Gasher Creek

by J. Birch

They stared out into the darkness.

  “I saw your wedding dress,” Jack said. “One of Plymouth’s men brought it in. Looks store bought, probably all the way from Bear Hunt.”

  “Seaview,” she said. “Troy told me.”

  “Isn’t that something,” Jack said, stretching his legs out. “Never been to Seaview myself. Reckon you need money just to walk the streets.”

  She gave a slight smile, but it didn’t last. “Should be quite the day tomorrow,” she said, rubbing her arms slowly. “All those people…”

  A shadow settled on her face. Jack had seen that look on The Ram girls when they’d get a regular who stunk, or was old, or had the sickness about him. Emily seemed to look forward to her wedding about as much as Delilah looked forward to entertaining Mud Boots McGuffer.

  “I don’t,” Jack said, but stopped himself.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Please,” she said. “Talk to me, Jack.”

  He looked into those coffee colored eyes of hers. “I don’t claim to know much about it,” he said. “Love.” The word sounded foreign in his mouth. Had he ever said it aloud? Maybe to a glass of rum. “But,” he continued, trying for the best words, “you don’t seem all that moon-eyed over your wedding.”

  Emily was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Don’t be foolish. Of course I am.”

  “You are?”

  “You know nothing about me and Troy.”

  “You’re right, I don’t,” Jack said. “But I’ve seen my fair share of girls get sweet on a fella. You don’t got that look.”

  She held her hands in her lap and twisted her fingers. “He’s a good man,” she said.

  “True,” Jack said. “He’s got money.”

  “What do you expect from me?” she suddenly exclaimed. “My Pa is gone. My brother is gone. I have to get by, don’t I? And he—he’s a good man.”

  Jack shut his mouth. She was right. She was right, and he knew it. Only two days before, he’d said a similar thing to Charlie. A young woman only has one task in life, and that’s to find a man. Most stumble over snakes that coil around their necks and choke the life from them. But Emily had found herself an older man with money. He wouldn’t visit the brothels like a younger man, and he’d had his fill of the drink. A good life waited for her.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I told you I don’t know much about it.”

  They listened to the crickets for a while. Somewhere in the darkness, Samson snorted.

  “When are you leaving?” Emily asked.

  “I figure tomorrow.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “North,” Jack said. “Lone Pine.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That sounds nice.”

  “Free land. Good soil as I heard it.”

  “How will you get there?”

  “I figure I’ll head back to Brush and hitch a ride north,” he said. “Work my way up.”

  Emily nodded. Giving her fingers a rest, she said, “Before you go, I’ll need your help with something.”

  “I can leave mid-morning if need be. Is it the roof?”

  “No.”

  “I fixed the hinge on the barn door. Did the other one break?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s nothing like that.” She looked at him. “I need you to give me away.”

  The pipe stem cracked in Jack’s hand. “You what?”

  “I don’t want some stranger doing it,” she said. “I don’t want a hired hand to pass me over like a horse for the breaking.”

  “But I am a stranger.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “Emily, I—”

  “Please,” she said, taking his hand. The broken pipe lay cupped between them. “Please, Jack. I don’t want to do this alone.”

  When he was a boy, Jack had witnessed a man rescued from a frozen river. He gripped that rope and bawled like a baby as they pulled him from the water. And when they got him onto land, he refused to let go of the rope.

  Emily squeezed his hand like that rope. She wore the same desperate look as that drowning man. “All right,” Jack said, though his stomach ached to utter the words. “I’ll give you away.”

  Chapter Forty

  It was Hank Dupois’ forty-sixth birthday; a respectable age for anyone, and a feat of longevity for a drunken whoremonger. Of course, Hank never quite reached forty-six, but the rushers celebrating inside The Ram, or on the front porch, or spilling out onto the street didn't seem to hold it against him. They still celebrated with all the whooping, shooting, and swilling they could muster.

  Tracker and Doc navigated through the crowd as best they could. The badge helped a little, although some of the revelers were too soaked to see straight. Tracker had to stop twice to break up a fight. The Doc paused to examine a man sitting on the sidewalk.

