Gasher Creek

by J. Birch

  BANG!

  Jack cried out at the crack of a shotgun. He dropped to the floor. The front door was slightly ajar, but he couldn’t see who was out there. He scrambled out of the bedroom and dropped beside the fireplace. He groped his arms, his chest. They’d missed.

  His pulse throbbed in his ears. His mind raced.

  Someone at the wedding recognized you and came to collect the bounty—

  It’s Sheriff Tracker, out to blow your head off—

  It’s Cole Smith, he’s still alive—

  Take your medicine like a man.

  He spotted Charlie’s shotgun above the mantle, but it might as well have been on the moon. If he went for it, he’d make a clear target through the window. Jack clambered under the supper table and pressed his back against the wall. He listened:

  Nothing.

  He slipped his fingers up between the wall and the table and inched it forward. The legs squeaked on the floorboards. He stopped and listened:

  Still nothing.

  After pushing a few more inches, Jack crept up until his head hovered just beneath the window ledge.

  He raised his hand and dropped it.

  No gun shot. No missing fingers.

  Holding his breath, he counted to three.

  One, two, three!

  He popped his head above the window ledge—

  Samson—

  and dropped again.

  He exhaled. All he saw was Samson, no one else who—

  He paused.

  “Samson?” he said. He lifted his head again. Samson stood in front of the porch, blood trickling down his neck and shoulders. Behind him, the rails of the corral lay snapped and splintered.

  So much for a shotgun showdown.

  Jack crawled out from under the table. He stepped outside. Seeing him, Samson nickered and swished his tail.

  “Well, now you’ve given me something to do,” Jack said, looking at the corral.

  The Clydesdale approached him and sniffed his outstretched hand. Jack patted his neck, careful of the wounds. “I understand,” he said. “If I was stuck in a corral, I’d try to break out as well…”

  He turned and looked at the house. He looked inside. Beyond the door lay shadows and silence.

  Empty chairs.

  Empty bed.

  A blood stained quilt.

  Samson snorted and shook his head.

  “You’re right,” Jack said, nodding. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  After saddling up, he and Samson left the Sewell ranch. They didn’t look back. Samson carried him easily, moving with a dignified trot he wouldn’t have expected from a draft horse. Jack touched the thick, coarse hair of the Clydesdale’s mane and settled into the saddle. It felt good to move again.

  If they kept a brisk pace, they’d reach Brush by early afternoon. Once there, they’d join a wagon trail heading to Lone Pine. He’d need food, but that would be easy enough. Half a day’s sweeping would garner him a loaf of bread and maybe a few apples for Samson. Then they’d be off. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Silas’s face.

  They stepped onto the old wagon trail and the prairie opened up. Samson bared his teeth and stretched into a canter. “Yes,” Jack said, grinning. “The rails are gone, boy. Let’s go.”

  Samson leapt forward and surged into a gallop. Jack doubled the reins around his fists as they thundered over the land. The Clydesdale sucked in great lungfuls of air, his muscles hammering like the rods of a locomotive.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The storm was growing worse as Tracker and Bucko picked their way along the soggy ground. The rain battered them. The fog blinded them. Tracker buttoned the collar of his slicker in an effort to stay dry, but it didn’t help much. Rain poured off his hat and drizzled down his back. He shivered.

  He may have felt like a young man upon setting out, but his zeal had burned sooner than expected, replaced with a stiffness in his back and an ache in his thighs. A young man could put up with the weather, but he didn’t have the patience. He wanted to go home. He needed to be home. A private’s longing for his sweetheart could never rival the ache for a wife. It was difficult to press on.

  He pressed on.

  Despite being on foot, and injured, and caught in a storm, there had been no sightings of Andy Dupois. Tracker should have caught him long ago, but his fugitive had managed to put distance between himself and Gasher Creek. He may have doubled back to Leverton Mills, but the Dupois weren’t welcome there on account of the O’Shea family. He may have veered off into the Badlands, but Tracker didn’t believe he possessed the grit. Besides, if he were injured, he’d have a hard enough time walking without the trouble of navigating around the rocks on the riverbed path. Keeping to the prairie was his best option.

