Gasher Creek

by J. Birch

“I’ll eat when we’ve stopped to eat. It’s too early.”

  Jack spotted fresh drops of blood on his shirt. “Your stitches are opening,” he said. “We left town too soon.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Let’s head back. I can find some day work and earn enough for another night at the hotel—”

  “No!” Charlie said. Growling, he pushed himself onto his knees and stood. “Let’s go.”

  “Already?”

  “I feel better.”

  “You look like hell.”

  “Didn’t ask you.” He started walking. Jack stuffed the bread back into the basket and caught up with him. “I don’t understand you, Indian.”

  Charlie walked faster.

  “Listen to me.”

  He started whistling.

  “There’ll be no retribution if we return,” Jack said. “Those townsfolk would elect you mayor if you let them.”

  “I’ll not go back there!” he shouted, then hissed and clutched his shoulder. He removed his hand, leaving a bloody palm print behind.

  “It’s getting worse,” Jack said. “We have to go back.”

  “No,” Charlie said. “You know what I did in that town.”

  “Yeah, I do. You saved my life.”

  “Doesn’t make me square.”

  “With who?”

  Charlie turned and started walking.

  “With who,” Jack said, following him. “The Almighty? That Old Man of yours? Some blasted white eagle?” He grunted. “I don’t know about you, preacher, but it seems to me I ain’t the one hugging wind.”

  Charlie twisted around and punched Jack in the chest. Jack tumbled, lost his footing, and fell into the mud.

  “I have faith,” Charlie said, standing over him.

  Jack spat out a piece of grass. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Faith is a promise. And I broke that promise when I killed a man. I killed a man, Jack. You’re in hitches over scraps of memory and doubt. But there’s no doubt about what I did. And I’ll—I’ll never—get it back…”

  He staggered sideways off the trail and collapsed.

  “Charlie?” Jack said, sitting up.

  The ground started rumbling. Behind him, he heard someone shout: “Damnú ort, out of the way!”

  A buggy rattled toward Jack, driven by a large man with messy red hair. “I’ll not miss my boat on account of you or any other eejit in this blasted country! Away, away!”

  Jack leapt clear as the buggy rattled past. Sitting back up, he said, “Doc O’Malley?” He scrambled to his feet and chased after him. “Doc!” he shouted, waving his arms. He managed to catch up, but it wouldn’t last. Soon, his knees would buckle or his feet would fall off.

  “You’re a fast one,” the Doc said, staring at him over his glasses. “Can I hook you to my buggy?”

  “Stitches—opening,” Jack gasped.

  “Whose?”

  “Charlie’s.”

  O’Malley frowned at him.

  “The Indian!”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, I’m sure he’s got a spell for that.”

  “Please,” Jack begged. “We need help.”

  O’Malley raised a hand. “Be gone young buck, or taste my fist!”

  Jack fell, and the buggy rolled on. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he shouted, “He’s bleeding out!”

  The buggy slowed.

  Jack pushed himself up and jogged forward, gulping air, trying to ignore the stitch crawling up his side. He reached the buggy and clutched the seat handle. Inside, O’Malley sat stiff and rigid as if bracing a storm.

  “Your Indian’s bleeding?” he asked.

  Jack nodded.

  “Badly?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Because if he isn’t, then I disavow my oath, and you will forever be known, in my heart, as an arsehole.”

  Jack nodded.

  O’Malley pulled on the reins. “All right,” he said. “Fetch your friend and climb aboard. I’ll see to his wounds when I stop to water the horse. But not before then,” he said, holding up a finger. “I’ve a boat to catch. If I have to spend one more day in this God forsaken country, I’ll eat me glasses.”

  * * *

  Jack held onto Charlie as they jostled and swayed over the uneven trail. Seeing the blood, Doc O’Malley declared it nothing but water blood. “Wounds like to bleed a little,” he said as they bounced along. “Helps to keep it clean. Your friend is fine.”

  “If he’s fine, then why did he faint?”

  Doc O’Malley snapped the reins. “Because only an idiot is out of bed after he’s been shot.”

