by J. Birch
“Sheriff,” Ben called, chasing after him.
“Stay there,” Tracker said. “Sylvia may need your help.”
“What are you doing?”
“Going to have a word with Andy.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Stay with my wife.”
“But Sylvia can—”
“Ben, stay with my wife!”
Tracker climbed the front steps of The Ram, crossed the porch, and kicked the front door open.
The Ram had never been so full. The saloon was packed shoulder to shoulder. You couldn’t see the bar. The faro tables were swamped. The air was full of noise, sweat, and smoke. But when the front door burst open, everything grew silent. Every rusher, rancher, and whore turned to look. Foster dropped his hands from the keyboard. The banjo player managed one final pluck of a string and then stopped.
Tracker stepped inside, his boots loud on the floorboards.
“Andy Dupois!” he shouted.
Rain drummed on the windows.
A chair squeaked.
Someone coughed.
Suddenly, an old man jumped to his feet, yelling, “Play, play!”
Peering through the smoke, Tracker said, “Frosty?”
Frosty whirled around. “Sheriff!” he shrieked. “Make them play!” He stumbled between two hulking ranchers. “Make them play, I say—I want to hear some,” he clapped his hands together, “Mu-sick!”
“Frosty,” Tracker said irritably, “sit yourself—”
The back door slammed shut.
Tracker leapt forward, shoving people out of his way. He raced down the rear hallway and burst onto the back porch. The rain pummeled him. Lightning flashed in the sky, revealing Andy Dupois on the run toward Hannigan’s Tree.
“Stop!” Tracker shouted. He jumped off the porch and gave chase. For a moment, he lost him in the dark. Then Tracker heard a cry, followed by a splash. Andy had fallen into the muddy remnants of the creek.
Tracker crouched and zigzagged toward him, unsure if Andy was armed. He reached for his own gun but touched an empty hip.
Then he remembered: he’d set his gun on the supper table.
Still, he drove forward. But by the time he reached the tree, Andy was gone.
Above him, thunder growled. Rain poured off his hat brim. He wanted to chase after Andy, but it was hopeless. He’d never find him at night in a storm. And even if he did, he wasn’t armed.
But he’d been close. So close.
Cursing Frosty, Tracker turned around and headed back to the Doc’s. As he passed the back porch, a woman appeared and shouted his name. Tracker stopped and looked up. It was Jane.
“Sh-sh-Sheriff,” she stammered. “It-it’s De-Delilah.”
“What about her?” Tracker asked.
Jane swallowed, struggling to get the words out. “She’s d-d-d … she’s dead.”
* * *
Tracker returned to the Doc’s house. Inside the waiting room, Ben was sitting on the bench, his hands clasped in his lap. Seeing Tracker, he leapt to his feet and said, “Did you—”
“Wait,” Tracker said, and opened the examination room door. The heat rushed over him, the air thick with the coppery stench of blood. Caroline was awake, her eyes dark against the bone white of her skin. She lay on her back, propped up on her elbows, her legs parted and bent at the knees. The knife had been removed, her shoulder bandaged. Sylvia stood over her, dabbing her head with a wet cloth.
Caroline saw him. “Tom,” she gasped.
“I’m here,” Tracker said, rushing over to her.
“No you’re not,” Sylvia said. “The baby is coming. Get out.”
“But—”
“This is woman’s work, now get!” she shouted.
Tracker backed up and shut the door. Sylvia was right. He knew she was right. He couldn’t help. He couldn’t protect her from the pain. All he could do was to wait and feel useless.
“Well?” Ben asked.
Tracker stared at the door a moment longer. Then he said, “I lost him.”
“You lost him?”
“Frosty distracted me, giving Andy enough time to escape.”
Ben shook his head. “You should have let me along,” he said. “I could have dealt with Frosty and you could’ve jumped on Andy. But you didn’t, Sheriff, and now he’s gone.” His face flushed. “I’m just saying … good gosh Sheriff.”
Tracker turned and nodded. “You’re right.”
“Because I’m your deputy, and—I’m what?”
