by J. Birch
He’d done it. He’d shot the both of them.
Tracker marched back to Bucko. He untied Andy, grabbed him by the shirt, and yanked him off. Andy fell onto the ground but didn’t move.
“Wake up,” Tracker said. He dug his canteen out of the saddlebag and dumped the water onto Andy’s face. “Wake up. Wake up, you dog!”
Andy’s purple, swollen eyelids opened. Blinking away the water, he said, “Sheriff?”
Tracker gripped him by the arm and pulled him onto his knees. “Look at this,” he said, pointing. “Look!”
Andy looked. Despite the bruises, the blood, and the dirt, he turned very pale.
“You coward,” Tracker said.
“No,” Andy said. “No, Sheriff, I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me. You see that mule? It’s a paint, a rare breed. Your mule, the one you borrowed from your pa’s friend? That was a paint as well. Andy, you shot these people!”
Andy held his hands up to Tracker. “I did,” he said. “Yes sir, I did, but it was in self-defense. I needed a horse, a mule, anything to help me get away. My ankle was sore and I couldn’t run. So when I came across these folks, I tried to take one of their mules. But then they shot at me. I had no choice but to shoot back.”
“You were shot at?”
“Honest to God.”
Tracker released him and marched back to the second body. He bent down, pulled the shotgun from the man’s grip, and checked. It was fully loaded.
As he turned, he saw Andy hobbling away.
Tracker ran after him and tripped him. With his hands still cuffed, Andy fell hard, his face smacking the ground. He cried out as blood spurted from his nose.
“Shut up,” Tracker said. He gripped Andy’s ankles and dragged him back toward the wagon.
“No,” Andy cried, trying to kick free. “No!”
Tracker dropped him inches from the dead man. He reached into his belt and pulled out the pepperbox. “This is a close shooter. You looked these folks in the eye when you shot them, didn’t you?” He crouched and gripped Andy’s head. “Look at this man. Look at what you did.” Yanking him to his feet, he said. “Look at her. You shot a woman, Andy. A woman!”
Andy dropped to his knees and started sobbing. “I was frightened,” he said. “I thought you were coming to kill me.”
“You ever see me shoot a man?” Tracker asked. “You ever see me pull my gun without provocation?”
Andy shook his head. “No, no, no. No I haven’t, I have not.”
“How did you figure on me not finding out about this?”
“I didn’t think you’d catch me,” Andy said, trembling. “I’m sorry. Forgive me, Sheriff.”
“I’m not your judge,” Tracker said. “That’s O’Donnell’s task, not mine.”
“He won’t forgive me. Not for this. He’s going to hang me, isn’t he?”
Tracker looked down at him. He could have lied to the boy in an effort to keep him calm, but Andy was smart enough to know the truth anyway.
“Yeah,” Tracker said. “He’s going to hang you.”
Bowing his head, Andy shuddered and wept.
“I’ll do all I can for you,” Tracker said. “But you need to tell me the truth. All of it.”
Andy nodded. “Yes sir.”
“What you said about Sally’s death. Was it the whole truth?”
“No,” he said. “I poured the bottle. I poured the poison down her throat.”
“And your pa?”
“I handed him the flask. Lord help me, I did.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s it,” he said, gasping. “That’s all.”
“Good,” Tracker said, patting his shoulder. “You were right to tell me. And when you stand before the judge, I’ll tell him you were honest about your crimes. It will show remorse.”
“Thank you,” Andy said.
Tracker left him alone to cry. He wouldn’t run this time. Once a man confesses, he’s often too exhausted to do much more than sleep.
After retrieving the shovel out of the wagon, Tracker took his time walking back. When he returned, Andy was sitting in the grass, wiping his face on his sleeve. One cheek was shiny, the other still covered in filth.
“All right, Andy,” Tracker said. “Let’s bury these folks proper.”
He helped him to stand. Unlocking his handcuffs, he said, “Over there. Make them deep.”
Andy pitched the shovel into the ground and started digging. He worked slowly, scooping out tiny mounds of dirt and tipping them onto the grass.
“Swift now,” Tracker said. “It’ll be dark in a few hours.”
Andy tried, but he wasn’t a farmer or a rancher. His corn stalk arms could only move so fast. After a while, he stopped to rest.
He set the shovel down. He stared into the open grave.
“I just wanted him to leave me alone. That’s all I ever wanted, Sheriff—a bite of peace.”
