by J. Birch
“How many men did you bury when the Dupois settled matters? I’ll bet half the cemetery is full of folks who broke the family law. What’s so Christian about that?”
Sweat trickled down the Reverend’s temples. “I—I don’t—”
“You’re a man of the cloth, and I respect that,” Tracker said. “But don’t tell me how to run this town.”
Tracker’s eyes must have blazed with hellfire, because Tickie fell silent and seemed to deflate like a balloon. “I’ll take my leave,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“You do that,” Tracker said.
Don held the door open. On his way out, Tickie said, “Sheriff, I look forward to seeing you in church on Sunday.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
The reverend gained a little of his ire back and stormed from the office.
Tracker moved over to his chair and collapsed.
“Hoo, Tom, you really cut him,” Don said, closing the door. “I’ve never seen Tickie shrink like that. I’ll bet a dollar he’s running for the nearest outhouse.”
“Let’s just forget it,” Tracker said.
“And you know those gospel sharps love to squawk,” Don said. “He’ll run and tell Frosty, then Frosty will tell Sylvia, and the entire town will know about it before nightfall.”
“I said drop it.”
“All right, Sheriff,” Don said. “I just hope you know what you’re in for.” He plucked Tracker’s hat from the nail beside the door and replaced it with his own. “You might as well head on home. I can take it from here.”
“What do you mean?” Tracker asked.
Don shrugged. “Heck Sheriff, if you want to work another double shift, be my guest, but I figured—”
“Not that,” Tracker said. “‘I hope you know what you’re in for’—what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Folks jawing,” Don said, handing Tracker his hat. “You all right, Sheriff? You’re giving me the evil eye.”
“You know, it just occurred to me,” Tracker said. “I never got around to ask you what happened the night Jack Devlin was lynched.”
“I didn’t think you had to,” Don said, chuckling. “Plain as the crooked nose on my face, wouldn’t you say?”
“Tell me anyway,” Tracker said.
“They kicked the door in, roughed me up, took the keys, and then took Devlin.”
Tracker nodded. “A lot of men helped Hank that night. Men loyal to the Dupois family. You’ve been pals with Andy since you were kids.”
Don may have been lazy, but he wasn’t stupid. Tracker could see the wheels working behind his eyes.
“What are you getting at,” Don said, all humor gone from his voice now. “Because I do believe you just accused me of trying to kill Jack Devlin.” He folded his arms, his long, thin fingers dangling close to the bone handle of his knife.
“Are you or are you not friends with Andy?” Tracker asked.
“Andy’s not like his pa,” Don said. “Sure, he helped his pa with Devlin, but he’d get boxed if he didn’t. He liked Jack as far as I know.”
“He didn’t tell you it was coming?” Tracker asked.
“Of course not!” Don said, throwing up his hands. “Sheriff, they burst in here and beat the tar out of me.”
“Those bruises are healing quickly,” Tracker said, standing. “Didn’t put up much of a fight, did you?”
“You want to watch that talk,” Don said. “I’ll not stand for it.”
Tracker stepped close to Don until they were inches apart. “I’ll only say this once,” he said. “If I ever find out that you betrayed this office, I’ll shoot you where I find you.”
At that moment, Ben Tunn sauntered in, carrying a basket in his arm. “Evening to one and all, how are we…”
Tracker and Don stared at each other, neither one moving.
“We have an understanding?” Tracker said.
“Oh yes,” Don said. “We surely do.”
He turned, pushed past Ben, and slammed the door behind him.
Holding out his basket, Ben said, “I—uh—picked some apples. I thought you fellas could use a … treat.”
Chapter Fifteen
The middle of nowhere could be awful large. Jack had hoped for a farm by now, but saw nothing. Just grass, wind, and sky. If he’d been out for a picnic, it would’ve been a fine day.
“It’s gone,” Charlie said, pointing. “It disappeared into that patch of long grass.”
The black coyote had stayed with them for a spell. Jack tried to outrun it, but it kept pace like a family dog trailing a wagon.
