Gasher Creek

by J. Birch

  Caroline looked around their small cabin. “That’s right.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  She straightened up, her belly swelling. “Come here,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She stuck out her lower lip and batted her eyelashes at him. It was her secret weapon, a way of diffusing whatever bad mood he was in. And it always worked.

  Sighing, Tracker moved over to her.

  “Give me a kiss,” she said.

  Tracker leaned in and kissed her. Despite a string of dry days, her lips felt moist and warm. Tracker’s hand touched her belly and crept up to her breasts. She gently removed his hand and shook her head.

  “I know,” Tracker said. “How much longer?”

  “That depends on your son.”

  “Or daughter.”

  “A woman knows,” Caroline said. Turning, she led him toward the bed and sat down. “Kick off your boots and stay a while.”

  It was a great idea. He would sit beside her and have a smoke—yes, then he’d lie beside her and listen to the baby kick—yes, and then he’d fall asleep—oh yes. Nothing but peace and solitude, until the morning—

  Someone pounded on the door.

  “We really must get a closed sign,” Caroline moaned.

  Tracker hobbled over with one boot on and opened the door. It was Don.

  “We got a problem,” he said.

  Over his shoulder, Tracker could see a raging fire burning in the distance. He rushed over to the bed and slipped into his boot. “Which one?” he asked, turning to grab his gun belt.

  “The church,” Don said.

  “Oh, Lord,” Caroline said.

  Tracker snatched his coat, kissed Caroline on the cheek, and then ran out the door. Shutting it behind him, he said, “Is anyone hurt?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Don said.

  Tracker could tell he was still in hitches over their argument. “Don,” he said, slipping his coat on. “About our words earlier—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Tom.”

  “All right,” he said, letting it drop for the moment. Apparently, the threat of death could leave a man sore.

  They reached the church just as a crowd was forming. Tracker pushed his way to the front and raised his hands against the heat.

  There was no use forming a bucket brigade. The church was lost. Flames roared from all four windows, fed by the pews, pulpit, and hymnals. Paint bled off the wood siding and melted into the grass. Ash spewed into the sky and fluttered over Gasher Creek like snow.

  Most of the townsfolk had gathered to watch. Sylvia and Tate stood with Jimmy, their faces white in the glow of the flames. Bob Alder and Gil Forbish watched with quiet fascination. Frosty scratched his head while taking in great snorts of air.

  “Where’s Tickie,” Tracker asked.

  With a groan, the church buckled.

  “Stand back!” he shouted.

  The church collapsed with a boom. A burning plank struck Tracker on the shoulder. Frosty batted at a flock of hymnal pages as they fell on his head. Jimmy crouched over a flaming hunk of wood, saying, “Why do you suppose it burns so fast?” before Sylvia dragged him back by his collar.

  A handful of rushers cheered.

  “Stand back I said!” Tracker ordered, slapping the flames out on his shoulder.

  “Not to worry, everyone,” Don said, hitching his trousers. “I’ll handle this. I have to take a powerful piss.”

  “Sheriff!” Sylvia exclaimed.

  “Shut up, Don,” Tracker said. Turning to the crowd, he yelled, “Has anyone seen the preacher?”

  Just then, a strangled howl rose from the back.

  “I think we found him,” Don said.

  The crowd split as Reverend Tickie barreled through, his arms flailing as if he were falling of a cliff. “No!” he wailed.

  He wasn’t going to stop. Tracker lunged for the reverend and gripped him in a bear hug.

  “My church!” Tickie cried, trying to kick free. “We have to save it!”

  “There’s nothing left to save,” Tracker said. “Look at it. Look!”

  Tickie looked. After a few more fist pumps, he stopped struggling. “Oh Lord,” he said, falling to his knees. “This town is the devil’s trough, Sheriff. The devil’s trough!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was the best corn mush Jack had ever eaten. The bread was fresh and moist. He’d never seen a whiter plate. He’d never used a stronger spoon. The campfire burned bright and warm and held back the darkness. Next to him, Charlie shoveled mush into his mouth so fast that he nearly choked. But he was smiling.