“I know you did,” Tracker said, turning toward the horizon. “Keep digging, all right?”
The sun was sinking low. At this rate, it would be well after dark by the time they reached town. Normally, Tracker didn’t like riding in the dark, but he refused to spend another night away from his family.
Behind him, he heard Andy sobbing again.
Tracker sighed. It was going to be a long ride back.
He turned around. “Come on, Andy, quit your blubbering and just—”
Andy sat on the edge of the grave, his wrists spurting blood. Tracker rushed over to stop him, but it was too late. Andy slumped into his arms.
He died. The screw token slipped from his fingers.
* * *
Tracker buried Andy where he died. Then he dug two new graves on the other side of the wagon and buried the homesteaders. It was a nasty business, and by the time he finished he was covered in mud and blood. But it was done. The saddle bums and highwaymen would take care of the rest. In a few days, the wagon would be gone.
Tracker tossed the shovel and climbed into the saddle. With one final look at Andy’s grave, he turned and followed the setting sun.
I just wanted him to leave me alone.
Tracker often wondered why he didn’t like those dime novels about famous outlaws and lawmen. Ben always left a copy at the office, but he never read them.
Thinking about Andy, he reckoned he now knew why.
In those books, the lawmen were always good and the outlaws always bad. The sheriff followed the path of righteousness while the outlaw danced with the devil. But Tracker had never met a lawman without his faults, and he’d never crossed paths with a soulless outlaw. In the end, both were just searching for their bite of peace.
He knew he could never be a dime novel sheriff. He couldn’t dismiss Andy’s death with a tip of the hat and a speech about good triumphing over evil.
Andy Dupois wasn’t an evil boy.
Andy Dupois was a boy.
* * *
It was cold. The sun had disappeared, taking its warmth with it. Shivering, Tracker tucked his hands into the sleeves of his slicker and tried to reassure himself that he was almost home. It didn’t help. He searched his saddlebag in the off chance that Ben had retrieved his pipe when he retrieved his gun. He had not.
“Almost there,” he said, his teeth chattering. Most folks didn’t believe that teeth could really chatter in the cold, but any army private knew it to be true. Cold enough and damp enough, and a man’s teeth will chatter like a telegraph key.
In an effort to warm himself up, he imagined himself sitting before the fireplace, his pipe in hand. Across from him, he saw Caroline sitting in her rocking chair with Edward, the firelight dappling his forehead as he slept. Everything was warm, silent, and golden.
Inhaling deeply, Tracker could almost smell the wood smoke. It was a rich, comforting smell. He inhaled again.
“Wait,” he said, opening his eyes.
He really could smell smoke.
A plume of light appeared in th
e distance. It was big. Only a burning building could cast that much light.
“Oh no, not again,” Tracker said, cracking the reins. Bucko burst into a gallop and they sped toward the light. As Tracker drew closer, he could see that it was a building near the edge of town—
at the edge—
The Ram.
He reached Main Street at the same time as the other townsfolk. Sylvia was running out with Tate. Ben was hot on their heels, pushing rushers out of his way. Tracker reined in Bucko at the livery, dismounted, and hurried across the street. As he reached Ben, a fireball exploded outward, shattering the windows and engulfing the front porch in flames. He heard liquor bottles explode. Piano strings twanged and popped like queer birdsong.
“Ben,” Tracker said, “is anyone inside? Where are the girls?”
Ben turned to him, saying, “I think everyone’s out—Sheriff, you’re back!”
Tracker grabbed his shoulders. “Listen to me. Where are the girls?”
“Here, Sh-Sheriff.”
Jane and Agnes stood next to each other, hugging themselves in their thin chemises. They looked smoke stained but otherwise unhurt. Beside them, two half naked rushers in bed sheets gawked at the fire. In front of Agnes, Foster sat on the ground and wept for his lost piano.
“Are you okay?” Tracker asked.
“Yes,” Jane said. “We w-were lucky.”
“It started in the wash room where we keep the bedding,” Agnes said as she patted Foster’s shoulder. “We couldn’t put it out in time.”
“I’ll form a bucket brigade,” Ben said. “Stretch a line to the well and—”
A loud crack interrupted him. As they watched, the second floor of The Ram collapsed onto the first. Everyone jumped back as debris—glass, wood, half a chair cushion, the tatters of a dress—showered down upon them. A burning stocking landed on Ben’s head. As he tried to swat it off, Tracker scooped up a handful of mud and rubbed it into his hair, dousing the flames.
