by J. Birch
Andy was right. They were Hell bound.
Cole yanked off Jack’s trousers and dropped them beside his boots. Liza unbuttoned Sally’s dress and pulled it off.
“Well would you look at that,” Cole said, staring at Sally’s naked body. His eyes crawled over her. Liza backed away from him, her stomach clenching. She turned cold.
“If he’s awake,” Cole said, “then he might remember some of this. And if he does? He’ll dance to the gallows.” Rolling Sally’s body on top of Jack, he shouted, “God dammit, Jack, your dream come true! Ride her, Jack, ride her!”
Liza turned and wrenched the door open. She ran to the other end of the hall. She slid into the bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and wailed into her pillow. Her heart pounded in her ears.
Chapter Forty-Five
“I remember,” Jack said. “I remember everything now.”
Sally was on top of him, her forehead pressed against his. Her eyes were large and black. Her mouth hung open, her jaw slack. Cole had shouted: “You’ve wanted her for a long time, haven’t you Jack?”
“But you were all wrong,” Jack said. “She wasn’t dead yet. I could feel her heart. It would beat, and then stop. Beat, and then stop. I thought it was my own heart until it stopped and didn’t start again. I felt her die.”
Mind if I have a go?
Jack stared past Liza. New memories spread through his mind like a weed. “Then Cole yanked her off me,” he said. “And then he—oh God,” he said. “Oh God!”
“What,” Liza said.
Hot tears spilled down Jack’s face. “He went wild. He climbed on top of her and—she was dead and he humped her!”
Liza threw her arms around him as he screamed into her neck. “I should have stopped him,” she said. “I should have stopped him and I didn’t. I wasn’t strong enough.”
“Get away from me,” Jack said, pushing her off him. “You’re no better than Cole or Andy.”
“No,” she said. “That’s not true. I didn’t want her to die, but Cole said it was for the best.”
“Why didn’t you tell the sheriff?”
“Because Cole would have found out,” she said. “He would have killed me. I wanted to run that very night, but I was afraid he’d come after me. It was only when I was sure he was gone for good that I dyed my hair and hitched a ride. I didn’t want to hang for what he and Andy had done. I thought I could hide.” Her hands shook. “I thought I could forget. But then you showed up.” She rose onto her knees. “Please forgive me, Jack.”
Jack stared down at her and seized her by the chin. “Why did they choose Sally?”
“They needed someone to try the poison on.”
“But why her?” Jack demanded. “They could have chosen anyone, why…”
And then he understood. “It was me, wasn’t it?” he said. “They picked her because of me.”
Liza nodded. “Your fight,” she said. “Cole and Andy figured they could try it out on Sally and finger you as the murderer. Who would argue it? The whole town saw her screaming at you. You had every reason to want her dead.”
Jack stared out over the prairie. “Andy,” he said, the word reverberating in his throat.
Andy Dupois pretended to be his friend after Sally humiliated him, just so he could get him liquored up.
Andy Dupois stood beside his pa, a shocked look on his face as Jack lay in that bed next to Sally’s corpse.
Andy Dupois helped carry him to Hannigan’s Tree.
It’s a done deal.
Andy was the murderer, not him. God damn him. God and all his angels damn him to Hell—
Liza screamed as the black coyote emerged from the long grass.
Jack dropped to one knee. He held out his hand.
“Jack,” Liza said. “What are you doing?”
The coyote approached him, its eyes shining like copper coins. It bowed its head, and Jack’s hand slipped into its thick, black fur. Its heat warmed him like a shot of whiskey. It burned his eyes like a fever. Sweat trickled down his face and replaced the tears.
He stood and walked back to Samson, the coyote at his side like a loyal dog. Liza clutched at the grass. “Keep it away from me,” she cried. “Don’t let it eat me!”
Jack climbed into the saddle and looked south.
