Gasher Creek

by J. Birch

  “Mostly the Songs of Solomon.” Silas pulled a handful of cash from his pocket and held it out to Jack. “See he gets his rest.”

  Billy was sipping coffee when he saw the money. “Silas,” he said, dribbling coffee on himself. “Where did you get all that cash?”

  “Saved it,” Silas said. “I was planning on doing more drinking tonight.”

  “How much more?”

  “Plenty. Take it, Jack.”

  Jack stared at the cash. “Oh, no,” he said. “I couldn’t—”

  “Blast you if you don’t,” he said. “Charlie needs a place to lie and you’re gonna find it for him.”

  Jack expected Billy to scold his brother, but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded said, “Go on.”

  Jack took it.

  “Make sure he eats,” Silas said.

  “He will.”

  “And see him home.”

  “I will.”

  “And then find yourself one, wherever that may be.”

  Jack stuffed the money into his pocket. “I’ll try.”

  Billy leaned back and wiped at the coffee on his shirt. “It’s hard to find a place to rest and call home,” he said. “Even when you’re looking for it, something always comes along.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said, looking at Charlie. “It sure does.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It rained during the night, churning Main Street into a sludge thick enough to suck a man’s boot off. Tracker and Ben spent most of the storm inside the office, playing cards and talking about hogs. Tracker tried to stay awake, but the drumming of the rain was a constant threat. At one point, he nodded off and nearly poked his eye out with the ace of spades. Even Ben started to feel the effects. Twice, he told Tracker that if you name your hogs (which, he felt, was always a bad idea), then you should never name it after a relation. “How can you eat your uncle?” Ben said, resting his head on his hand. “You just can’t…”

  In the morning, Tracker and Ben scratched the stubble on their chins and tried their best to wipe the wrinkles from their clothing. Tracker opened the office door, letting a cool, post storm breeze blow through the office. He hoped it would refresh him. It didn’t. He thought about grabbing a cup of coffee from the hotel restaurant, then remembered it wouldn’t be open.

  Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he stretched and looked past the ruins of the church. Up the hill, just beyond its crest, he could hear Ed Thellis and Tim Forbish digging Jimmy’s grave.

  “It don’t look much like morning,” Ben said, joining Tracker on the sidewalk.

  Tracker nodded. “The clouds haven’t moved on yet. Good weather for a funeral, I suppose.”

  “I suppose,” Ben said.

  Pulling out his pocket watch, Tracker said, “Your kin coming to town?”

  Ben nodded. “They should already be at the hotel.”

  Tracker checked the time. “Might as well head over there now. It’s important you be with your family.”

  “Thanks Sheriff,” Ben said.

  “Your welcome, deputy,” Tracker said.

  Giving him a kind of half smile, Ben turned and headed toward the hotel.

  A half hour later, Tracker locked the office and headed for the cemetery. Despite the weather, a large crowd was gathering. Climbing the hill’s footpath, he spotted most of the regular townsfolk, including Gil Forbish, Hans Hefler, and Earl Reddle the gun powder salesman. No sign of Andy, which was strange. No sign of Don, which he was grateful for. Delilah was there, accompanied by the new girl, Jane. She was young and pretty, with long golden hair and bright blue eyes. Rumor was she had a terrible stutter and never talked.

  “Where’s Andy?” Tracker asked Delilah.

  “Where do you think?” Delilah said, making a drinking motion with her hand.

  Tracker frowned. “He’s not showing? After all he’s done for the boy?”

  “I’m not his mama, go ask him,” Delilah said, ushering Jane up the hill.

  Tracker followed. It was crowded at the top, but he managed to maneuver his way through to the front. Stopping before the open grave, he removed his hat. Across from him stood Sylvia, Tate, and Ben. Sylvia and Tate were dressed in their finest black. They both looked pale, skinny, and exhausted.

  Ben nodded to Tracker.

  Tracker nodded back.

  The casket lay at the foot of the grave. It was oak by the looks of it, expensive. Jimmy lay inside, wearing a black store bought suit. His blonde hair was slicked and parted down the middle, his face and neck thickly powdered. Delilah had even added a touch of rouge to the cheeks.