  Opposite Jack sat Silas and Billy Dorgan. Billy’s wife, Mary, sat next to her husband. She looked eighteen, maybe younger. Thin, but pretty. Although she didn’t say much, she made up for it by staring at Jack and Charlie intently, her eyes the color of jay feathers.

  “My apologies for earlier, fellas,” Billy said, “but we heard tell of bandits in the area.”

  “You heard right,” Charlie said. “I was robbed in the Badlands.”

  Silas chuckled, a bit of bread tumbling from his mouth. “You traveled the Badlands? Surprised you’re still alive, Indian.”

  “You should have gone around,” Billy said. “It’s only an extra day’s ride but worth it. My half-witted brother is right for once. You boys should be dead.”

  “We’re not, and much obliged for it,” Jack said, lifting a spoonful of mush.

  “Thank my missus,” Billy said. “Mary can cook anything. I shot a rabbit the other day and she made it taste like it come from a restaurant. You boys ever eat in a restaurant?”

  Charlie and Jack said no. Jack figured a cold plate of beans and bread didn’t count.

  “What’s your tribe, Indian?” Silas asked, pointing his spoon at Charlie.

  “Leave the man alone,” Billy said. “But if you don’t have the biggest nose in three counties.”

  “It’s all right,” Charlie said. “I’m a Chewak.”

  “Chewak?” Silas said. “You must be the last one in these parts; the army got all the others. But then those duds make you look more white than red.”

  “My pa’s white,” Charlie said.

  This seemed to confuse Silas. He frowned and tapped his lip with his spoon.

  “You say you got a ranch near Brush?” Billy asked.

  Charlie nodded. “Used to be a big operation, but my pa’s getting on in years.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I’m studying to be preacher in Bear Hunt.”

  “An Indian preacher!” Silas said, clapping his hands with delight. “Will wonders never cease. You preach about the birds and the trees?”

  Billy punched his brother in the arm. “By God, I hope there’s a church where we’re headed, because I’m dragging you there every Sunday.”

  “What?” Silas said. “I’m just having a snort.”

  “It ain’t Christian,” Billy said. “Especially to a preacher, red or white.”

  Silas belched. “You don’t mind, do you Indian?”

  “I’ll take your guff for this food,” Charlie said, scraping the last few spoonfuls of mush off his plate.

  Pointing at him, Silas said, “I like this one.” He sprang to his feet and jogged over to the wagon. Moments later, he returned with a large bottle of rye.

  Billy groaned.

  “Just a sip,” Silas said.

  “That’s all the devil asks,” Billy replied.

  Silas pulled the cork out with his teeth. “See? This is what happens, boys.” He spat the cork. “You take a woman, she churches you up, and then you forget yourself. Next thing you know you’re saying, ‘yes my dove my flower anything you say yes ma’am I’ll never take another drop of the devil’s piss as long as I live.’” He stomped his foot and snorted. “A man should be able to fight and fart as he pleases.”

  “You keep jawing like that and you’ll never find a woman,” Billy said. “My wife will be feeding yo
u until the day you die.”

  “Then I’ll die fat and happy,” he declared, and plopped himself back down on the ground. After taking a long drink, he let out a triumphant “Woop!” and licked his lips. “Besides,” he added, “I’ll have all the women I please once we reach Brush.”

  Mary shot Silas a withering look and collected the plates. She stood and stormed off toward the wagon.

  “Dang it,” Billy said. “Your tongue should be cut out of your head.”

  Silas took another swig. “Acknowledge the corn here, fellas,” he said. “You boys reach Brush and the first thing you’re doing is some digging, am I right?”

  “I’ll just be passing through,” Charlie said.

  “Ah,” Silas said, nodding. “Got yourself a squaw on your ranch.”

  “Not a wife if that’s what you mean. Just my sister.”

  Billy pointed his finger at his brother and said, “Don’t even think it.”

  Silas sputtered and took another long drink from the bottle. “Jack,” he said, “if you’re heading to Lone Pine, you better dunk in Brush. Hear there’s not much up there but acres of empty land cold enough to freeze a man’s nuts off.”