“It always vanishes for a while,” Jack said. “Wait for it.”
“I have been,” Charlie said. “It’s not coming back out.”
Shading his eyes with his hand, Jack scanned the area but saw no movement.
He smiled.
So he’d shot it after all, or at least winged it. It must have finally bled out and lost its strength. No creature, no matter how big, could beat a Winchester.
“Why do you suppose it followed you?” Charlie asked.
“Sick I suppose,” Jack said. “Or gone mad from hunger.”
“Could be,” Charlie said. “You want to know what my ma told me?”
“No.”
“My ma told me the coyote is a trickster spirit.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he tries to fool you. Sometimes it’s to teach you a lesson, sometimes it’s to test your courage.”
Jack chuckled. “Well, that was no spirit, Charlie. If it was some kind of ghost, I wouldn’t have shot it.”
“You didn’t shoot it.”
“I shot it,” Jack said. “You can be certain of that.”
“No,” Charlie said. “I don’t think you did.”
Jack stopped the horse. Twisting around in the saddle, he said, “Do you really believe that dog is some kind of spook? Pardon me, preacher, but that don’t sound like Bible stuff. That sounds like Indian nonsense.”
“I didn’t say I believed it,” Charlie said. “I just said it’s what my ma told me.”
“Well, my ma told me that if you pull a broken carrot from the ground, it’s one year’s bad luck,” Jack said. “I pulled tons of broken carrots from our garden and nothing ever happened to me.”
Charlie smiled a little. “How’s your luck been lately, Jack?”
Jack nudged the horse and they started moving again. “Spook coyotes,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s why white folks are taking your land. We don’t pray to the coyotes and the buffalo, we shoot them.” Giving the horse a scratch, he said, “What about horses? Let me guess … a horse is … the ghost of your kin, guiding you swiftly across the land.”
“That’s not funny,” Charlie said. “It may mean nothing to you, but those beliefs meant everything to my ma.”
“Wind,” Jack said. “It’s all wind, Charlie. Coyotes are small dumb animals and this horse is a big dumb one. Coyotes chase rabbits and horses pull wagons. They got as much soul as we got. None.”
“That’s all there is to it then?” Charlie asked.
“That’s all.”
“Then why was that big dumb coyote following us?”
“Charlie,” Jack said, “Why don’t you—”
The horse stumbled and pitched forward. Jack heard a loud crack followed by a shrill, terrified scream. The horse collapsed, throwing Jack and Charlie off. Jack fell into a thick patch of grass. Charlie tumbled like a rag doll.
The horse screamed again.
“Oh no,” Charlie said, scrambling to his feet. “Jack!”
Jack crawled over, trying to blink off the dizziness.
The palomino bucked and thrashed as it tried to get back up, its eyes wide and wild, its teeth bared. A bone protruded from its left hind leg, greasy with blood and ragged where it snapped.
“Dammit,” Jack cursed. “Must have stepped in a prairie dog hole.” He looked around and found it. It was big.
“Poor thing,” Charlie sa
id, touching its neck. “We didn’t even know its name.”
The horse whimpered like a child.
Cursing again, Jack got to his feet and looked around. Here they were, still caught in the middle of naught with no way of knowing how far it was to Brush town. They had no water. They had no food. And now, they had no horse. The trek ahead would be hard. Would Charlie hold up? He didn’t seem like the strong sort, having been citified in Bear Hunt. Maybe Jack would have to carry him like a pack mule when he got tired, or keep him from crying out at shadows when it got dark. He’d always heard that Indians scare like a flock of crows, not much courage to—
The blast nearly knocked him off his feet.
Turning around, he saw Charlie standing over the dead horse, a puff of rifle smoke blowing away on the wind.
“Charlie?” Jack said.
Charlie handed him the rifle and started walking.