  “I’m okay,” the man said slowly. “I think I just need to—”

  He vomited. And then he vomited again.

  And then he vomited again.

  “My work is done,” the Doc said, patting him on the back.

  When they reached his house, Tracker said, “I’ll fetch you in the morning. We’ll both speak to Andy.”

  Behind them, Foster banged out Nellie Bly on the piano. Someone fell off the porch and squealed with laughter.

  “I’ll not sleep a wink with this racket,” the Doc said.

  “Take this,” Tracker said, offering the shotgun.

  The Doc grinned. “Well, that’s mighty nice of you, Tom, but I doubt I’ll crave the silence quite that badly.”

  “No, keep it beside your bed. And bolt your doors.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Someone may have seen us in the graveyard,” Tracker said. “We may be watched even now.”

  “No one suspects what we’re up to,” the Doc assured him. “You’re in hitches over nothing.”

  Tracker waited.

  “Fine,” the Doc said, taking the shotgun from him. “If it’ll make you feel better. But as a doctor, I detest these things.”

  “I don’t much care for them myself,” Tracker said.

  After the Doc shut his door, Tracker slipped away from the glare of The Ram and disappeared into the darkness. He moved quickly, his fingers on the grip of his revolver. Several times, he stopped to look back, expecting to see a dark figure against the light of The Ram.

  He saw nothing.

  It was pointless going home. In a few hours, these happy drunks would degenerate into angry drunks and Ben would need his help. One of the girls would fetch him and he’d have to rush over to The Ram to keep someone from getting shot. If it wasn’t for Caroline’s condition, he would have just pulled a double shift and stayed with Ben.

  Tracker reached the cabin. He crept inside, shut the door, and listened. Outside, the wind rustled the grass. The cabin creaked. Caroline breathed deeply and steadily as she slept. Nothing else. He sat on the edge of the bed, removed his belt and boots, and then laid down. He set the revolver on the floor beneath him.

  Caroline snorted.

  Tracker startled and reached for his gun. “Good Lord,” he said, stopping himself. Doc was right. He was in hitches, nearly lighting up the cabin because of a snort. He cupped a hand over his mouth and shook with laughter.

  He’d have to tell Caroline about it the morning. If he timed it right, he might get her to shoot tea out her nose.

  He found her cheek and gave it a kiss. Then he slipped a hand under the blanket and cupped her belly. He felt a kick.

  Any day now, their silent nights would end. Sleep would become a strange notion, a myth as elusive as the unicorn. They’d go deaf from the constant howling and lose their sense of smell from the stink.

  Tracker smiled. He couldn’t wait.

  Creak.

  His smile vanished.

  The door hinges. He was certain of it. It wasn’t a trick of his mind, nor was it the cabin shrinking in the night’s chill. Keeping his head still, he moved his eye
s to the left. Moonlight shone through the window and illuminated the supper table.

  He could feel it. Someone was in the cabin with them.

  Crick.

  Tracker’s muscles tensed as he recognized the crick of the floorboards. His heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to move. He didn’t dare move. His looked up into the shaft of moonlight—

  And saw a pair of eyes watching him.

  Tracker dropped his hand, grabbed his revolver, and his wrist seized. He cried out as if a hot poker ground into the bone. Ahead of him, something glinted in the moonlight and hissed past his ear. A hot liquid burst upon his neck. Gritting his teeth, he raised the gun and fired.

  Inside the cabin, the shot was as loud as dynamite. Tracker went deaf and lost his target in the smoke.

  He waited for the retaliatory shot that would end his life.

  He waited, holding his breath.

  And then he heard a body hit the floor.

  Tracker rolled out of bed and crouched down. “You still alive?” he shouted.

  No response.

  “I’m standing up now. If you’re hurt, you best keep still. Try anything and I’ll empty my gun. You hear?”

  No response.

  Tracker stood and hurried over to the supper table. He groped for the box of matches and managed to steady his hands long enough to light a lantern. Then he moved around the table, his revolver cocked.