  “That’s where we’re heading,” Billy said. “We came on hard times and sold our land to the railroad. Thought we’d have to move to a city for work until we heard about Lone Pine. It’s virgin land, never been plowed.”

  Silas coughed and spat rye into the fire. Laughing, he said, “Now whose tongue should be cut out?”

  * * *

  After supper, Billy and Mary went to sleep in the wagon. Silas, who obviously hadn’t been on a starving death march earlier that day, continued to fire off questions like a Gatling gun. Jack forced his eyelids open but he was losing the battle. Charlie’s bowler inched further down his forehead.

  “How long you fellas been outdoors?” Silas asked, handing the bottle to Jack.

  “Don’t know,” Jack said, and took a polite swig.

  “Five for me, I think,” Charlie said, declining the bottle with a pass of his hand.

  “Three for us,” Silas said. “Didn’t have much to pack—just sold our farm to those rail bastards and hit the spokes. Where’s your farm, Jack?”

  “Don’t have one. I used to work on my pa’s farm, but I left. I’m coming from Gasher Creek.”

  “Heard color was found in the Crow’s Peak Hills.”

  Jack looked at the bottle. “That’s true.”

  Silas hooted, then said, “If I had money for tools and such? I’d be there right now, knee deep in some stream. Find one or two nuggets and you’re set. How the whores in Gasher Creek?”

  Her nethers are bruised something awful.

  Jack drank from the bottle, the rye spilling over the sides of his mouth. It seared his throat like boiling water.

  “Jack?” Charlie said, sitting up.

  You sick son of a bitch.

  “Easy!” Silas said, snatching the bottle away. “Another swig like that and you’re paying.”

  “Sorry,” Jack croaked, wiping his mouth. But he wasn’t sorry. He needed the relief. Charlie kept staring but he didn’t care.

  Slowly, the heat of the rye spread over his body. It felt as if he were slipping into a warm bath. He smiled.

  Silas held the bottle up to the firelight. “Billy’s gonna tan my hide for sure.” Then he shrugged and took another drink. “Tell me something redskin,” he said, “how do they allow Indians to be preachers? I mean, how can you speak about sweet Jesus when you’re praying to the birds and the prairie dogs?”

  “I don’t pray to birds and prairie dogs,” Charlie said.

  Silas clicked his tongue and raised his hands, the fingers hooked into little claws. “I love you mister prairie dog!” he squealed.

  Jack waited for Charlie to lunge. It was more insult than any man could stand.

  But Charlie the Chewak didn’t lunge. Instead, he did something unexpected: he chuckled.

  “Yeah, yeah!” Silas said. Struggling to his feet, he announced, “I gotta squirt,” and handed the bottle to Jack. “Pray I hit no gophers, preacher.” He stumbled off into the dark. Moments later, they heard the grass crackling as Silas relieved himself, accompanied by a whistle and a fart.

  “Why didn’t you beat him into the ground?” Jack asked.

  Charlie, who hadn’t touched a drop of booze, looked relaxed enough to drown in his own clothes. “Do unto others,” he said.

  “I know that one,” Jack said. “Never met a man who followed it, but I know it.”

  “It’s hard, I’ll grant you,” Charlie said. “But I try to follow the—”

  “Good Lord in Heaven!”

  Silas ran back to the campfire, his trousers around his ankles. “Coyote!” he cried. He tripped, scrambled toward them on his hands and knees, reached the campfire and grabbed his shotgun. Jack and Charlie hit the dirt as he swung around and fired, the blast shaking the ground beneath them.

  “Biggest d-damned coyote I ever seen!” he stammered, groping his trousers for more bullets.

  Billy rushed toward them. Unlike Silas, his top half was bare and his bottom half was covered. “What the devil is going on out here!” he demanded.

  “A coyote!” Silas shouted, swinging around to face his brother.

  Billy ducked. “Put that down, you damned fool, before you shoot me!”

  “But—”

  “I said drop it!”

  Silas dropped the shotgun. It lay in the grass, its barrel smoking.

  Billy cuffed him, staggering him onto his knees. “You sop,” he said. He grabbed the bottle from Jack. “This was full, Silas. Now there’s barely enough to wet the mouth. Fat good it will do us if someone gets hurt.”