  So where was he?

  Patting Bucko’s neck, Tracker said, “You got any ideas, now is the time to speak up.”

  Bucko slowed down. He didn’t stop, but his movements grew stiff and reluctant. He snorted.

  “What is it,” Tracker said. He wiped water out of his eyes and peered into the fog ahead of him. He saw a shape in the storm. It was lying on the ground, motionless.

  Tracker pulled on the reins and dismounted. He crept closer. He reached into his slicker and touched the grip of his Lightfeather. For a few moments, he held out the hope that it might be Andy. But then, that would be a lucky turn of events, and his week hadn’t exactly been lucky.

  Seeing the dead mule, he stopped and removed his hand from the gun.

  No, it wasn’t Andy.

  But it was promising.

  Tracker crouched to examine it. It was a paint mule, its dark coat speckled with white around the haunches. It’d been shot in the head and belly. The wounds were fresh, a few hours old at the most. He ran his hands along the legs but couldn’t find a break. The animal was shot out of rage, not necessity.

  Everyone in Gasher Creek knew of Hank’s hatred for horses. They didn’t obey his commands and often tried to cripple his other foot. Did the same hate apply to Andy?

  Tracker climbed back into the saddle and made a wide arc around the dead mule. He continued north. For once, he was thankful for the thick camouflage of the storm. If the mule had belonged to Andy, then it revealed two things about his fugitive:

  One, he was angry, and two, he was armed.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Wind beaten and thirsty, Jack reached Brush shortly after noon. Samson snorted as they neared the town limits, his ears twitching at the sounds of wagons, horses, and people. “I understand,” Jack said, patting his neck. “But we won’t be here long.” South of them, a storm was moving closer, its clouds the color of a bruise. Sometime during the night it would sweep through and punish the town, but Jack hoped to be well on his way by then.

  Leaving the wagon trail behind, they passed the NO GUNS sign, now peppered with buckshot. Apparently, Brush was still without a sheriff. If someone didn’t step up soon, the rustlers and longriders would ruin the town. Folks didn’t like coming to a place where they could get shot without provocation.

  Jack entered the main thoroughfare. It was worse than before, congested with homesteader wagons eager to reach camp on the other side of town. He maneuvered as best he could, but Samson was so large it was like trying to squeeze a buggy through an alleyway. Luckily, a couple was quarrelling in the wagon beside him and a gap opened. Moving ahead, Jack pulled up to a hitching post in front of a cafe. After dismounting, he wrapped the reins around the post and gave Samson’s shoulder a good scratch. “Now you stay out of trouble,” he said.

  The horse dipped his head to the water trough and started to drink.

  Stepping up onto the sidewalk, Jack surveyed the street and decided on the Turtledove. Whorehouses were always in need of odd jobs work. A few hours of washing tubs or emptying spittoons would be enough for a loaf of bread.

  He moved quickly down the sidewalk, hoping another saddle bum hadn’t already snatched the chores. Reaching its doors, somet
hing caught his attention and he stopped. Turning, he looked at the hitching post.

  Up you get.

  He approached it slowly, his fingers twitching.

  A chunk was missing from one side. It must’ve have been shot off in the fight. Touching it, Jack looked out at the street as if expecting to see a puddle of blood or a discarded firearm. But the bodies and the guns were long gone. Wagon wheels and horse hooves had churned the blood into the mud. Besides the frayed hitching post, you’d never know it had happened.

  But it had happened.

  This was where Charlie saved his life.

  “Hey cowboy, if you want to ride something, leave them horses alone and come visit me.”

  Turning, Jack looked up at the balcony. A woman with rusty red hair leaned over the railing and winked at him.

  “That’s it,” she said. “You…”

  Her smile faded into shock. “Jack,” she said.

  Jack stared at her and turned cold. Darkness seemed to swallow the world, leaving only her ice colored eyes. His breath caught in this throat as he said, “Liza.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, gripping the rail. “Oh God, Jack…”

  Jack didn’t think. He just ran, shoving through a group of ranchers as they steered toward the Turtledove.

