by J. Birch
As they entered the room, Tracker could see that the story about Frosty sleeping on a pile of gold every night was greatly exaggerated. The room consisted of one grimy window, a cot in the corner, a dented chamber pot, and a lantern. A wardrobe with one missing leg stood in the corner. There was no other furniture, books, or portraits on the wall.
“Lay him down,” Tracker said, nodding at the cot. Together, he and Tate heaved him onto his bed.
“Medicine,” Frosty groaned, touching his fingers to his lips.
“You’ve had enough medicine for one day,” Tracker said.
“He’ll get no more at the hotel,” Tate said. “I can promise you that.”
“Medicine,” Frosty whispered, and then started to snore.
Tracker fished his keys out of his pocket. Then they crept out of the room.
“It’s not his fault,” Tate said as they moved down the stairs. He crossed over to the counter and touched the glass. “My boy was just the curious sort. Frosty didn’t know there was anything bad in that creek.”
“You’re not sore with him?”
Tate shook his head. “But I do want someone to blame. I’ve dreamed about a fella swinging from the gallows. But he’s got no face, Sheriff. He doesn’t exist. The only one I could blame is my—my boy.” His voice faltered. “But I can’t do that either.”
Tracker found a couple coins in his pocket and placed them on the counter top. “What do you like?” he asked.
Tate cleared his throat. “What’s that, Sheriff?”
Tracker nodded at the row of candy jars.
“Oh,” Tate said. “Thank you, but—”
“Come on. My treat.”
Looking at the jars, Tate said, “Oh, well … does he have any black jacks?”
Tracker opened a jar and removed two of the dark candy sticks. He handed one to Tate. Tate held it in his palm.
“My favorite candy is peanut brittle,” Tracker said. “You ever eat peanut brittle?”
“Sure,” Tate said. “My ma used to make it at Christmas.”
Tracker clenched the candy between his teeth. It jutted from his mouth like a cigar. “I used to eat it all the time,” he said, “but Caroline doesn’t like the smell of peanuts.”
“How is she?” Tate asked. “I mean, her condition—”
“Good. Should be any day now.”
Tate nodded, still staring at the candy in his fist. “Being a father is the finest thing a man can do,” he said. “When you see your baby’s face for the first time? You know it’s the truth.” He thanked Tracker for the candy and placed it in his mouth. It cracked. “Oh,” he said.
Tracker smiled.
“I always do that,” he said. “Always bite too hard.”
They finished their candy and closed up the mercantile. Behind the counter, Tate was swinging the shutters closed when he said, “Looks like you didn’t get your package.”
“A package,” Tracker said. “For me?”
“Came early this morning by stage,” Tate said, fixing the latch. “I brought it over to Frosty, but he must have forgotten.” He reached below the counter and retrieved a thin, rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper. He placed it on the counter.
“It’s from my in-laws,” Tracker said. “Must be something for Caroline.” He tore open the wrapping.
Inside, he found a heavy rectangular box of oak or walnut. It was covered in a glossy black paint. On the lid, stamped in gold lettering, was the word:
Lightfeather
Tracker groaned.
“What’s wrong, Sheriff?” Tate asked.
“It’s a—gift—from my father-in-law. He bought me a Lightfeather revolver.”
“Lightfeather,” Tate said, nodding. “For the dainty gentleman.”
Tracker sighed. “Yup.”
“Well, I’ve … heard good things about them.”
Tracker tucked it under his arm. “I’m sure you have. Let’s go.”
He locked the mercantile. Outside, he said, “Tate, I’m wondering if you’d keep quiet about this.” He tapped the box.
“Well, sure, Sheriff. Why?”
“I don’t want any of the gossips knowing I received a dainty gun.”
“Oh,” Tate said, looking at the box. He nodded. “Not a word. You can count on me.”
“Good man.”
They walked together until the hotel and then parted company.