“Thanks Sheriff,” Ben said, sniffing. “Although I don’t think all of this is mud.”
“Sorry,” Tracker said.
“What do you want to do now?”
Tracker watched the inferno and tried to think. If they quickly formed a line, they might be able to save some of the structure. But if they did nothing, the fire would reduce the house to cinders within a few hours.
He judged the distance between The Ram and the other buildings on Main Street.
He licked his finger and held it up. No breeze.
Finally, he said, “Let it burn. Let it burn to the ground.”
The townsfolk cheered. The rushers groaned and removed their hats.
Turning, Tracker gazed over the faces in the crowd. Although most ran the gamut between jubilant and miserable, one in particular held his attention: George Frosty. He was watching the fire with an expression of deep satisfaction. He chewed on a penny cigar and grinned.
Only one place in town sold penny cigars: The Ram.
He’d done it. He’d set the fire. Tracker had no proof, but he just knew. Frosty must have heard about the markings on Jimmy’s neck from Sylvia and decided to enact his own revenge. Not that it was Andy’s fault; the only one guilty of Jimmy’s death was Jimmy. But perhaps Frosty couldn’t accept that. Perhaps he needed someone to blame besides himself.
Tracker’s instinct was to arrest him, to drag him to the office and try to coax a confession. But Frosty was a tough old bird. He wouldn’t say a thing. And even if he did, what would happen next—jail? Frosty’s mercantile was a town necessity. No one gained from him cracking rocks.
Tracker looked back at the Ram, and reckoned no harm had been done. Not really. No one had died in the fire, and all the property owners were already dead.
For the second time that day, he decided to let a man go. Perhaps his oath wouldn’t approve, but he was tired. Bone tired. And Lord Almighty, did he miss his wife and child.
Clapping Ben on the shoulder, he said, “Well Sheriff, I think I’ll let you handle this.”
As he turned away, Ben said, “Did you catch Andy?”
“I did.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
“Gosh,” Ben said. “How?”
“Later,” Tracker said, moving through the crowd.
“Wait,” Ben called after him. “Where are you going?”
* * *
Everything was warm, silent, and golden.
Tracker sat beside the fireplace in the rocking chair. Edward lay sleeping in his arms. Caroline lay across the room in bed, asleep. She’d decided not to cuss him out. She was too tired to cuss.
“In the morning, we’ll talk,” she’d said.
“Do we have to?”
“Oh yes.”
He hoped she’d forget, but doubted it. It was all right. He was just happy to be home. She could scold him for hours and he’d only hear chimes. After two days of prairie wind, he’d welcome the change.
Feeling an ache in his knees, Tracker stood from the rocking chair and crept over to the front door. He opened it, slipped outside, and stood in the dark. Above him, a wisp of cloud hid the moon.
He held Edward close.
There was no night like a prairie night. No night as lonely, or as infinitely black.
Jack Devlin returned to his thoughts. He was out there right now, alone with nothing but the wind and the grass. Tracker imagined him riding that giant horse of his, galloping across a vast expanse of prairie, chasing north.
I promised.
And where would that chase lead him? The boy had no home. There was no one waiting to cuss him out, no one who missed and loved him. No distant light to steer by.
Tracker remembered that kind of misery. Sometimes he forgot, but it was always there in the back of his mind, like a coyote creeping through the grass.
In the days before Caroline…
He returned to the warmth of the cabin and shut the door. Pausing, he admired his wife’s still, smooth face.
She’d changed everything for him. Before they met, he’d been crooked as an old snake, so coiled he could scarcely breathe. But when their paths collided and he looked into her eyes, he knew. He didn’t have the words for it, but he knew what he’d found.
She was his life, his light in the dark—
“My bite of peace,” he whispered.
In his arms, Edward squeezed his hands into tiny fists and yawned.
Tracker returned to the rocking chair beside the fire. Easing himself into the seat, he gazed down at his newborn son. He smiled.
The End
About the Author
J. Birch was born in Calgary Alberta, Canada, but has spent most of his life wandering around the country that he loves.
In between train stations, he writes. Gasher Creek is his first published novel. You can find him on the web at birchwrites.blogspot.com, e-mail him at [email protected], and follow him on twitter: @jbirchwriter