by J. Birch
Mary pointed a finger at her husband.
Billy shook his head and motioned to Jack and Charlie.
Finally, Mary nodded, turned on her heel, and marched back toward the fire pit.
“They’re done,” Silas said. “Looks like Billy got his way. Will wonders never cease.”
When they broke camp, Mary sat in the wagon seat with Billy, while Jack, Silas, and Charlie sat in the back. If Charlie was offended by Mary’s suspicion, he didn’t show it. Jack figured he was just thankful to get a ride.
With a crack of the reins, they continued north, bouncing and jostling their way to Brush town. Although it was nice to be out of the sun and off their feet, they paid for it in noise. The axles rattled and the pots and pans clacked together. Silas jawed about his dream whore and even thought up a song about her. Jack tried to ignore it all by sitting on the edge of the wagon and watching the land, but it didn’t help much. People and things always made such a racket. Especially people.
Once Silas had exhausted the topic of whores (which took a very, very long time), he started asking Charlie more questions about the Chewak. Was it true they ate the bones of their enemies? Was it true they could ride a buffalo like a horse? And, most importantly, was it true (as a friend named Picker Tom once told him), that all Indian women could cast spells?
Thinking about it, Charlie nodded and said, “Yes, it’s all true. In fact, the most frightening sight in all of creation is an Indian woman riding a buffalo while waving a white man’s leg bone. You see that, and you best run for your life. Because if she catches you, she’ll turn you into a toad.”
Silas’s mouth fell open. “No,” he said.
“A toad, if you’re lucky,” Charlie added.
“And what if you ain’t so lucky?”
Charlie smiled. Leaning back, he tipped the bowler over his eyes and left Silas staring at him.
They stopped only once during the day. Mary built a small campfire and roasted some pork. She had five hunks of corn bread left and handed two to Jack. He assumed one was for Charlie. She sat close to her husband.
Billy asked Charlie to say grace.
“Of course,” Charlie said.
After he finished, Silas twisted a finger in his ear, saying, “Yeah, you’re a preacher all right. I could’ve reached Lone Pine, built my house, and planted my crops by now.”
Mary swatted him and hazarded an apologetic glance at Charlie.
“It’s all right,” Charlie said, smiling at her.
She looked down at her food and ate quickly.
After eating, they lounged in the grass while Billy fed and watered the oxen. Compared to the wagon, Jack felt as if he were lying on a bed of goose down. He had nearly fallen asleep when Silas nudged his boot and said, “We’re moving.”
They walked after the wagon and climbed on. Silas jumped aboard, singing, “Go to town, look around, till you find your pain-ted cat. Pain-ted cats oh the pain-ted cats, fall in bed with a pain-ted cat!”
He clapped his hands and fell back into a sack of flour.
“Silas!” Billy barked.
While Silas reassured him the flour was fine, Jack turned back to the prairie. All day, he’d kept a look out for the black coyote but hadn’t seen a thing. Perhaps the sight of Silas and Billy had scared it off. Perhaps it would finally leave him alone. Jack, of course, was doubtful. At one point, he saw Charlie watching the grass. He clearly had his doubts as well.
Trying to ignore his thoughts, Jack looked into the sky, eager for the sunset. A few more hours and it would melt like colored wax. No painting could match a prairie sunset. He’d seen some grand sunsets from Hannigan’s Tree.
Who did this to you?
Some rancher. It don’t matter, Jack.
You can’t let them hurt you, Sally. Look at the bruises on your arm. You got all the colors of a sunset and then some.
So? It’s sure as hell not the first time.
Tell me who did it.
He’s gone, you ninny, leave me alone!
“Jack?”
Jack lifted his head from the wagon bow. He turned his head to see Silas and Charlie staring at him. “Yeah?” he said.
“You hear Billy?” Silas said. “We’re almost there.”
Jack looked out the back of the wagon. The sun was almost gone. “How long have I been asleep?”
“A while,” Charlie said.
“We tried to rouse you for a game of cards, but you were gone,” Silas said. “Resting up for the girls, huh?”