* * *
Charlie didn’t say anything for a long time. Jack commented on the weather, how it was warm and good for sleeping. He said he was so hungry he would eat the next grasshopper he saw and just anyone try and stop him. But Charlie didn’t smile, nod, or seem to notice his existence. Finally, Jack ran out of things to talk about and kept his mouth shut. He figured it wasn’t his business trying to cheer up the Indian anyway. If he didn’t want to talk for the rest of his days then that was fine by him.
“I didn’t like shooting it.”
Jack, surprised to hear something, anything come out of Charlie’s mouth, said, “What?”
“That horse.”
“I reckon it’s hard to shoot a horse,” Jack said, plucking a dandelion as he passed.
“You never?” Charlie asked.
“Nope. Where I come from, shooting a horse is like tossing a year’s earnings in the river. It happens, but not very often.”
“I never have either,” Charlie said. “My pa always took care of the lame ones. I don’t like guns. Don’t like the sound of it, like the air is ripping apart. You think that’s odd?”
“What.”
“That I don’t like guns.”
“It’s a might odd,” Jack said, “like hating a hoe or a plow. Everyone needs a gun.”
“Even preachers?”
“You go into a reservation and not carry a gun?” Jack said, and whistled. “That mixer scalp of yours is a goner.”
They hiked up a steep incline, the grass brushing their knees.
“You hate the Chewak, don’t you?” Charlie asked.
“Sure I do,” Jack said.
“Why?”
“Same reason I hate snakes, spiders, and bears,” Jack said. “They kill white men.”
“I haven’t killed you,” Charlie said.
“You ain’t a Chewak, you’re a half-breed,” Jack said. “Trust me, Charlie, if you didn’t have that white blood in you, you would’ve killed me back in that God forsaken valley and not given it a second thought.”
He reached the top of the incline and stopped.
Charlie said, “Now that’s not true, Jack, I—”
He froze.
They both stared at it.
Jack couldn’t believe his eyes. He figured he’d finally gone crazy from hunger. “Charlie,” he said, “Is that—”
“A wagon,” Charlie said.
A homesteader wagon stood in the distance. Beside it, a woman with straw colored hair poked at a smoking campfire. She was cooking.
Jack’s gut clenched like a fist.
“Food,” Charlie said.
“Food!” Jack cheered. “Let’s go!”
He rushed forward, waving his arms and yelling at the woman. In his excitement, it took him a moment to realize that Charlie wasn’t with him. He skidded to a halt. Spinning around, he saw two men emerge from the grass. One frowned and held his shotgun to Charlie’s head, while the other trained his barrel on Jack. For a delirious moment, he thought he was Cole Smith. Then he took a closer look.
They were both around Jack’s age, both with dusky brown hair and a few days growth on their chins. The frowning one looked younger. His suspenders hung over his thighs and his shirt spilled over his trousers. His arms trembled as he held the gun to Charlie’s head. The older one kept a steady aim on Jack, his blue eyes meeting Jack’s without any betrayal of excitement or fear.
“Drop your rifle,” he said.
Jack dropped it.
“See that camp? It’s ours. That food my missus is cooking is ours and your mouths won’t go anywhere near it. So you best keep walking. We got nothing of value.”
“We’re not going to rob you,” Charlie said.
“Shut it redskin,” the younger one said.
He wanted to shoot. Jack could see it in his pale green eyes, the way his elbows twitched.
“We mean no harm,” Jack said to the older one. “We’re just passing through on our way to Brush town.”
“You smell foul,” the younger one said.
“Hush Silas,” the older one said. Looking at Jack, he said, “Why are you heading to Brush?”
“To find food and supplies. My friend is heading back to his pa’s ranch, and I might be moving on to a place called Lone Pine.”
“You a farmer?”
“Was.”
The older one lowered his shotgun. “Drop your aim, Silas.”
Silas stiffened. For a sickening moment, Jack thought he was going to blow Charlie’s head off.
“But Billy—”
“Look at them,” Billy said. “They’re wind beaten and half-starved. A good shove would kill both of them. What are your names?”
“Jack Devlin,” Jack said. “This here is Charlie Sewell.”