“You’re right,” Tracker said, approaching him. “I could have used your help. I apologize.” He held out his hand.
Ben shook it. “I ain’t in hitches over it or nothing. I’m just saying.”
Tracker sat on a bench. In the next room, Caroline cried out.
“She likes to make that sound,” Ben said, sitting.
“Yes, she does,” Tracker said, resisting the urge to break the door down.
“So what do we do now?”
Tracker sighed. “Nothing until morning. Come sunup, I’ll hunt Andy and bring him back. With your help,” he added. “I’ll need you to stay and watch the town. That means you’ll be sheriff in my absence.”
Ben stared at him for what seemed a good minute, before saying, “You … huh?”
“You heard me,” Tracker said.
Ben didn’t respond right away. A smile spread across his lips. He was probably imagining himself sauntering through town with a shiny badge on his chest, men looking on with envy, women swooning at his feet.
“There shouldn’t be much trouble,” Tracker said. “Near everyone in town is going to be sick from drinking.”
“What should I do if something happens?” Ben asked. “What if Delilah fixes to run?”
“That’s not going to happen. She’s dead. Jane found her in bed with her throat cut. I suppose, like myself and the Doc, she knew too much.” He looked around. “Where is the Doc, anyway?”
“I put him upstairs in his bed. Shouldn’t have a dead man around a baby. It’s bad luck.”
“Thanks,” Tracker said.
“And I shut the window,” Ben said, motioning to the window on the far side of the room. “The latch was busted, the frame cracked and splintered about the edges. I figure that’s how Don got in. Doc wouldn’t have heard him, not with all the whooping and shouting going on outside.” He shook his head. “Sheriff?”
“Hm?”
“I made a decision about something tonight.”
“What’s that.”
Wiping his stained fingers, Ben said, “Soon as I get back home, I’m throwing out all my dime novels.”
* * *
As the night wore on, Ben resumed his rounds. Tracker stayed behind and paced, startling every time Caroline cried out. He tried pacing outside but it was still raining. Finally, he gave up and sat on the bench. He tried to occupy his mind, thinking about Andy and the direction he might take.
Direction A: he could try for the Badlands, although it was doubtful. No man was foolish enough to wander into the Badlands of his own free will.
Direction B: he might try to borrow a horse from a farm loyal to the Dupois, but most of the loyalty that Louis had built through fear and debt had been squandered by Hank. Andy had no reputation to speak of, and few farmers would fear a skinny boy with cuts on his arms.
Direction C: he could head east to Leverton Mills and buy himself a horse, but Tracker reckoned he had little or no money on him.
Resting his eyes, he thought of Andy tearing through the darkness. The boy would be cold, hungry, and frightened. It made him smile.
“Tom.”
He opened his eyes. A grey morning light shone through the windows. Sylvia stood above him, dabbing her neck with a cloth. She looked exhausted.
“It’s finished,” she said, her chemise splattered with blood.
Tracker listened. He couldn’t hear anything. Sitting up, he said, “What’s wrong. Is Caroline all right?”
/> Sylvia closed her eyes for a moment. Opening them again, she said, “Go on in.”
Tracker stood and hurried into the examination room. Inside, Caroline lay on the table, a thick blanket covering the bottom half of her body. A bundled blanket lay in her arms, a folded towel lay under her head. Her eyes were closed. Her hair, damp with sweat, clung to her cheeks and neck.
“Caroline,” Tracker said.
She didn’t respond.
“Caroline,” Tracker said, approaching the table. He cupped her cheek in his hand. “No,” he said, the tears welling in his eyes. His hands trembled. “Please… ”
She opened her eyes.
She looked at him.
“Tom,” she said weakly. “Say hello to your son.”
Tracker looked at the bundled blanket. “Oh my,” he said. Inside lay a small, wrinkled face with a crest of brown hair and matching eyes.
His son.
Tracker kissed his wife on the forehead. “I love you,” he whispered to her.
“You did it,” she said to him. “You saved us.”
“Him,” Sylvia said, leaning on the doorframe. “And what was I doing, darning a stocking?”