Heading to the office, Tracker wondered if Tate would tell anyone. He supposed it didn’t matter. Even if word did get out, they’d never catch sight of it on his hip. He’d hide it beneath the loose floorboard in the office. With any luck, Caroline would never ask and it would quietly rust.
* * *
After triple checking that Ben had the cell keys, the gun cabinet keys, the office keys, and knew where they kept the extra bullets, Tracker went home. Despite the lack of sleep, food, and a lingering stomach ache from the black jack candy, he didn’t want to leave. It felt like he was throwing raw meat to a pack of wolves. Of course, Ben’s size would intimidate those who didn’t know him, and those who did know him liked him. But there was always that one bummer looking to make a name for himself. Tracker had tried to convince his new deputy that getting shot wasn’t as depicted in his dime novels, but Ben simply polished his badge and said, “Don’t fret.”
At the supper table, Tracker thought about those words and shook his head.
“What is it?” Caroline asked.
“Nothing,” Tracker said. “Just something Ben said.”
“What did he say?”
“Don’t fret.”
Caroline set her fork down. “I’ll only fret if you don’t tell me.”
“No,” Tracker said. “Ben said—”
She grinned.
“You cause me so much grief,” he said, trying to suppress his smile.
“I’m just glad you’re home,” she said. “We’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you—you two—too.”
Picking up her fork, she said, “Now, where were we? You told me about the funeral—by the way, I’m going to kick Mr. Alder in the knee for interrupting the services—and you told me about your fight with Don—I won’t tell you where I’m planning to kick him—but you haven’t yet mentioned the disappearance of poor Liza.”
“Liza the whore?” Tracker said, cutting into a slab of pork. “How did you hear about that?”
Caroline stopped chewing. “I do wish you wouldn’t call her that, Tom.”
“But that’s her name. Liza the whore.”
“No it isn’t.”
“You know her name?”
“I do. It’s Elizabeth Anderson.”
Tracker ate a chunk of pork. “Huh,” he said, chewing. Somehow, it didn’t sound right. He’d always known her simply as Liza the whore. Most whores went by first names unless they had a reputation. Bear Hunt was famous for Big Anna, Four-eye Mabel, and for reasons he still didn’t know, Straw in the Bog Bertha. But no man strolled into a crib and asked for Elizabeth Anderson. That was the name of a lady.
“Mrs. Hefler came to visit yesterday,” Caroline said. “That’s how I heard.”
“She just up and left,” Tracker said, shrugging. “Took everything with her. Her bed was empty, her things gone save for a hair brush and…”
He stopped chewing and jumped to his feet.
“Tom,” Caroline said. “What is it?”
Tracker crossed over to the front door and plucked his coat off the nail. Rummaging through the pockets, he said, “I’d forgotten. In all the calamity of the funeral, the new saloon, and my new deputy, it just slipped my mind.”
“What did?”
“A note I found underneath Liza’s bed.”
“A note?” Caroline said. “How exciting.” She snatched for it, but Tracker held it away, saying, “I’m not sure you should read this. Sylvia said a woman shouldn’t inflame her senses while expecting.”
“Oh Tom, I doubt a simple note will throw me into lab
or. And if it does? All the better. You would not believe how heavy this child has become. It feels as if I’ve swallowed a watermelon.”
Tracker handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said. “And thank you for not commenting on my appearance as one who’s swallowed a watermelon.”
“I’d never say that,” Tracker said, returning to his seat. No husband wanting to see the morning would.
Caroline opened the note and read it. She glanced at Tracker and read it again, her eyebrows scrunching the way they did when she was deep in thought. Tracker always felt a powerful attraction to her when she did that.
“Who on earth is Starbit?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Tracker said, starting on his potatoes.
“It sounds like a girl’s name,” she said. “If it didn’t speak of marriage, I would have suspected one of the other girls wrote it to her.”
Tracker’s fork missed the potato and hit the plate. “What?” he said.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I went to an all girls college, remember? I heard rumors and whispers.”
Tracker had never considered that one of the other whores might have written it. Who would?
