Gasher Creek Part 16

"Old," Caroline said. "And you're not old."

Tracker smiled at her, a real one this time. Anyone would look old compared to his wife: twenty-six, beautiful, glowing from her pregnancy. And here he was on the high side of thirty-one, dusty from work, smelling like all sorts of foulness, in need of a bath, a haircut, and a moustache trim. His knees ached and his wrists screamed. Not for the first time, he wondered what she'd ever seen in him.

Then he thought about how they'd met, and his smile grew. Oh, how she'd fallen for him. Yes sir.

"It couldn't be that bad," she said.

"No," Tracker said. "I was just thinking about you."

"And normally I'd encourage you to do so," she said with mock indifference, "but I'm afraid it must wait until you tell me about deputy lazy bones."

"Actually, it was my fault," Tracker said. "Tickie accused me of letting Devlin go and it put me sour. I ended up pointing a finger at Don."

"About?"

"About him helping Hank with Devlin's lynching."

Caroline nodded as if he'd just told her that milk does, in fact, comes from cows.

"It was a foolish thought," Tracker said. "Wasn't it?"

"It most certainly was not," she said. "Don has been an errand boy for Hank since he was a child. He's done all sorts of nasty things for that man. Just ask Sylvia, she's known him his whole life. No, Tom, the only respectable thing about Don Kivel is the job you gave him."

"He's not as bad as all that."

Caroline slid her hand as far as she could across the table. Tracker reached out and slipped his fingers into hers. She said, "You know as well as I do that the only one keeping Don in line was Ed, G.o.d rest his soul. And now that he's gone, what's to prevent the simpleton from doing as he pleases?"

"They did beat him," Tracker said.

"A perfect excuse to hide his involvement."

"But to betray his oath as a lawman..."

"You're the only one who cares about that oath," Caroline said. "For Don, it's a job, no different than shoveling manure in a pig pen."

"But what can I do," Tracker said, pulling his hand back. "I can't dismiss him. No one has volunteered for Ed's job, and I don't blame them." Of course, Ben Tunn was eager to learn, but that boy wouldn't be able to handle the nights, no matter how big he was.

Tracker stood, flexing his wrists. "Until the Crow's Peak Hills run dry, we'll be up to our elbows in the worst kind of folks." He retrieved his pipe and tobacco from the mantle. "Either I keep Don and let the matter rest, or I let him go and hope to find another man-two other men-quickly."

"There's always a third choice," Caroline said, gathering up the plates.

"No," Tracker said, stuffing tobacco into the pipe bowl. "I'll not move back to the city."

"It was just an idea," she said innocently.

"I know what your idea is," Tracker said. "You want to be near your kin. Well you're here with me and that's all there is to it."

Caroline looked around their small cabin. "That's right."

"You're not helping."

She straightened up, her belly swelling. "Come here," she said.

"Why?"

She stuck out her lower lip and batted her eyelashes at him. It was her secret weapon, a way of diffusing whatever bad mood he was in. And it always worked.

Sighing, Tracker moved over to her.

"Give me a kiss," she said.

Tracker leaned in and kissed her. Despite a string of dry days, her lips felt moist and warm. Tracker's hand touched her belly and crept up to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She gently removed his hand and shook her head.

"I know," Tracker said. "How much longer?"

"That depends on your son."

"Or daughter."

"A woman knows," Caroline said. Turning, she led him toward the bed and sat down. "Kick off your boots and stay a while."

It was a great idea. He would sit beside her and have a smoke-yes, then he'd lie beside her and listen to the baby kick-yes, and then he'd fall asleep-oh yes. Nothing but peace and solitude, until the morning- Someone pounded on the door.

"We really must get a closed sign," Caroline moaned.

Tracker hobbled over with one boot on and opened the door. It was Don.

"We got a problem," he said.

Over his shoulder, Tracker could see a raging fire burning in the distance. He rushed over to the bed and slipped into his boot. "Which one?" he asked, turning to grab his gun belt.

"The church," Don said.

"Oh, Lord," Caroline said.

Tracker s.n.a.t.c.hed his coat, kissed Caroline on the cheek, and then ran out the door. Shutting it behind him, he said, "Is anyone hurt?"

"How the h.e.l.l should I know?" Don said.

Tracker could tell he was still in hitches over their argument. "Don," he said, slipping his coat on. "About our words earlier-"

"I don't want to hear it, Tom."

"All right," he said, letting it drop for the moment. Apparently, the threat of death could leave a man sore.