“Funny name for an Indian,” Silas said. “Shouldn’t you be called Marching Red Feather, or maybe Chief Grassy Trousers?”
“Those names were already taken,” Charlie said.
Billy smiled and lowered his shotgun. “Come on,” he said. “We got plenty of food.”
Chapter Sixteen
That evening, Caroline declared that she’d never made a meat pie so savory.
Tracker nodded.
“The crust is delicate, but heavy enough to be filling,” she said.
He nodded again, spooning it into his mouth without tasting it. When she started talking about something else, he kept nodding and stared at the table lamp.
“So I said yes to Frosty’s proposal, and we’re running away together,” she finished.
Tracker stopped nodding. “What?”
“Oh,” she said, smiling. “So you are listening.”
“Of course I am,” Tracker lied. He stabbed a chunk of carrot with his fork and popped it in his mouth.
“Tell me,” Caroline said.
“Hm?”
“Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
Tracker tried a reassuring smile. “Nothing much.”
Sighing, she rubbed her belly and said, “What did he do this time?”
“Who?”
“Don.”
Tracker set his fork down. “How did you know?”
“You always look like that when Don has done something. Or, as is often the case, hasn’t done something.”
“How do I look?” Tracker asked.
“Old,” Caroline said. “And you’re not old.”
Tracker smiled at her, a real one this time. Anyone would look old compared to his wife: twenty-six, beautiful, glowing from her pregnancy. And here he was on the high side of thirty-one, dusty from work, smelling like all sorts of foulness, in need of a bath, a haircut, and a moustache trim. His knees ached and his wrists screamed. Not for the first time, he wondered what she’d ever seen in him.
Then he thought about how they’d met, and his smile grew. Oh, how she’d fallen for him. Yes sir.
“It couldn’t be that bad,” she said.
“No,” Tracker said. “I was just thinking about you.”
“And normally I’d encourage you to do so,” she said with mock indifference, “but I’
m afraid it must wait until you tell me about deputy lazy bones.”
“Actually, it was my fault,” Tracker said. “Tickie accused me of letting Devlin go and it put me sour. I ended up pointing a finger at Don.”
“About?”
“About him helping Hank with Devlin’s lynching.”
Caroline nodded as if he’d just told her that milk does, in fact, comes from cows.
“It was a foolish thought,” Tracker said. “Wasn’t it?”
“It most certainly was not,” she said. “Don has been an errand boy for Hank since he was a child. He’s done all sorts of nasty things for that man. Just ask Sylvia, she’s known him his whole life. No, Tom, the only respectable thing about Don Kivel is the job you gave him.”
“He’s not as bad as all that.”
Caroline slid her hand as far as she could across the table. Tracker reached out and slipped his fingers into hers. She said, “You know as well as I do that the only one keeping Don in line was Ed, God rest his soul. And now that he’s gone, what’s to prevent the simpleton from doing as he pleases?”
“They did beat him,” Tracker said.
“A perfect excuse to hide his involvement.”
“But to betray his oath as a lawman…”
“You’re the only one who cares about that oath,” Caroline said. “For Don, it’s a job, no different than shoveling manure in a pig pen.”
“But what can I do,” Tracker said, pulling his hand back. “I can’t dismiss him. No one has volunteered for Ed’s job, and I don’t blame them.” Of course, Ben Tunn was eager to learn, but that boy wouldn’t be able to handle the nights, no matter how big he was.
Tracker stood, flexing his wrists. “Until the Crow’s Peak Hills run dry, we’ll be up to our elbows in the worst kind of folks.” He retrieved his pipe and tobacco from the mantle. “Either I keep Don and let the matter rest, or I let him go and hope to find another man—two other men—quickly.”
“There’s always a third choice,” Caroline said, gathering up the plates.
“No,” Tracker said, stuffing tobacco into the pipe bowl. “I’ll not move back to the city.”
“It was just an idea,” she said innocently.
“I know what your idea is,” Tracker said. “You want to be near your kin. Well you’re here with me and that’s all there is to it.”