  Tracker grimaced at the sight. He never understood all that nonsense about making up a corpse. The boy looked like a china doll.

  Doc Ansen stood before the casket, looking very uncomfortable as he gripped a Bible to his chest and stared at the crowd. Without a preacher, he’d been Sylvia’s next choice. Rumor was Tate had blubbered and pleaded with the Doc until he’d finally agreed to do it. But he didn’t look happy about it.

  Taking a breath, the Doc raised his hands to get the crowd’s attention. Opening his mouth, he said, “We’re gathered here today to—”

  Suddenly, the crowd rumbled and groaned as Frosty pushed his way through. Fighting to the front, he stood next to Tracker and said, “Sheriff.”

  Tracker stared at him. He wasn’t the only one. Ben was staring as well. Even Sylvia did a double take.

  Frosty’s clothes were a wreck. Although he wore a suit, it was clearly too big on him and sagged as if slowly melting. The frayed sleeve cuffs hung over his hands, the muddy leg cuffs hung about his boot heels. It reeked of dust and sweat.

  The man in the suit didn’t look much better. His chin and head desperately needed a shave. His eyelids drooped and his face wore the haggard expression of someone who hadn’t slept in days. As he leaned forward to peek into the grave, his foot slipped and Tracker had to steady him. He could smell the whiskey. It wasn’t a good sign. Everyone knew Frosty had been a drinker in his boxing days, but no one had ever seen him drink. Tracker hoped it was only a momentary weakness.

  “Are we ready?” The Doc asked.

  “Of course,” Frosty said. “Get on with it.”

  After clearing his throat, the Doc said, “We’ve gathered here today to remember Jimmy Platter. Little Jimmy. Gone.”

  Sylvia sniffed and started to cry. Ben placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “The death of a child is an especially foul thing,” the Doc said, and paused. “A terrible thing. But we shouldn’t dwell on his death. Rather, we should dwell on his life, and keep those memories alive in our hearts, amen.”

  The crowd echoed his amen.

  The Doc looked back at Ed Thellis and Tim Forbish. They sat on a pile of dirt with their shovels across their knees.

  “Wait,” Sylvia said, wiping at her eyes. “That’s it? That’s all you got to say?”

  “Oh,” the Doc said, opening the Bible. “Of course not.” Scanning the page, he said, “‘But be shod with sandals; and not put on two coats.’” He closed the book. “Amen.”

  The crowd said amen.

  Sylvia glared at him.

  The Doc quickly opened the book again and started flipping pages. “One moment,” he said. Finding a page, he read: “‘And they which were sent were of the Pharisees.’”

  Sylvia shook her head.

  Flip.

  “‘And all the devils besought him—’”

  She shook her head emphatically.

  Flip, flip.

  “Yeah though I?” the Doc said, looking at her.

  She nodded.

  Looking pleased with himself, the Doc cleared his throat again and said, “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of’—ack!”

  The noise startled everyone. Ben nearly knocked Sylvia over. Tate let out a squeak of terror and covered his mouth. Tracker craned his neck but couldn’t see over the crest of the hillside. The sound had been a hard slap, loud as a gunshot. Most likely, a load of lumb
er had tumbled off the back of someone’s wagon.

  The Doc removed his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. “My apologies, Sylvia,” he said, slipping them back on. “As I was saying: ‘Yea, though I walk through the’—ack!”

  It happened again. Now the onlookers were turning to stare in the direction of the sound. Excusing himself, Tracker pushed his way through the crowd. Reaching the crest of the hill, he looked down and spotted a group of men pulling long wooden planks off a wagon and stacking them next to the church ruins. Bob Alder, the local carpenter, scratched his chin as he looked at the planks.

  “Please continue,” Tracker said to the Doc. “I’ll take care of this.” He hurried down the footpath and called out Bob’s name.

  Bob Alder saw him and gave a half-hearted wave.

  “What are you doing?” Tracker said, approaching him. “Can’t you see there’s a funeral going on?”

  The workers dropped another plank on the stack.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Bob said. “I reckon Sylvia won’t ever hire me for another job, but I have no choice. This has to be finished before the cold weather sets in.”