  Don Kivel lay on a floor, his chest heaving blood.

  “Don?” Tracker said.

  Don’s eyes rolled around to meet him. A gurgle rose from his throat. Thin streams of blood ran down the sides of his mouth.

  Then he was still.

  Tracker shook his head. “Ah, Don,” he said, grimacing.

  So he had been followed.

  Perhaps they’d been careless in the graveyard, or perhaps Don had been watching him for days. Either way, the message was clear: he’d learned too much to stay alive.

  After setting his revolver on the table, Tracker pulled Don’s gun off his hip and then reached for his knife.

  It was gone.

  He checked Don’s shirtsleeves, his boots. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t go anywhere without that knife. He slept with it. He took it to the jakes.

  As Tracker stared at the empty sheath, he recalled a metallic glint in the moonlight, followed by the hiss of something flying past his ear.

  Suddenly, a warm liquid trickled into the hollow of his collarbone.

  Tracker reached up and touched it. His fingers came away bloody.

  “Tom?”

  Tracker turned and looked.

  Caroline was sitting up in bed, drenched in blood. She stared, horrified, at the blade of a bone handle knife buried in her shoulder. “What … what…” she said.

  Tracker rushed to her side.

  The knife had sunk deep. If he tried to remove it, she would bleed out. “Don’t fret,” he said. “I’ll get you to the Doc’s.”

  Caroline let out a yelp of pain and shut her eyes. “Oh no,” she said. “We have to hurry.”

  “We will.”

  “No, it’s not just that,” she said, touching her belly. “I think it’s time.”

  It took Tracker a moment to understand what his wife was saying. Time? Of course it’s time to get you help, you’ve been stabbed!

  And then it dawned on him.

  “No,” he said, staring at her belly.

  “Yes.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Why now?”

  “How in hell’s bells should I know!” she shouted. “It’s just—uh…”

  Her eyes rolled up, and she fainted.

  Careful of the knife, Tracker scooped her into his arms. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he said. He lifted her up, his wrists screaming. He kicked the door open and moved out into the chilly night. It started to rain. He struggled through the darkness, slipping on the grass, focusing on the gaslights of Main Street. Another few minutes and he’d be at the Doc’s. He’d fix her. She’d be fine.

  “Wake up,” he said. “Wake up and talk to me, Caroline.”

  She said nothing for few moments, then: “Tom … don’t.”

  Her voice was faint.

  “Don’t what,” he said. “You stay awake, you hear me? What don’t you want me to do.”

  “Don’t … let it happen.”

  “I won’t,” Tracker said. “I won’t let you die.”

  “No,” she whispered. “Don’t let … our baby … die…”

  Her head rolled against his chest, and she was unconscious again.

  “No one is dying tonight,” Tracker said.

  He doubled his efforts, but it felt as if his knees would buckle at any moment. His arms screamed for relief, but he pushed on. Thankfully, the Doc’s house was still lit. He was awake, and no wonder. The Ram’s celebrations had spilled out into the street. The crowd sang and roared. A shotgun blast tore into the sky.

  Looking at the second floor of The Ram, Tracker imagined Andy in there with a big grin on his face, thinking all his problems were over now.

  But Don had missed.

  And he’d hit Caroline.

  Swallowing his anger, Tracker reached the Doc’s and yelled, “Doc, it’s me, Tom!”

  There was no answer from inside. “Doc!” he cried. “Open the goddamn door!”

  Nothing.

  Holding Caroline as tight as he could, Tracker lifted his foot and kicked the door. It didn’t budge. Clearly, the Doc took his advice to bolt his doors. Cursing, he tried again. This time he heard a crack, but still the door held.

  “Hey,” called a voice from the street, “just what do you think you’re—Sheriff!”

  Ben ran toward him. Seeing Caroline, he gasped and said, “Great gosh almighty, what happened?”

  “Don tried to kill me,” Tracker said.

  “Where is he?”

