

  “You don’t. Don doesn’t.”

  Tracker sighed. “Tonight, I’ll have Don keep a close eye on the church to make sure no one tries to break in. That’s all I can do.”

  Tickie trembled as if he might burst into tears. “That’s unacceptable!” he said.

  “Accept it.”

  The reverend leapt to his feet, almost knocking Don over. “You claim to be the law in this town,” he said, shaking with rage. “But I’ve never seen you do anything other than collect drunks. Do you protect the innocents of Gasher Creek, or don’t you? The Dupois family was no friend of the church, but if there was a problem in town they dealt with it swiftly.”

  “What’s your meaning?” Tracker said, standing. “You think I should swing every man that misbehaves?”

  “No,” Tickie said. “Of course not, but—”