  The land began to change. Hills sprouted up, covered in lush, green grass. In the distance, a creek shimmered like liquid silver. It cut through the land like a snake, surrounded on either side by steep, grassy slopes.

  Doc O’Malley stopped beside the creek. Charlie opened his eyes.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “A creek,” Jack said.

  Doc O’Malley climbed out of the buggy. After unhitching the horse, he wagged his finger at it and said, “Now don’t go eating and drinking too much or I’ll blow your fool head off.”

  The horse swished its tail and wandered down to the water.

  “Don’t worry lads,” O’Malley said, patting his hips. “I don’t own a gun, but he don’t know that. All right, let’s take a look at your friend.”

  Charlie and Jack climbed down from the buggy. Charlie unbuttoned his shirt. O’Malley lifted the shirt, giving it a tug where the fabric stuck to the bandage. Then he unwrapped the bandage. “Huh,” he said, poking the stitches. “Aye, they’ve come loose a little, but I stand by my trade.” Turning to Jack, he said, “I suppose that makes you an arsehole. I suspected as much.”

  “Thanks,” Jack said.

  “Well, my red friend,” O’Malley said to Charlie, “What you want to do is give it a good wash in the creek down there so it won’t turn. Or don’t, it bothers me not.”

  “I know this creek,” Charlie said. “I’m almost home.”

  “How long?” Jack asked.

  “A few hours. By buggy.”

  They looked at the Doc.

  “Oh ho, no,” O’Malley said, wiping his hands on his trousers. “I’ve no time to spare.”

  “You’re going to Pan Hope?” Charlie asked.

  O’Malley squinted at him. “Yes?”

  “This trail passes my ranch on the way to Pan Hope.”

  O’Malley scratched his chin. He scratched his nose. He removed his glasses and cleaned them. He put them back on. “Well, I suppose I should help my fellow man, being a doctor and all. It would only be proper.”

  “Great,” Jack said.

  “For ten dollars.”

  “Ten dollars!”

  “I don’t transport Indians.”

  “But you’ve been transporting an Indian,” Jack said.

  “I know, that’s why it’s ten dollars.” He swatted at Jack’s trouser pockets.

  “What are you doing?” Jack said, slapping his hand away.

  “Don’t suppose you have your Cork friend stowed away in a pocket, do you? He had cash.”

  “No,” Jack said. “He’s gone to Lone Pine.”

  “Horrible decision,” O’Malley said. Shading his eyes from the sun, he looked toward the creek and hollered, “Now come back, my fine capall, or I’ll blast you!”

  The horse ignored him and kept drinking water. O’Malley swore and looked back at Jack. “Nine dollars.”

  “We don’t have it.”

  “Five.”

  Jack dug into his pockets. “I only have two dollars to my name.”

  “Sold,” O’Malley said. “You can keep the name.”

  * * *

  It was early evening when Jack spotted what looked to be a house in the distance.

  “That your destination?” O’Malley asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jack said. He gently shook Charlie. “Charlie, wake up.” />
  Charlie opened his eyes.

  “Is that it?” Jack asked.

  Squinting, Charlie leaned forward as far as his shoulder would allow. Then he grinned.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s it. That’s my home.”

  “Looks like an outhouse with a fence,” O’Malley said.

  It wasn’t much better than that. The ranch Charlie had spoken of was nothing more than a farm house, a barn, and a corral. And the corral only held one horse, a Clydesdale. It stood near the fence and stared at them.

  “That’s Samson,” Charlie said.

  O’Malley shook his head. “Leave it to the Scottish to breed an animal that unnecessary.”

  “When my pa first settled this land, he owned lots of cattle and horses,” Charlie said. “But that’s gone now.” He pointed off to their right. “There’s a rich rancher down the ways, a man by the name of Troy Plymouth. He’s wanted to buy this land for years. A good man, but my pa is stubborn to sell.”

  “Those ranch lords will always find a way,” O’Malley said.

  “I think you’re right,” Charlie said. “He’s marrying my sister.”

  As they passed the house, the buggy stopped.

  “Off you get,” O’Malley said.

  Jack and Charlie climbed down.