  “Ben, the Doc isn’t answering and I need to get Caroline inside. If I don’t, she’ll die.”

  “Stand back, Sheriff,” Ben said. He backed up, charged, and hit the door with such force that it exploded inward and took him with it. Tracker followed. Inside, Ben lay sprawled on the floor. “I’m all right,” he said.

  “Doc!” Tracker shouted. He heard the revelers outside. Across the room, rain pattered on the sill of an open window. But he didn’t hear the Doc. Moving into the examination room, he said, “Doc, where—”

  He stopped. Doc Ansen lay face down in a pool of his own blood. His throat had been cut.

  Don, Tracker thought.

  He stepped over the body and laid Caroline on the examination table. The blade in her shoulder throbbed as blood spilled out of her wound. She was dying. She needed a doctor, but there were no other doctors in town.

  Tracker thought quickly. A myriad of townsfolk flashed through his mind, but only one would do under the circumstances. He just hoped there was a little more to midwifery than delivering a baby.

  “Ben!” he shouted.

  His deputy lumbered into the examination room, rubbing his shoulder. He saw the Doc and gasped.

  “Ben, look at me,” Tracker said.

  “Oh, Doc,” Ben said.

  “Deputy!”

  Ben looked at him.

  “Fetch Sylvia Platter and tell her the baby is coming.”

  “Yes.” He looked back at the Doc.

  “Ben,” Tracker said. “The Doc is dead, but my wife is still alive. She needs your help.”

  “Yes—yes, you’re right, Sheriff,” Ben said. “I’ll get her.” He rushed out of the office.

  Before turning back, Tracker allowed himself a moment to look at the Doc.

  He was a good man. He was a good man who didn’t deserve to be slaughtered like a pig.

  “I’m sorry, Doc,” Tracker said. “I’m so very sorry.”

  Across the street, Foster banged on his piano.

  Tracker stared out the window. He stared hard at The Ram.

  Ben must have run f
aster than he’d ever run before, because he was back in a few minutes with Sylvia. She hurried into the examination room, still in her chemise.

  “Sylvia,” Tracker said. “Don’t look at the Doc, he’s been—”

  “Your deputy already told me,” she said, stepping over the body. “Benjamin? Please drag the body out of this room.”

  Tracker had expected Sylvia to faint or go into hysterics, but she seemed to dismiss the body as if it were an unfortunate clod of dirt. As far as Tracker knew, she held no hatred for the Doc. Perhaps she blamed him for not saving her son. Or maybe (and Tracker thought this likely), everything else pales in comparison to holding a dead son.

  “Come on,” she said. “He won’t bite.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Ben said, grabbing the Doc’s ankles. He dragged the body into the waiting room, leaving a trail of blood behind.

  “Now,” Sylvia said. “Let’s see this wound.”

  “Don tried to kill me,” Tracker said. “He threw his knife but missed.”

  “I can see that,” she said. She pursed her lips and folded her arms.

  Do something, Tracker silently pleaded. Do something!

  Across the street, someone shattered a glass. Foster started on Oh Susanna! and a banjo joined in.

  Tracker turned and stared at The Ram again.

  “I know what to do,” Sylvia said.

  “Thank God,” he said, turning back to her.

  “And I don’t need your help to do it. Go get your man.”

  The sound of a gunshot rattled the windows.

  “Tate told you,” Tracker said.

  “Of course he did,” Sylvia said, examining the wound. “My husband is the only honest man I’ve ever known. That’s why I married him.”

  “It was the only way to be sure. We needed proof.”

  She looked at him. “And did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Yes,” Tracker said. “We surely did.”

  “Then get.”

  After allowing himself a good, long look at his wife, Tracker left the examination and headed for the door.

  “Sheriff,” Ben said, jumping up from the bench. “Where are you—”

  Tracker stepped outside. It was raining harder now, a cold rain that stung his face and drizzled down his back. The revelers had moved inside The Ram, but the storm hadn’t stopped the celebration. A cheer rose up as someone yelled Hank’s name.