He ate a bit of potato, but he chewed very slowly.
Caroline read the note aloud: “Don’t fret over her, it was for the best. Soon he’ll be dead and we can be married. Starbit. You know, I believe I’ve heard the name Starbit before, but I can’t place it.”
“I’ve never heard it,” Tracker said. “Then again, I don’t read as many books as you.”
Caroline set the paper on the table. Tapping a finger on her chin, she said, “Now he’s dead and we can be married. Who is he, and why would he keep the two from getting married?”
“I don’t know,” Tracker said, “although none of the girls at The Ram can get married.”
“Why not?”
“Hank would threaten any man that fell for one of his whores. Liza herself told…”
They looked at each other and exclaimed, “Hank!”
“It would explain why the author of the note signed with a false name,” Caroline said. “If Hank found out that someone had intentions toward Liza, he would’ve run him out of town.” She wrapped her knuckles on the table. “How intriguing. I feel just like C. Auguste Dupin.”
Tracker stared at her.
“Oh, do join the rest of civilized society and read Mr. Poe’s work,” she said. “But let us stay on the matter at hand. There are two riddles remaining. One, who wrote this note, and two, who is the her the note refers to?”
“It could be anyone,” Tracker said. “Anyone in that house, or the town, or anywhere.”
Caroline rubbed her hands slowly over her belly. “Tom,” she said. “What if the her is that poor dead Sally?”
“Don’t fret for Sally, it was for the best,” Tracker said. “Soon, Hank will be dead, and we can be married.”
“Yes,” Caroline said. “He is Hank, she is Sally, and Starbit is Jack Devlin!”
Tracker stood. He started pacing around the table, saying, “Devlin murdered Sally in order to murder Hank so that he could marry Liza? It makes no sense,” he said. “Why kill Sally in the first place? Why not just kill Hank?”
“Jealousy,” Caroline said. “Sally was jealous of Jack and Liza, so he killed her to keep her quiet. Their fight outside The Ram must have been a lover’s quarrel.”
“That’s not the way Liza saw it,” Tracker said. “She said Jack thought of Sally as a sister.”
“That’s what Devlin told her he thought,” Caroline said, “so she’d never suspect his secret affair with Sally.”
Tracker smiled. “Perhaps it’s a good thing that I don’t read as many books as you.” He brushed the back of her neck with his fingers as he passed. “But I do think you’re right about the her and the he being Sally and Hank. We don’t know for certain that Starbit is Jack Devlin.”
“He was found next to Sally’s body,” Caroline said. “He was the last person to ever see Hank alive. It even explains why Liza ran away—so she could rendezvous with him in some other town. This note is all the proof you need, Tom. Jack Devlin is, without a doubt, guilty.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jack sat next to the window and watched gaslights shimmer on the walls of the room. He drifted off a few times but never slept. Over on the bed, Charlie groaned from time to time but didn’t wake up. Once, he mumbled something that sounded like Pa, but Jack wasn’t sure.
Outside, Brush clattered and rumbled. Beneath them, someone smashed a bottle on the sidewalk and cursed.
Jack missed the prairie already. There was a special kind of stillness only found in wide open spaces. Closing his eyes, he imagined Lone Pine and saw his own land.
With his own land, he could do as he pleased. His hard work would reward himself and no one else. He could plant corn, raise chickens, maybe a cow. He could build a cabin with a big front porch on which to sit and smoke. It’d be a great life. He’d be alone, of course. He couldn’t help that. But would he be lonely? A fella only felt lonely when something was missing.
“Jack?”
He opened his eyes.
“Jack?”
“Charlie?” Jack said, standing. He rushed over to his bedside and struck a match. Lighting the candle, he saw Charlie squinting up at him, his face shiny with sweat, his hair pasted to his forehead in damp strips. Gripping the sheets, he said, “Where am I?”
“Brush,” Jack said. “At a hotel.”
“My shoulder—”
“A doctor saw to the wound. You’re gonna be fine.”