  “Well, redskin, arsehole, I bid you both farewell. And remember, if you ever find yourselves in Dublin—leave me the hell alone!” He clicked the reins and rolled away, cursing and swearing at the horse to go faster.

  Charlie turned. “Home,” he said.

  Jack looked over the land. It wasn’t all that bad. There was thick grass for grazing, a flat stretch beside the house if you wanted to plant, and a hill behind the house to fend off the wind. It was the house itself that gave the eyesore. Perhaps Jack had worked as an odd jobs man too long, but he didn’t see much to be proud of. It was squat and dilapidated, battered by too many prairie winters and suffering from neglect. The roof needed re-shingling. The porch sagged. A shutter hung loose from one window. The other was boarded up with planks. Its siding was cracked and peeling in many places. If a storm were to blow through, Jack reckoned he’d be safer in the outhouse.

  “I’ll admit, it needs work,” Charlie said.

  “That, or an ax,” Jack said.

  Charlie smiled. “Come on. There’s a great man I want you to meet.”

  As they approached the house, the front door opened. A solitary figure stepped out, obscured in the dusk.

  They stopped.

  “Charlie?” said a woman’s voice.

  “Emily!” Charlie exclaimed.

  The woman leapt off the porch, crossed the distance between them, and threw her arms around him. Charlie gasped in pain but held her tightly as she wept into his shoulder. “I’m home,” he said to her. “I’m in a few pieces, but I’m home.”

  Releasing him, she saw his shoulder and said, “What happened?”

  “Fell off a horse,” he said, “but it’s all right.” Turning to Jack, he said, “Jack, this is my sister, Emily.”

  “How do you do,” she said, wiping her cheeks.

  If Silas were with them, he would have declared her a raspberry, half-breed or not. She appeared to be a few years younger than Charlie, although slightly taller, with coal black hair framing a long, slender neck. She had a heart shaped face, eyes the color of coffee, and skin the color of the caramels sold at Frosty’s mercantile. She wore a powder blue dress frayed at the hem and sleeve cuffs. Her feet were bare.

  “Jack’s not much for talking,” Charlie said, “but I do enough for the both of us. Where’s Pa, inside? I have so much to tell him.”

  Shaking her head, Emily said, “No, not inside. He’s out back.” She took his hand and led him around the house. Jack stayed behind, not wanting to intrude. He imagined Charlie’s pa to be a great big man with wide shoulders and a fat happy face. Upon seeing his son, he’d probably lift him up and crush him in a loving embrace.

  Jack waited to hear a gruff, exalted burst of joy.

  Instead, he heard Charlie cried out.

  Rushing around the side of he house, Jack said, “Charlie? Ch—”

  He stopped.

  Charlie knelt on the ground, gripping Emily’s arm. Ahead of him, halfway up the hill, lay a fresh mound of dirt.

  Chapter Thirty

  Tracker liked a stubborn deputy. Stubborn was good in a fight. Stubborn didn’t back down if someone tried to humiliate the badge in front of others. Stubborn could save an innocent life from a bullet, even if that meant taking one in the chest. But there was a big difference between courage stubborn and stupid stubborn. And as they made their way down the sidewalk, Tracker tried to decide which stubborn his deputy was.

  “It’s nothing to fret over,” Ben said.

  “Bob Alder and Silas Furber have seen him,” Tracker said, scanning Main Street.

  Ben sidestepped a rusher. “Sheriff, I am your deputy, ain’t I?”

  “You are.”

  “It’s my job to deal with the troublemakers in this town, ain’t it?”

  “Yes,” Tracker said. “I just don’t know if you can handle him.”

  Ben smiled. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. I’ve prepared.”

  “Let me guess,” Tracker said, stopping in front of the bank. “You’ve read about him.”

  “Dime Adventures number sixty-three: George ‘Two Shot’ Texal,” Ben said proudly.

  Tracker rubbed his forehead. “What have I told you about those books?”

  “That they contain not one ounce of truth. But this one’s different. I learned that Texal is left handed, that he walks with a limp on account of he got stabbed in the knee in Pan Hope, and that he’s got four teeth in his head. The fifth one is buried in the handle of his knife for good luck. You know why they call him Two Shot?”

  Tracker shrugged. “He carries two guns?”