  “No, wait!” she shouted.

  He didn’t wait. A wanted man doesn’t wait. He ran hard, his boots like gunshots on the wooden sidewalk. Reaching Samson, he leapt into the mud and fumbled with the reins.

  Samson’s head was still in the trough.

  “Come on,” Jack said. “Stop your damn drinking and let’s go!”

  But Samson, large enough to do whatever he pleased, kept right on slurping water.

  Liza broke through the crowd and ran after him, her skirts hiked, the laces of her boots dangling behind her.

  “Jack, wait,” she said, rushing up to him. She was out of breath, her face and neck flushed, her breasts heaving in the open neckline of her dress. “I need to speak to you.”

  Jack looked around. Across the street, two women paused to watch. A man on horseback glanced at Liza but then looked away.

  “I’m alone,” she said.

  “Bullshit,” Jack said, scanning the tops of the buildings.

  Smacking the hitching post with her fist, she said, “Listen to me, you fool. If anyone here should be hung for Sally’s death, it’s me.”

  That got his attention. Jack said, “What?”

  “Come with me. I won’t speak of it here.”

  Samson lifted his head. Water dripped off his muzzle and plunked back into the trough. He sniffed at Liza, his ears perking forward.

  “All right,” Jack said.

  He still didn’t trust her, but he’d hear her out. After what she’d said, he had no choice.

  Taking Samson with him, he followed her past the town limits and out into the long grass. He kept waiting for the sound of a gunshot, but Liza stayed close to him as she walked, something she wouldn’t do if a rifle were trained at his head. She didn’t speak again until they’d put a safe distance between themselves and the town.

  “Here,” she said.

  Jack dropped the reins. Samson stopped and nibbled on the grass.

  She turned and faced him, her eyes turning white in the sunlight. “So, you’re above snakes,” she said. “Everyone figured you’d wandered into the Badlands and died.”

  Jack looked around, trying to see a shadow, a glint of metal, anything to indicate an ambush.

  “I told you, there ain’t no one with me,” she said. “I’m in hiding. See my hair? Why would I dye my hair if I was after you?”

  “To lure me into a trap.”

  “And how would I know you’d be here?”

  Jack didn’t have an answer for that. “Still,” he said, “you could be in cahoots with the sheriff.”

  “He ain’t after you.”

  “Then who sent Smith to hunt me?”

  “Cole?” she said. She hugged her arms. “You’ve seen Cole?”

  Jack nodded. “He’s dead.”

  She caught her breath. Her eyes grew glassy, but she didn’t cry. “I figured as much,” she said, her voice hitching. “When he didn’t come back, I … good. The son of a bitch deserved it. Did you kill him?”

  “No,” Jack said. “I just saw it.”

  She nodded. “Good.” Wavering a little, she sat down in the grass. “Good.”

  “Well, if Tracker didn’t send him, then who did—Hank?”

  Liza stared at her lap.

  “Liza?”

  “What.”

  “Did Hank send him?”

  “No,” she said. “Hank’s also dead.”

  “Dead?” Jack said. He thought back to their fight. They’d both been blind and flailing around in the dark. Hank had cracked him on the jaw, twice, and then slammed his head into the ground. Jack fought back with no more than a handful of thistles and a single kick. Had the kick broken his neck? His legs were strong, but they weren’t mule strong.

  As if reading his thoughts, Liza said, “You didn’t do it. Andy and Cole did.”

  Jack sat down beside her. “Andy,” he said. “You sure?”

  Cole, he could believe. If someone accused Cole of robbing old ladies and poisoning children, he’d accept it without question. But Andy? “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Andy wouldn’t hurt anyone, least of all his pa.”

  Liza reached out and grabbed his wrist. Tears spilled down her cheeks and dripped off her chin as she said, “Jack, you listen to me. You listen real hard.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Liza hated Jane, the useless girl. She was sick again and hold up in her room with a fever. Doc Ansen gave her a little laudanum but that would only make her sleep, and a sleeping whore was no use to anyone. Hank couldn’t make any money off her (not that he made much with her stuttering like a chipmunk), and she couldn’t help the other girls on a busy night, which was practically every night. With Delilah helping at the bar, the humping was left to herself, Sally, and Agnes. Three girls and an endless parade of men.