All that time, he’d thought he was guilty. He thought he’d done the same terrible things to Sally that his pa had done to his sister. Like father like son. He’d tortured himself for nothing, afraid of every thought, every possible action his mind could conceive of. He’d worried about hurting women, about hurting Emily. In her room, he’d had a chance to speak his heart but didn’t. He couldn’t risk it. After all, he was a monster.
The coyote barked.
Jack snapped the reins.
Samson leapt forward. They sped away, leaving Liza behind.
“Faster,” he commanded, leaning into the wind. “Fly!”
Samson tossed his head and snorted. The black coyote’s eyes burned like fire.
No more silence. No more running away. Now, he’d do what he should have done to his pa, to Cole Smith, to that army private, to all the real monsters of the world.
He was going to stand.
And Andy Dupois was going to die.
Chapter Forty-Six
Still no Andy. Tracker would’ve laughed at the absurdity of it if he wasn’t soaked, exhausted, and feeling the kind of hopelessness a man only gets when soaked and exhausted. He thought about calling off the search. He daydreamed about it. He even decided on the perfect I’m-sorry-I-left-and-didn’t-say-goodbye apology for Caroline.
But he didn’t stop.
Just a little further on.
Up ahead, Tracker spotted a new shape in the storm. It turned out to be a small cottonwood tree. Its trunk grew straight and thick, the signs of a good water source. Sure enough, it stood at the edge of a long narrow stream that snaked its way off to the east. Tracker spotted clumps of dark, green grass beside it, perfect for Bucko. “Let’s say we have ourselves a rest,” he said.
Bucko snorted.
“A short one.”
After dismounting, Tracker led Bucko down to the stream. Its banks were steep, but the storm had swelled the water so that a horse could easily drink. As Bucko lowered his head to the water, Tracker crouched beside him and rubbed his leg.
Lord, but he was tired. His backside ached and his wrists were sore from holding the reins. He turned to look at the tree, feeling a powerful urge to crawl under its canopy of leaves and lay down. He wouldn’t, but that’s what he wanted to do.
As he stared at it, his boot slipped.
“Oh,” Tracker said, sliding forward. “Oh no!”
He pitched sideways and plunged into the stream. He swallowed a mouthful of water and choked. The water roared in his ears. He couldn’t find the bottom. He didn’t know which way to swim. He reached out with his arms but found nothing. What a stupid way to die. Kicking frantically, the toe of his boot scraped something hard and he pushed, hoping it was the streambed.
It was. Breaking the surface, he vomited a lungful of water. Gasping, Tracker clutched at a shrub and managed to crawl his way out. Making it as far as the tree trunk, he collapsed.
The rain crackled in the leaves above him. He closed his eyes as the world spun.
“Maybe,” he said, coughing up some more water. “Maybe we’ll take a long break.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Andy Dupois was going to pay.
The sun disappeared behind the storm, and Jack rode on. The rain blasted him, but he didn’t turn back. Lightning cracked the sky and thunder shook the ground, but Samson was unafraid, and he didn’t slow down. He dug his hooves into the earth and pushed harder, his powerful legs fighting the wind.
Faster.
Jack lost the coyote in the dark, but it was still there. The howl of the storm couldn’t mask its deep, guttural breath. The wind couldn’t steal the heat radiating off its body. Jack still didn’t know what it was, bu
t he knew it was powerful, and that was all that mattered now. He’d need that strength to kill.
Snapping the reins, he leaned into the torrent and let it slash his face. Squealing, Samson barreled on into the blackness.
* * *
“You gonna gawk at them cards forever?”
Jack opened his eyes and immediately shut them. The brightness hurt his eyes. “Hold on,” he said. He tried again, shading his eyes with his hand. He blinked several times. He squinted. Finally, he could see.
Somehow, he didn’t remember the hotel restaurant being this bright.
Perhaps it was the sunlight pouring through the windows, or the endless tables draped with their endless white tablecloths. It may have had something to do with the fact that each table held its own burning lamp. Whatever the reason, it was a ridiculous amount of light, and he had half a mind to take it up with Tate and Sylvia.