From the front, Billy announced, “You got any weapons other than that rifle, you better get them out now.”
“Rough town?” Charlie asked.
“Sure it’s rough,” Silas said. “But that ain’t the reason. Brush is the stomping grounds of old Chuck Garnell.”
“Who’s that?” Jack asked.
“The sheriff of Brush,” Billy yelled back. “Serious about firearms. If you don’t surrender them willingly, he’ll take them from you.”
“That means he’ll shoot you,” Silas said, grinning.
They passed a sign declaring:
BRUSHTOWN
And another sign below it:
NO GUNS
Jack leaned out of the wagon as they rolled into town. Brush was big, the size of two Gasher Creeks lashed together by side streets and back alleys. Although not a rusher town, the main thoroughfare was packed with traffic. On either side, rows of gaslights illuminated the sidewalk. They were choked with townsfolk buzzing in and out of the numerous stores and businesses: banks, cafés, restaurants, dry good stores and, of course, whore houses, gambling halls, and saloons.
Silas stuck his head out and inhaled deeply. “Can you smell that? Cheap cigars and perfume.”
“All I smell is horseshit,” Jack said.
“Look,” Silas said, pointing. “The Lady Bird Saloon. I bet them girls make you feel like flying. What do you think, Jack?”
The wagon lurched to a stop and Silas nearly tumbled out. A man with a shotgun and a handlebar moustache appeared.
“Not in town a moment and we’re already getting robbed?” Silas moaned. “Didn’t you see the sign, mister?”
The man pointed to the deputy badge on his coat. “Out,” he said, looking at Jack.
Jack stared back. This is it, he thought. They got you now—
Jack slid out of the wagon and stood before the deputy. He waited for it, for Cole to appear from around the wagon, for Sheriff Tracker to exit from a saloon with his gun cocked and aimed. He was such a fool. Of course they’d send a posse to Brush.
Swallowing, Jack raised his hands.
The deputy raised his gun.
Jack shut his eyes.
“I said all of you!” the deputy barked. “And bring your iron.”
Charlie and Silas slid out. “Put your hands down, Jack,” Silas whispered. “You look like a wanted man.”
Jack dropped his hands.
“Follow me,” the deputy said, his eyes locking on Charlie.
An older man, gripping a Remington .44, stood at the front of the wagon. His face, tanned and ruddy, looked cut from old saddle leather. A salt and pepper colored beard sprouted from his cheeks and chin like a wild bush. A gut, round as a washtub, threatened to swallow his belt. A sheriff’s badge lay pinned to his coat. “Welcome to Brush,” he said, his voice part gravel, part growl. “The name’s Garnell.”
“Billy Dorgan,” Billy said. “This is my wife, Mary, and my brothers Silas, Jack, and Charlie.”
Garnell looked at Charlie. “He your brother?”
“Yes he is.”
The sheriff didn’t look convinced, but said, “What’s your business here?”
“Just passing through. We’ll be making camp on the other side of town.”
“Yuh,” Garnell said. “There’s a train of wagons out there, all going to Lone Pine.”
“That’s where we’re headed,” Billy said.
Garnell holstered his gun. His deputies—one behind hi
m and the one still staring at Charlie—kept their aim. “Were I a younger man, I’d make that trip myself,” he said, winking at Mary. “Nothing like your own land.”
“No sir,” Billy said.
Garnell nodded. “Well folks, you’re welcome to our stores and gaming establishments, but I must ask you to hand over all weapons and firearms for the remainder of your stay. When you’re ready to leave, you just come on over to the sheriff’s office.”
Mary lowered the shotgun. Garnell touched the brim of his hat and took it from her. Charlie and Silas handed their guns to the deputy.
“Hold it,” the deputy said. “This Indian speak English?”
“Sure he does,” Silas said. “He can even quote you a poem if you fancy.”
Scrutinizing Charlie, the deputy said, “Got any knives?”
“No,” Charlie said.
He swatted at Charlie’s pockets, his waist. He flipped Charlie’s hat off. “Lift your cuffs,” he said.