Tracker scooped the baby into his arms, surprised at how light he was. He held him close, admiring every inch of his face—his little nose, his rounded chin. “My, oh my,” he said, and for a moment—just a moment—there was no Andy Dupois or Jack Devlin. The Doc wasn’t upstairs, dead. Don wasn’t quietly rotting on the floor of his cabin. In fact, there was no death.
“Hello Edward,” he said, brushing his son’s fist with his finger.
“He’s beautiful,” Caroline said, “isn’t he.”
Tracker smiled down at her. “Even better than a sunrise.”
* * *
The storm was getting worse. Rain fell in sheets, turning Main Street into a river of sludge. Wind blew through the open doors of the livery, chilling Tracker as he did a final check of Bucko’s saddle.
“Got everything?” Ben asked, holding up a lantern.
“Think so,” Tracker said. In the saddlebag, he carried extra ammunition and a full canteen of water. Behind the saddle lay his bedroll. Ben had fetched his revolver and his slicker from the cabin.
“Got food?” Ben asked.
Tracker paused. “No, I suppose I forgot that.”
Ben reached into his coat pocket and produced a hunk of bread and a wedge of cheese wrapped in cloth. “Sylvia told me to grab something from the kitchen, so I did.”
“Thanks,” Tracker said, stuffing the food into the saddlebag. “And thank Sylvia for me.”
“I will,” Ben said. “Say, Sheriff?”
“Yeah?” Tracker said, tugging on the back cinch.
“What did it feel like—you know—killing Don?”
Tracker looked at him. “Deputy, there are some things you don’t ask another man about. Bring that light closer.”
Ben stepped closer. Tracker stood beside Bucko’s front leg and lifted his hoof.
“Why can’t you ask another man about it?”
“Because not everyone feels the same about killing,” Tracker said, scraping the hoof with his pick. “Some men kill and feel nothing. Some men kill and spend the rest of their days tearing their hair out.”
“Oh,” Ben said. “Which are you?”
Tracker dropped the hoof. “You’re as bad as Frosty and Sylvia. All right, I suppose I’m in the middle. I’ve only shot a handful of men in my life and every time it’s been in self-defense—them or me. Still, knowing that doesn’t help much.” He moved to the next hoof. “When you kill a man, right or wrong, you lose something. And when you lose that something, you never get it back.”
Rain pummeled the roof above them. They heard thunder.
“I don’t think it’s letting up,” Ben said.
“I’ve waited long enough,” Tracker said. “The sooner I head out, the sooner I’ll return.”
After finishing his inspection, he took the reins and led Bucko toward the doors.
“Oh!” Ben said, “I almost forgot.”
“No more questions about killing.”
“No, not that,” he said, and disappeared into a stall. A moment later, he emerged wiping straw off a black rectangular case. Tracker didn’t recognize it until he saw the gold lettering. He sighed. “You know about the loose floor board, huh?”
“I stepped on it by accident,” Ben said. “Near broke my ankle. I was going to nail it shut when I found your Lightfeather.”
“It’s not mine,” Tracker said. “Well, it is, but I didn’t purchase it. It was a gift from my father-in-law. His idea of a joke, I reckon.”
“It’s a grand firearm,” Ben said. “Angry Emma McGee killed a hundred men with one. And it’s fashioned in Seaview.”
“I have no use for it. Do you want it?”
“Oh, no,” Ben said, touching the gold lettering. “It’s too fancy for the likes of me.”
“Nonsense,” Tracker said. “You need a good gun when you’re sheriff.”
“Yeah,” he said reluctantly. “But I already got me a good gun. I think you should keep it.”
Tracker took the case from Ben. “Perhaps I can make a trade with Frosty. That is, if I don’t shoot him with it first.”
He opened the lid. The Lightfeather lay on a molded bed of black felt surrounded by a box of cartridges and a cleaning rod. It was similar to Tracker’s revolver, but smaller and silver-plated, with a 5 ½ inch barrel and an ivory grip. Single action, six chambers. The smell of whale oil was strong.