  “What does?”

  Tracker planted his boot on the stack before the workers could drop another plank. “Take a breath,” he said to them. Looking back at Bob, he said, “What does?”

  “The new saloon,” Bob said, scratching the back of his head. “Can’t say I feel right building a saloon where the church used to be, but the money is just too good. I’ll be fat the whole winter with what Andy’s paying me.”

  “Andy Dupois bought this land?” Tracker asked.

  “His grandpa owned it,” Bob said, scratching at his ear. “So I guess that means Andy owns it.”

  Tracker looked back up the hill. Apparently, the funeral was over. Sylvia and Tate were making their way back down the footpath. The crowd dispersed. Some of them wandered over to where Tracker and Bob stood.

  “A saloon,” Tracker said.

  “And dance hall. He’ll own it, and Don will run it.”

  Tracker looked at him. “Don Kivel?”

  Bob nodded. “Sure as shoot wouldn’t be my first choice. Still, I figure it’ll be easy enough to run. Just open the doors and let the rushers flood in. Look how close it is to the forest.”

  “Not to mention my office,” Tracker said.

  Bob stopped scratching. “I sure don’t envy you, Sheriff. A new saloon always attracts the rustlers, cowboys, and card skips. Better start gathering yourself an army.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Brush Hotel took everyone—Irish, Chinese, and even Indians if they gave the money up front. Charlie was a wounded Indian, normally a problem, but he’d shot the man who’d shot the sheriff. That made him proper for one dollar a night.

  Silas and Jack carried Charlie up to his room. As they entered, Silas said, “Not too bad. I’ve slept in worse—if you count outhouses.”

  The room was roughly the size of a closet, containing one window, a chair, a bed, a rickety old dresser, and a chipped washbasin on top of the dresser. The walls were speckled with mold. Mouse droppings littered the floor. The mattress was torn and losing wool. Everything smelled damp.

  “But the sheets are clean,” Silas pointed out.

  “Let’s lay him down,” Jack said. “Hopefully the ceiling won’t fall on him before I return.” After laying Charlie on the bed, they slipped out and made their way back downstairs.

  Outside, they waited for the wagon.

  “We had fun,” Silas said, slapping Jack on the back.

  “Thanks for the money.”

  Silas shrugged. “I would’ve just spent it on liquor and women anyhow.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “But most fellas wouldn’t—”

  “Hey,” Silas said. “If the devil gives me one less poke in the backside with that pitchfork of his? It’ll be worth it.”

  The wagon rolled toward them and stopped. Billy set the brake, climbed down, and shook Jack’s hand. “We had fun,” he said.

  “Thanks Billy.”

  “If you want, there will be a place waiting for you in Lone Pine.”

  “Two places,” Silas said.

  Billy smacked his brother. “As if you’d ever have the gumption to build a house.”

  Silas swung back and missed. “Will so,” he said, “and no soddy neither. It’ll be grand.”

  “Maybe I’ll come and see it,” Jack said.

  Billy nodded to him and then climbed back into the wagon seat. He released the brake and clicked the reins. Silas hopped in the back.

  As the wagon rolled out into traffic, Mary turned and smiled. “Go with God, Mr. Devlin,” she said.

  Jack had never heard her speak before. Her voice was soft, like the mew of a kitten. He wanted to say something back but couldn’t find the words.

  “Yeah, go with God, Jack,” Silas shouted, pulling a fresh bottle of rye out from under a blanket. “And if that don’t work, try try again!”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Frosty loved to jaw. He’d tell you about the history of Rome and how their power as an empire was linked to the wearing of togas. He’d tell you why the sky never fell. He could recite the names of dozens of fish, fifty types of butterfly, and why there was salt in the ocean but not in the creek (turns out it had something to do with gnomes). In fact, he’d talk about damn near anything except for one subject: himself. In the three years Tracker had lived in Bear Hunt, all he knew about Frosty was that:

  He was originally from Bear Hunt.

  He used to box.

  He used to drink.

  “I used have a drink,” Frosty told him one morning.