  Liza was spent. It was late evening, and she was sore between the legs. Her ribs were tender, her belly bruised. Her skin was soaked in old sweat and thick as leather. She needed a bath, but there was no time. The Ram was full as a tick and throbbing with noise: the click of checks on the faro tables, the growls and shouts of men losing their claims, the scrape of chair legs, the rumble and tap of Foster on the piano. The air was foggy with smoke from the penny cigars that Hank sold at the bar. Liza hated those most of all. They smelled like burnt hair.

  Making her rounds, she served her drinks and winked at the boys, fended off their gropes with playful slaps and tried not to spill any liquor. She started to feel good despite herself, bouncing a little as Foster pounded out Camptown Races. After all, she was wearing her new canary yellow dress, a bit of frill at the shoulders. The cowboys didn’t notice, but why would they? Folks at a theatre don’t much notice the curtains either. Of course, they noticed the bits they fancied. She’d already been pinched, spanked, her hair pulled, her foot stepped on. One man buried his nose into her neck and refused to stop sniffing until Hank made him pay for it.

  The other girls didn’t fare much better. Agnes was still recovering from a black eye, so she shied away from the bigger rushers. Still, it didn’t stop her from being poked and teased. Sally always fared the worst. She was yanked onto more laps than any other girl. At that moment, she was bouncing on the knee of a tall skinny man with a long skinny beard. She smiled, but it wasn’t touching her eyes. She looked exhausted. Her long red hair hung limp on her shoulders. She’d already been up twice as much as Liza. The boys couldn’t get enough of her.

  As Liza turned back toward the bar, she decided to check on Andy and Jack. They sat at a corner table playing poker. Or at least Andy was. Jack’s cards lay on the table. His head lay on the cards. Empty glasses surrounded his head.

  Slipping between two tables (and trying
not to wince as someone slapped her bottom), she made her way over and said, “Hey boys.” She twirled. “Don’t I look dandy tonight?”

  Jack lifted his head, looked at her with one open eye, and said, “Dan.”

  “Why, thank you Jack,” she said. “More drinks, Andy?”

  “No,” Andy said. “It’s almost time.”

  “Yes,” Jack said, reaching out a shaky hand for one of the empty glasses. “Time to drink!” He tipped it over his lips and tried to lick a drop as it rolled down the glass.

  “Oh, one more won’t hurt,” she said. “The boy’s just drowning his ache over Sally. You got stripped down in front of the whole town, you’d be a mess, too.”

  “Fine,” Andy said, “only don’t stand here, it looks suspicious. My pa is watching.”

  Liza turned. “No he ain’t.”

  “Just,” Andy snapped. He lowered his voice. “Just do as I say.”

  His leg bounced. He glanced furtively around the room.

  “Grand,” she said, and headed to the bar. Across the room, the bearded man followed Sally upstairs. If he was younger, it might have stalled their plan, but he wouldn’t take long. He’d be in and done like a trip to the outhouse.

  Liza reached the bar and ordered a whiskey for Jack. Hank was busy gabbing with Earl Reddle, so Delilah poured it for her. Leaning over the bar, she said, “How’s our lamb faring?”

  “He’s drunk,” Liza said. “Could bleed whiskey.”

  “A shame,” Delilah said, and winked. A devil’s wink, as her ma used to say.

  Liza frowned at her and took the glass. She stared into its dark, amber liquid and felt bad for Jack. He was getting the shit end of the stick and no doubt. It was for the best—she knew it was—but she wouldn’t wink about it.

  “Girls,” Hank bellowed from the other end of the bar. “Get on with yourselves. Delilah, fetch Earl a rum. Liza, get your toes up.”

  Liza nodded, but there wasn’t time for any of that now. She’d play deaf to the boys until Sally came back down. Cole needed her, and that was enough to incur the wrath of Hank. She wouldn’t fail her Starbit.