  “Listen to me,” Silas pleaded. “There’s a coyote—”

  “You’re drunk and seeing things.”

  “I am not!”

  Billy exhaled forcefully. “That blast traveled for miles. You want a gang of longriders finding us? We can’t afford to lose our barest possessions.”

  “All right, I’m sorry,” Silas said, raising his hands.

  Billy picked up the shotgun. “Go to sleep,” he said, and marched back to the wagon.

  Scrambling over to the fire, Silas hugged his knees and stared fitfully into the darkness. “Biggest damn dog I ever seen,” he said. “I seen it.”

  Jack and Charlie looked at each other and moved closer to the fire.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Caroline gripped Tracker’s hand as he sat beside her. She lay in their bed, knees propped up, a blanket over her thighs. Sylvia Platter knelt before her, her hands disappearing under the blanket. “Push,” she said.

  “I did that—I pushed that!” Caroline shouted.

  “Got yourself a doll ma, Sheriff.”

  “I am not,” Caroline growled, “whatever that means.” Her skin glistened with sweat. Her nostrils flared. She bared her teeth and squeezed Tracker’s fingers.

  “Oh, you fancy yourself a frontier woman now?” Sylvia said. “Then push like one!”

  Doc Ansen stood next to the fireplace, holding a pair of forceps. His sleeves were rolled at the elbow. “Should I fetch some chloroform?” he asked.

  “No point,” Sylvia said, wiping her wrist across her forehead. “This girl doesn’t want this child.”

  “I want it,” Caroline gasped, “I do.”

  “Here?” Sylvia said. “In this devil’s trough?”

  “Some whiskey then,” the Doc offered.

  Tracker, who didn’t know his fingers could turn that shade of blue, said, “What for?”

  “This isn’t going to be pleasant, Tom,” the Doc said to him.

  Caroline screamed.

  “And here we are!” Sylvia exclaimed, scooping out a tiny, pink body into her arms. Tracker caught a glimpse of it before Caroline’s knee obscured his view. He craned his neck, but her knee kept moving.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Caroline said. “Why isn’t the baby crying?”

/>   “Calm yourself,” Sylvia said.

  “It should be crying,” Tracker said, “shouldn’t it?” He was still trying to see past that damned knee. “What’s wrong?”

  “I—I lost him,” Sylvia said, lifting the baby. Its pink, wrinkled body lay limp in her hands. Its tiny eyes were shut, its face the color of a plum. “He choked,” she said.

  “Choked,” Tracker said, “choked on what?”

  He opened his eyes. For a moment, he was lost in the darkness. Sweat trickled down his face. His heart stomped like a wild horse as he desperately tried to think of some way to save his baby—

  “Butter,” moaned a voice beside him.

  Tracker paused.

  “Tom gets so dusty,” Caroline muttered in her sleep.

  Reaching out, Tracker slipped his hand over his wife’s large, round belly, and exhaled. Relief washed over him.

  Only a dream. A terrible, horrible dream.

  He didn’t go back to sleep. And in the morning, he didn’t mention it at breakfast.

  * * *

  After the church burned into a respectable bonfire, Sylvia had led the reverend away with the promise of her finest room at the hotel. And she’d offered it at a very generous price—half. After all, it wasn’t every day a man lost everything. Tickie accepted her offer with a nod, having bawled himself hoarse. He’d trudged through the crowd like a whipped man as they gawked and pointed.

  But he wouldn’t stay silent for long. Tickie was a fireball that could rage hotter than his church.

  As Tracker made his way to the office, he circumnavigated Frosty (“Morning Sheriff, quite the fire.” “Talk to you later, George”), passed the gunsmith, said hello to Hans Hefler as he opened the bank, and was nearly struck in the face as the hotel’s front doors flew open. Staggering back, he saw Reverend Tickie charge out onto the sidewalk and stare down Main Street. He’d brushed the ash from his hair, but his face was still stained with soot.

  “Please reconsider,” Sylvia said, chasing after him. “This is madness!”

  “I was told to leave,” he said, rounding on her. “And that’s what I intend to do.”