Charlie nodded slowly. Then he said, “I shot him.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “You shot him all right.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Charlie said, “Oh Jesus, I shot him…”
“You saved my life,” Jack said. “Again.”
Charlie coughed. Jack stood and hurried over to the dresser. He dipped his hands into the washbasin and carried back some water. Holding it up to Charlie’s lips, he said, “Drink.” Charlie took a sip, and then said, “I’ll never get it back.”
“Get what back?”
Charlie faded for a moment, before opening his eyes and saying, “What?”
“Get what back?”
“What?”
“It’s okay,” Jack said. “Just rest. We can stay in this room until tomorrow night if need be.”
“You paid for it?”
“Silas did.”
“Gosh,” Charlie said. “He’s the richest farmer I’ve ever met.”
Jack nodded. “He likes his women and rye.”
Charlie fell back to sleep.
Later on, Jack was sitting by the window again when he heard: “Jack?”
“Yeah, Charlie?”
“I want to go home.”
“You are going home. To your pa, your sister, and your fiddle. Sound good?”
When there was no reply, Jack turned to look at him, thinking he’d fallen back to sleep.
“Nah,” Charlie said, staring at the reflection of the gaslights on the wall. “I’ll never get it back.”
* * *
“Jack, wake up. We have to go.”
Jack opened his eyes. A muddy, early morning light filled the room. Charlie sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his boots on. He’d managed to drape his shirt over his good arm and shoulder. The other lay bare, bandaged, and spotted with blood.
“That cur of an innkeeper tell us to leave?” Jack asked. “He said we’d have until tonight.”
“No,” Charlie said, stamping his foot into his boot. “I just want to go home.”
“Are you good to move?”
“I’m good.”
Jack leaned forward. He stretched his arms, rubbed his neck, and managed to stand with a minimal amount of grumbling from his back. So a man could sleep in a chair, just not well. “I’ve just enough money for breakfast,” he said. “What do you say to some fried eggs and ham?”
“You just want bread?” Jack said. “I’ll wager they got coffee brewing down in the restaurant.”
“Buy a loaf of bread,” Charlie said. “We’ll take it with us.”
Jack purchased a loaf of bread from the hotel restaurant. The innkeeper’s wife, a slight woman named Beatrice, gave him a fresh loaf, a slab of ham, and a wedge of hard cheese. She wrapped them in strips of cloth and tucked them into a wicker basket.
“See he keeps his strength,” she said, handing Jack the basket. She looked out the restaurant window. Charlie stood on the sidewalk, his bowler pulled down to his eyes. Although he tried to look invisible, a few people still stopped to shake his hand.
“He’s a hero,” she said. “No telling who that lunatic would have shot next. Could’ve been anyone.”
“Yeah, anyone,” Jack said. He held out his money, hoping it would be enough.
“My husband took your money, but I’ll not,” she said, waving his hand away. “We all owe a debt to your Indian and no doubt.”
After Charlie shook a few more hands, they hurried down the sidewalk toward the edge of town. Jack figured in all the proffered congratulations that someone would have offered them a ride, but it seemed hospitality ended at the town limits. Perhaps they figured on Charlie having a horse already. Jack didn’t look forward to sleeping outdoors again, but he didn’t press the issue. He owed Charlie a little silence—along with everything else.
After passing the NO GUNS sign, they left Brush behind and followed the wagon trail east.
At first, Charlie moved quickly, as if his wound had spontaneously healed. Jack, feeling the effects of a poor night’s rest, was the one to lag behind. However, by mid-morning, it became easy to keep up with Charlie. His strides started to shorten. A cough nagged him. Finally, he stumbled off the trail and sat in the grass. “Just for a moment,” he said, removing his hat. He wiped his arm across his forehead and breathed.
“Sounds fine to me,” Jack said, sitting beside him. He unwrapped the bread and tore off a hunk.
“No,” Charlie said.
“You got to eat.”