Charlie lifted his trouser cuffs. Nodding, the deputy said, “All right, then. Don’t go causing a stir now.”
“I won’t.”
“Good to hear,” he said, and nodded to the sheriff.
“Thank you folks,” Garnell said. “Enjoy your stay in Brush.”
Billy thanked him and clicked the reins. Jack, Silas, and Charlie followed along on foot.
“Next time, turn him into goat,” Silas whispered to Charlie.
As they reached the outskirts, Jack spotted a dozen campfires burning in the darkness. The wagons stood huddled around each other, some in a semicircle, others side by side. The women tended the campfires while the men stood together, talking and smoking their pipes. He smelled roasting meat and smoke.
Billy stopped the wagon and set the brake. “This is where we’ll sit for the night,” he said, climbing down. “I’ll head into town for supplies while Mary starts supper. Jack, you’re welcome to stay with us for the night, but I’ll be wanting to know your direction come sun up.”
Jack nodded, although he still had no idea.
“Same goes for you, Charlie,” Billy said. “I’ll not have you leaving without a bite and a rest.”
“Thank you,” Charlie said. “But I’ve imposed enough.”
“Nonsense,” Billy said. “You can’t walk when you’re hungry and tired. You’ll make your ranch that much quicker with a full stomach and a light foot.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Charlie said. “Thank you, Billy. For all you’ve done.”
“Yes, let’s all thank Billy,” Silas said. “We finished? Good. Let’s go.”
“And just where do you think you’re off to?” Billy asked.
“It takes time to make a good meal,” Silas said. “Just enough to wet our wicks and our throats.”
“Blast you Silas,” Billy said. “How much money you got?”
“Enough.”
“You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“Sure I do,” Silas said. “Means when I’m smiling ear to ear.” Slapping Jack and Charlie on the back, he said, “Come on boys, let’s have us some fun!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tracker never wanted to see Don Kivel again. He would have run him out of town if his parents weren’t decent, hard working folks. He was good for nothing, a bummer with no respect for the badge. He hadn’t even bothered to wear a badge. A man like that did not deserve forgiveness.
Shutting the office door, Tracker paused in the darkness.
Still, he wished he’d show up. Not because he forgave him, but because he wanted to go home. He didn’t know if he could handle another double shift. Another double meant another night without Caroline, another night of little sleep and barroom brawls. And in the morning? It would start all over again. And then on into another night…
Tracker grit his teeth against his aching wrists. He didn’t know how long he could hold out. One man could not manage a rush town by himself.
We’re a gold town, Tom, and yet you’ve never employed more than two deputies. Do you really think that’s because you’re some big shot policeman from Bear Hunt? If it wasn’t for the Dupois family, the longriders and b’hoys would’ve rolled into Gasher Creek like dynamite and blown this town to Heaven.
The idea that Hank had kept the peace still burned at Tracker. He hoped Don was wrong, but feared otherwise. Shortly after Hank died, the church was torched. What else would happen now that the Dupois name had lost its power? Rampant lawlessness had destroyed Morton Falls and Six Stone. It nearly happened in Brush before Chuck Garnell showed up.
But Tracker was no Chuck Garnell. He’d need more help, and fast.
After lighting the lamp, Tracker moved over to the cell and noticed Ed’s stool. He sat down, the stool wobbling beneath him. “What do you think, Ed,” Tracker said. “Reckon I can find someone else foolish enough to take this job?”
The office door opened and Ben Tunn walked in, flushed and sweating.
Glancing at the ceiling, Tracker said, “Anyone else?”
“Sheriff,” Ben said, “it’s—”
“Catch your breath,” Tracker said, standing. He carried the stool back with him and set it down beside the desk.
“Thanks,” Ben said, plopping down. “Lordy, I hate walking.”
Tracker pretended not to hear that. “Ben, let me ask you something.”
“But Sheriff—”
“This is important,” Tracker said. “It’s about hogs.”
“Hogs?” Ben said.
“Do you like hog farming?”
He shrugged. “I suppose.”
“But you’d rather read your dime novels.”