  “Ah,” Tracker had said. He’d known plenty of men that couldn’t handle their liquor. He himself spent the twenty-second year of his life in a Bear Hunt saloon called the Indigo. But there was a darkness about Frosty when he’d said it, like the way a solider says, “I fought.”

  After that, Frosty never mentioned it again and Tracker forgot about it. At least, until his office door was thrown open and Tate Platter ran in, shouting, “He’s boxing a horse!”

  Tracker sat up. “Who’s boxing a horse?”

  “Frosty!”

  Staring at Tate a moment longer, Tracker said, “Is he winning?”

  “He’s been drinking since this morning,” Tate said. “Blames himself for my boy’s death. I tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault but he wouldn’t listen. Please Sheriff, come quick!”

  Tate ran back outside. Tracker followed. He’d seen drunk men do some strange things in his time. He’d once seen a man dancing with a wooden Indian while calling it “My darling Athena”. He’d seen another hanging from a weather vane by his suspenders. He’d even seen one try, without success, to make love to a wagon wheel. But he’d never seen a man box a horse.

  Apparently, no one in Gasher Creek had seen it either. By the time Tracker caught up with Tate, a large crowd had gathered. Money exchanged hands. One vendor sold pretzels while another offered carrots. Somewhere deep in the fray, Tracker heard an old coot shouting and cursing.

  “Let me through,” Tracker said, pushing rushers out of his way. “Let me through!”

  He broke through the crowd and ducked as Frosty’s fist narrowly missed his chin. Inadvertently, he’d stepped into the middle of the fight. On one side, the horse stomped its hooves, its eyes wild, its mouth frothing. On the other, Frosty gripped the reins with one hand and growled. Blood dripped off his chin. His left cheek was swelling.

  Apparently, the horse was winning.

  “Out of my way, Sharf,” Frosty slurred. “This beastie and me’s got words.”

  “This beastie can’t speak, George,” Tracker said.

  “Sure as hell he can!” Frosty snarled, and lunged. Unfortunately, he collided with Tracker and they both fell onto the street. The horse, sensing an opportunity, reared on its hind legs, yanked itself free from Frosty’s grasp, and nearly trampled a dozen rushers as it thundered away.<
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  “Come back!” Frosty yelled, writhing in the mud. “We’ve got words!”

  “Tate!” Tracker shouted.

  Tate Platter squirmed and apologized his way through the crowd. “Yes Sheriff?” he said.

  “Help me!”

  “Oh, yes, very good.” After hiking up his trousers, he stooped down to grab Frosty’s wrist. A flailing fist caught him on the chin. He dropped.

  “Thanks, Tate,” Tracker said. He looked around for another sympathetic eye, but everyone was too busy gambling.

  “I’m here,” Tate said, rolling over in the mud. “I’m here.” For a wiry little man with no visible muscles, he was awfully resilient. Tracker wondered if it had something to do with living with Sylvia.

  “Take his arm,” Tracker said.

  Tate, dazed and a little cross-eyed, said, “Yes. Indeed.” This time he did it right, falling on Frosty’s arm and gripping it with both hands.

  “I’ve got words!” Frosty screamed, his face ugly and mud splattered.

  Stuffing his forearm into Frosty’s mouth, Tracker said, “Let’s get him back to the mercantile.”

  They dragged him across Main Street, the old man cursing and trying to step on their boots.

  “Settle,” Tate said.

  “I’ll beat you both into the mud!” Frosty raved.

  “Now, Frosty,” Tate said, “there’s no need—”

  “Let me go and I’ll fustigate the lot of you!”

  “Listen to me!” Tracker roared, grabbing Frosty by the shirt collar and shaking him. “Pipe down or I’ll knock every last one of your teeth down your throat, you hear?”

  Frosty whimpered. “Fustigate,” he said, and then grew silent.

  They lifted him onto the sidewalk.

  “I don’t know how you do it, Sheriff,” Tate said as they reached the mercantile. “Working with human misery as you do. I suppose you get used to it.”

  “Do I?” Tracker said, and opened the door. They pulled Frosty across the shop floor and lugged him up a narrow staircase. At the top, a bedroom door stood propped open by an overturned wine bottle.