Across from him and to his right, sat Sally. She leaned on her elbows, the tablecloth littered with flakes of grey skin. Her red hair, once vibrant and thick, now clung to her scalp in wispy strands. A rib poked through the rotten flesh of her chest.
“Come on,” she said.
On her left sat an empty chair. On her right, sat Hank. His skin had faded to the color of clay. He was terribly bloated, his fingers like sausages, his head the size of a pumpkin. His shirt buttons looked ready to pop. Black scratches stretched across his cheek. “We ain’t got forever, boy,” he said.
Sheriff Tracker looked all right. He sat next to Jack, his eyes closed and his arms folded. His cards lay face down on the table.
“Don’t mind him,” Hank said. “He’s sitting this one out.”
Jack looked at his cards again. “I’m not sure what to do,” he said. “I have four black coyotes.”
“Four!” exclaimed Sally, slapping her cards on the table.
“No one can beat that,” Hank growled, tossing his cards over his shoulder. “You cheatin’ us, boy?”
“No,” Jack said, laying his cards down. “See?”
Hank shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”
A pile of coins and bills lay in the middle of the table. It was a huge amount of money, enough to buy seed, a plow, maybe even a wagon. As Jack leaned forward to collect his winnings, Sally seized his wrist. “You ain’t won yet,” she said. “We still haven’t seen everyone’s hand.”
Jack looked at Sheriff Tracker, who was still asleep.
“Not him,” she said, and nodded at the empty chair. Five cards lay face down on the tablecloth.
“Whose cards are those?” Jack asked.
“Some Indian fella,” Hank said. “He went to the outhouse, but—ah, here he is.”
Charlie strolled into the room and sat down.
“Charlie?” Jack said.
“Hey Jack,” Charlie said, picking up his cards.
“It’s hopeless,” Sally said to him. “He’s got all black coyotes.”
Jack stared at him, dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe it. He watched Charlie study his cards, watched him nod at Sally, watched him move. Was he breathing? Jack thought he saw him breathe.
“Charlie,” he said. “You’re alive.”
Hank and Sally burst out laughing. Hank swatted his belly, causing half a dozen insects to scurry out of his shirt. Sally cupped a hand over her mouth and shook. Her shriveled breasts wiggled.
“Alive? Fraid not,” Charlie said, chuckling with them.
“Are you a ghost?”
He seemed to consider the idea. “It’s possible.”
“Or is this a dream?” Jack said to the others. The thought hadn’t occurred to him until that moment. Hadn’t he always been playing poker?
“You might be right about that,” Charlie said. “I wouldn’t know.” He looked at Jack’s cards. “Four black coyotes, huh?”
“Four,” Sally said.
“Unbeatable,” Hank said.
Charlie smiled and showed his cards to Sally.
“Oh,” she said. She leaned over to Hank and whispered in his ear. A tear slid down his cheek.
Charlie placed his first four cards, face up, on the table. Each pictured a white eagle, its wings spread as if soaring across the sky. He held the last card between his thumb and forefinger.
“Show me,” Jack said. “Please, Charlie, show me!”
Jack awoke, his face buried in Samson’s mane. He looked around. The storm was over. The prairie landscape stretched away into the Morning Blue. As he sat up, Samson increased his speed.
The black coyote growled. Its eyes glowed.
Unbeatable.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Tracker sneezed himself awake. He opened his eyes. He shivered. His clothes coated his skin like a heavy layer of paste. Water dripped onto his forehead as he tried to recall where he was.
Bucko snorted.
“Right,” he said, remembering. The hunt without end, amen. Sitting up, he leaned against the trunk of the cottonwood and surveyed the land. The storm had finally blown over. A patch of light grew in the east, hinting at a clear sky. At last, some good luck.
Sneezing again, Tracker gripped a lower branch and eased himself onto his feet. It was slow going. His arms and legs ached. His face burned. Whether it was the hours of rain or his dip in the stream, he wasn’t sure. But it had finally happened:
He hadn’t caught Andy, but he had managed to catch himself a fever.