“Well sure,” Ben said, patting his forehead with a coat sleeve. “Chasing after Blind Willy McGee and the Six Shot Posse is always better than tossing slop.”
Tracker smiled. “How’d you like to do it for real?”
Ben stopped patting. “I thought Blind Willy got himself knifed in Tinsville?”
“I’m talking about becoming a deputy,” Tracker said.
“Oh,” Ben said, nodding. Then, “Oh!”
“Don quit on me,” Tracker said. “I need a new man to handle nights. You’ll be alone at first, but I’ll hire more men as fast as I can. From now on, I reckon we’ll need our own posse.”
Thrusting out his hand, Ben said, “I’ll do it.”
“You don’t need to think about it?” Tracker asked.
“No sir,” Ben said. “I’ve wanted to be a lawman ever since I was a boy.”
“It’s not going to be easy,” Tracker said, shaking his hand. “You’ll be dealing with some rough folks.”
“I raise hogs,” Ben said. “People ain’t much different.”
Tracker couldn’t argue with that. He opened the desk drawer and pulled out Ed’s old badge.
It could work. Perhaps the giant, lumbering boy would even surprise him and become his greatest deputy. In Bear Hunt, policemen came in all shapes and sizes. A man’s appearance didn’t determine his character. All that mattered was his dedication to the law.
He looked up. Ben pulled his finger from his nose.
“Maybe we’ll work together tonight,” Tracker said, handing over the badge.
“All right,” Ben said. He held the badge in his palm. “Gosh. It’s heavier than I reckoned.”
“It gets heavier,” Tracker said. “Try it on.”
Pinning it to his coat, Ben beamed and said, “Well how about that. I’m a deputy.”
“Not until you’ve lasted at least a week,” Tracker said.
“Don’t you worry about that,” Ben said. “I won’t quit.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Tracker said, tapping his badge. “You got yourself a target now. The days of strolling through town are over. You have to look, listen, and be aware.”
“I can do that,” Ben said. “I spend most of my days looking and listening.”
“I’m sure you do,” Tracker said. “Okay, let’s get started.”
After handing him a shotgun from the cabinet, Tracker led Ben out of the office and locked the door behind them. “By the way,” Tracker said, “what was it you came to tell me?”
“Oh, right,” Ben said, straightening his badge. “Liza’s gone missing.”
Tracker stopped. “She’s what?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It didn’t take long for Jack to miss the prairie. Brush boasted more of everything he hated about Gasher Creek. It had more rustlers and ranchers, more street hustlers, pickpockets, and vendors. More horseshit on the streets, more stay dogs running between his legs. More noise: from the rattling wagons and crackling crowds, to the competing pianos that burst from the saloons and mixed into a tuneless mash. He hated all of it and couldn’t wait to leave.
Silas, on the other hand, looked as if he might break into a jig at any moment. He marveled at the buildings, hugged lampposts, said howdy to all the men and winked at all the women. He paused at each saloon to press his face against the glass like a child gazing inside a toyshop. Pointing at a large, square building with a balcony, he said, “It’s the Turtle Dove! I heard legends about that one all the way back on the farm. Hands we’d hire would jaw about it for hours.” Rushing ahead, he shoved an old man out of his way, stepped on a woman’s dress (she nearly cuffed him), and pushed open the batwing doors. “Hoo!” he cheered. “I’m home!”
Jack and Charlie followed, reluctantly.
The saloon stunk of sweat and cigar smoke—it stunk like The Ram. The Turtledove was larger but not by much. Like The Ram, it boasted two floors: the first for the saloon, and the second for the rooms. The saloon was massive, with a long, oak bar running the length of one wall. Above it hung a series of trophy heads: bear, moose, and deer. No turtledoves that Jack could see. Out on the floor, games of chuck-a-luck, poker, and faro were underway. Some of the players were farmers from the wagon camp. Whores sauntered around the tables, running their fingers over shoulders, getting pulled onto laps and groped. Above them, other whores leaned on the second floor railing and made eyes at any man that fancied a glance. Smoke lingered above their heads like clouds.