“Sure is fancy,” Ben said. “Maybe you should try it on.”
Tracker cocked an eyebrow. “Why are you pushing this gun on me, Ben?”
“Well,” Ben said, shifting on his heels. “You know how Don attacked you, and your wrist locked up?”
“I was there. I’m the one who told you about it.”
“Well,” Ben said, seeming to choose his words carefully. “You and your missus nearly died because of it. I just thought you could, perhaps, give this one a try. You know, see if you like it. Please?”
Tracker looked at the gun. He didn’t like it, but his deputy was right. Caroline was missing a chunk of shoulder because of his wrist. The fact that he was able to raise the gun a second time and squeeze off a round was luck. If his wrist had seized again, they would have both died.
Tracker wrapped his fingers around the grip of the Lightfeather and lifted it out of its case. It was light; so light he almost dropped it. A gust of wind might steal it out of his hand. He squeezed the ivory grip. For the first time in a long time, he felt no pain.
“Well I’ll be,” Tracker said. He removed his revolver and handed it to Ben. The Lightfeather fit perfectly into his holster. He stepped away from Bucko and faced the rear of the livery.
He took a breath. He drew.
“Whoa!” Ben exclaimed. “A fella would need hawk eyes to catch that draw.”
Tracker grinned. It had been fast. Faster than he’d drawn in years, faster than in his army days. And it felt good. His arm held the gun steady, his wrists like iron.
Turning, Tracker hefted the gun in his hand. “Will wonders never cease,” he said. “My father-in-law was right about something.”
After loading the gun and packing the rest of the ammo, Tracker led Bucko out of the livery. The rain rattled against his slicker as he climbed into the saddle. He arched his back and stretched his legs. Despite the miserable weather, he felt an excitement brewing in his gut, an old feeling from his cavalry days. He was heading out onto the plains on a young horse, carrying a new gun.
Then he looked over at the Doc’s house and his excitement faltered.
He wouldn’t say goodbye. He knew Caroline would be cross about it, but he couldn’t bear to see her and the baby again. If he did, he might never leave.
“Good luck, Sheriff,” Ben said, raising his hand.
Tracker removed his badge. “No,” he said, handing it down. “Good luck to you, Sheriff Tunn.”
Ben held the badge in his palm. “Gosh,” he said. “This is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.”
“The town is under your wing now. Protect it.”
“Yes Sheriff,” Ben said. “I will.”
Tracker turned Bucko. They worked their way across the muck of Main Street, around Liza’s clothesline, and out past Hannigan’s Tree. Bucko shook off the livery, tossing his head and stretching his legs. He picked up speed and climbed the slope with ease. At the top, Tracker gazed out over the endless sea of grass.
“What do you think?” he said, giving Bucko a pat. “Easy enough for the likes of us.”
They moved forward. Tracker scanned the grass, looking for any signs of Andy. It didn’t take long. Spotting a flattened patch, he pulled on the reins and dismounted.
It was too wide for a foot. Andy must have fallen. Slipping his hand deep into the grass, Tracker squeezed the blades between his fingers. They came away muddy. The rain hadn’t washed it all away.
Moving forward, he found another flattened patch of ground. Then another, further on.
It could only mean one thing. When Andy fell into the mud, he must have injured his ankle. Judging by the distance between the patches, it didn’t look like a break, but he may have twisted it.
The patches moved in a northerly direction.
Tracker hurried back to Bucko and climbed on. He had to move quickly. Between the wind and the rain, the trail wouldn’t last.
Snapping the reins, he urged Bucko into a gallop.
Chapter Forty-One
“I don’t believe in luck,” Troy Plymouth said. “I built my vast operation out of pluck and determination.”
Jack held the cross in place while Troy tapped it into the earth with a shovel. At last, Charlie’s pa had his marker. His last wish was to have a rosewood cross, but it took time to make.
“Pluck, not luck,” Troy said. “I fear no superstitious nonsense—that’s Hell talk. If I want to see my bride on her wedding day? Well then I’ll see her. The devil’s demons be damned.”
He waved at Emily, who stood on the back porch.