“Glorious,” Tracker muttered.
His breakfast was short and unfulfilling. The hunk of bread had melted into a handful of gooey pulp, and the cheese wasn’t nearly enough to fill his stomach. He swigged water from his canteen in an effort to feel full, but it only managed to fill his bladder.
“Glory be.”
Tracker moved away from the camp and unbuttoned his slicker. The breeze struck his damp chest like a blast of winter wind. Quickly, he unbuttoned and dropped his trousers. He growled at the cold but focused on the horizon, hoping for a hot day. The sun was rising now, burning like the firebox in a locomotive. He could see for miles. He even saw Andy, lying motionless in the grass—
“Oh!” Tracker said, and shut his mouth. He stood very still. He stared at Andy in disbelief.
His third instinct was to rush over there.
His second instinct was to draw his gun.
His first instinct, however, was to finish urinating.
Cursing, Tracker finished, gave a hasty shake, and yanked up his trousers. Then he crept forward, stepping lightly, unsure of whether Andy was asleep or dead.
He drew his gun.
Andy lay with his face buried in the crook of his arm and his knees pulled up to his chest. His face was raw and wind beaten, his hair messy and littered with bits of grass. His clothes were torn, soiled, and soggy. He was missing a boot. He looked dead, but Tracker couldn’t imagine himself looking much better.
Andy groaned.
So, he was alive. And armed. A small, 4-shot pepperbox lay in his hand. It was a gambler’s gun, hard to aim. Carefully, Tracker lifted the gun and checked the barrels. Empty. The fool didn’t take any ammo with him. He’d probably wasted his only two shots on that poor mule.
Slipping it into his belt, Tracker hurried back to Bucko and retrieved a pair of handcuffs from the saddlebag.
He couldn’t believe his good fortune. If he hadn’t stopped at that cottonwood tree for a rest, he might have ridden right past him. It almost made up for falling in the stream.
Tracker returned to Andy with the cuffs. His arms were so thin that Tracker was able to seize both wrists in one hand. Pinning Andy’s backside under his knee, Tracker opened the cuffs and quickly secured his wrists. He locked the handcuffs, stepped back, and aimed the Lightfeather at Andy’s face.
“Andy?”
Nothing.
“Hey!”
Andy opened his eyes.
They opened wide.
“Andy Dupois,” Tracker said, “you are under arrest for the murder of Hank Dupois and Sally the whore. You wil
l come back with me to Gasher Creek, where you’ll await trial by a judge in Bear Hunt. Up,” he said, pulling back the hammer of his gun. “Get up!”
For a moment, it seemed as if Andy had lost all understanding of English. He lay there, gaping at Tracker like a caught trout. Then, as the full understanding dawned on him, he squeezed his eyes shut and started to cry. “Please, Sheriff,” he said. “I didn’t do anything.” He tried to sit up. Realizing that his wrists were cuffed, he started yelping and screeching like a snagged rat. “Help,” he cried. “Help!”
“No one’s out here but us, you fool,” Tracker said.
Falling onto his side, Andy whimpered, “But I’m innocent.”
“If you’re so innocent, then why did you run?”
He shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Then help me,” Tracker said. “Help me believe you. If you got something to say, I’ll listen.”
“I just…”
“What,” Tracker said. “You just what, Andy?”
Andy sniffed. “I just wanted him to leave me alone.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Like everyone else in town, Andy had witnessed the fight between Sally and Jack. He’d been sitting on the rise of land behind The Ram, watching it with Cole and Don. They were chewing on grass stalks, talking about nothing important, when it happened. Sally exploded like fireworks and raved at Jack. Jack just stood there like a willow husband and took it.
“What is wrong with you, stick boy?” Don said, slapping his knee. “Hit her!”
“She’s got them nails,” Cole said. “He hits her and she’ll scratch his eyes out.”
“All he needs is one good shot,” Don said. “That’s what I’d do.”
Cole groaned. “That’s not all I’d do to such a raspberry.”