  “No. Because he always needs to shoot twice before you’re dead.”

  They started walking again.

  “All right,” Tracker said. “I’ll not quarrel with you any longer. You’ll have to deal with these sorts of men eventually. But even you, with your head full of stories, can agree that this man is dangerous.”

  “Anyone with a nickname usually is,” Ben said.

  “Good. So if you spot him, what are you going to do?”

  Ben tapped his badge. “Arrest him.”

  “Wrong,” Tracker said. “If you spot him, you’ll fetch me and we’ll arrest him together.”

  “But—”

  “On this, I must insist,” Tracker said, looking him in the eye.

  Ben didn’t seem to like it, but he said, “All right then. But if a writer comes snooping around for the story, I want to be on the cover.”

  Tracker didn’t reply to that.

  They passed the mercantile, still closed. Tracker had spent most of the day pulling fuses from the tempers of rushers, farmers, and local ranchers who depended on Frosty for supplies. He told them the mercantile would open again once the old man’s fever settled, but no one bought the story. Frosty had got himself knee-walking drunk and boxed a horse. Everyone saw it, and no one would forget it.

  Stepping off the sidewalk, Tracker said, “You hear anything about Cole Smith yet?”

  “No,” Ben said. “But don’t fret, Sheriff, he’ll be back.”

  “It’s been five days. It shouldn’t take five days to find one boy lost on the prairie.”

  “You think he found Devlin, and Devlin killed him?”

  “Or the other way around.”

  “Cole wouldn’t do that,” Ben said. “His word is good. Remember, he was the one who brought in Willy—”

  “Thompson, I know,” Tracker said. “But that only took him two days. Two days for a notorious cattle rustler, and five for an odd jobs man?”

  Ben replied, but Tracker didn’t hear it. He was staring at a black plume of smoke trailing out from behind The Ram. “Look,” he said.

  “Oh no,�
� Ben said. “Not another fire!”

  They hurried across the street, ducked the clothesline, and ran around back. Skidding to a halt, they saw Andy Dupois tending a bonfire.

  “Oh good,” Ben said, “The Ram isn’t on fire.” He sniffed. “But I have no idea what he’s burning.”

  Looking into the fire, Tracker said, “Books.”

  They approached the bonfire as a pile of books shriveled into flames and smoke. It was blistering hot. The heat struck Tracker like a slap. Ben kept a safe distance, touching the heel of his hand to his cheeks. Andy stood closest to the fire but didn’t seem affected. Tracker wasn’t surprised. There wasn’t much left to him—Gasher Creek’s own human scarecrow.

  “Hey Andy,” Ben said. “Why are you burning your books?”

  “I don’t want them anymore,” Andy said.

  Tracker was glad Caroline would never see this. If she did, she might try to dive in and save them.

  He read some of the titles: The Wonders of Geology, Saturn and His System, a stained copy of a book called, Botany, and Principles of General and Comparative Physiology.

  “No dime novels?” Tracker asked.

  “I don’t read that shit,” Andy said.

  Ben sagged a little.

  “I’m not breaking any laws,” Andy said to Tracker. “Why are you here?”

  “We thought The Ram was on fire,” Ben said.

  “Well, it’s not,” Andy said, tossing another book on the pile.

  “It’s your business if you want to burn books,” Tracker said. “Only keep it contained.”

  “Get off my land,” Andy said.

  “All right,” Tracker said. “We’re going.”

  Ben headed back to Main Street. As Tracker turned, he saw a tear slide down Andy’s cheek.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Charlie wiped the dirt off his legs as he sat at the supper table. Emily busied herself boiling water for coffee and searching through a cupboard. Jack sat on the other side of the table and lit the lamp.

  If Charlie’s pa had once been a prosperous rancher, the house didn’t show it. It was barely large enough for a small family, with a loft for the children and a small bedroom in the far corner for the parents. The fireplace was small. To the left of the fireplace sat a counter for preparing meals, and a door leading to a back porch. On the far right, next to the bedroom, sat a washtub and washboard. Beside that sat a dusty rocking chair. A hand woven rug lay before the fireplace, covering the door to the root cellar.