They reached the church just as a crowd was forming. Tracker pushed his way to the front and raised his hands against the heat.

There was no use forming a bucket brigade. The church was lost. Flames roared from all four windows, fed by the pews, pulpit, and hymnals. Paint bled off the wood siding and melted into the gra.s.s. Ash spewed into the sky and fluttered over Gasher Creek like snow.

Most of the townsfolk had gathered to watch. Sylvia and Tate stood with Jimmy, their faces white in the glow of the flames. Bob Alder and Gil Forbish watched with quiet fascination. Frosty scratched his head while taking in great snorts of air.

"Where's Tickie," Tracker asked.

With a groan, the church buckled.

"Stand back!" he shouted.

The church collapsed with a boom. A burning plank struck Tracker on the shoulder. Frosty batted at a flock of hymnal pages as they fell on his head. Jimmy crouched over a flaming hunk of wood, saying, "Why do you suppose it burns so fast?" before Sylvia dragged him back by his collar.

A handful of rushers cheered.

"Stand back I said!" Tracker ordered, slapping the flames out on his shoulder.

"Not to worry, everyone," Don said, hitching his trousers. "I'll handle this. I have to take a powerful p.i.s.s."

"Sheriff!" Sylvia exclaimed.

"Shut up, Don," Tracker said. Turning to the crowd, he yelled, "Has anyone seen the preacher?"

Just then, a strangled howl rose from the back.

"I think we found him," Don said.

The crowd split as Reverend Tickie barreled through, his arms flailing as if he were falling of a cliff. "No!" he wailed.

He wasn't going to stop. Tracker lunged for the reverend and gripped him in a bear hug.

"My church!" Tickie cried, trying to kick free. "We have to save it!"

"There's nothing left to save," Tracker said. "Look at it. Look!"

Tickie looked. After a few more fist pumps, he stopped struggling. "Oh Lord," he said, falling to his knees. "This town is the devil's trough, Sheriff. The devil's trough!"

Chapter Seventeen.

It was the best corn mush Jack had ever eaten. The bread was fresh and moist. He'd never seen a whiter plate. He'd never used a stronger spoon. The campfire burned bright and warm and held back the darkness. Next to him, Charlie shoveled mush into his mouth so fast that he nearly choked. But he was smiling.

Opposite Jack sat Silas and Billy Dorgan. Billy's wife, Mary, sat next to her husband. She looked eighteen, maybe younger. Thin, but pretty. Although she didn't say much, she made up for it by staring at Jack and Charlie intently, her eyes the color of jay feathers.

"My apologies for earlier, fellas," Billy said, "but we heard tell of bandits in the area."

"You heard right," Charlie said. "I was robbed in the Badlands."

Silas chuckled, a bit of bread tumbling from his mouth. "You traveled the Badlands? Surprised you're still alive, Indian."

"You should have gone around," Billy said. "It's only an extra day's ride but worth it. My half-witted brother is right for once. You boys should be dead."

"We're not, and much obliged for it," Jack said, lifting a spoonful of mush.

"Thank my missus," Billy said. "Mary can cook anything. I shot a rabbit the other day and she made it taste like it come from a restaurant. You boys ever eat in a restaurant?"

Charlie and Jack said no. Jack figured a cold plate of beans and bread didn't count.

"What's your tribe, Indian?" Silas asked, pointing his spoon at Charlie.

"Leave the man alone," Billy said. "But if you don't have the biggest nose in three counties."

"It's all right," Charlie said. "I'm a Chewak."

"Chewak?" Silas said. "You must be the last one in these parts; the army got all the others. But then those duds make you look more white than red."

"My pa's white," Charlie said.

This seemed to confuse Silas. He frowned and tapped his lip with his spoon.

"You say you got a ranch near Brush?" Billy asked.

Charlie nodded. "Used to be a big operation, but my pa's getting on in years."

"Why did you leave?"

"I'm studying to be preacher in Bear Hunt."

"An Indian preacher!" Silas said, clapping his hands with delight. "Will wonders never cease. You preach about the birds and the trees?"

Billy punched his brother in the arm. "By G.o.d, I hope there's a church where we're headed, because I'm dragging you there every Sunday."

"What?" Silas said. "I'm just having a snort."

"It ain't Christian," Billy said. "Especially to a preacher, red or white."

Silas belched. "You don't mind, do you Indian?"

"I'll take your guff for this food," Charlie said, sc.r.a.ping the last few spoonfuls of mush off his plate.

Pointing at him, Silas said, "I like this one." He sprang to his feet and jogged over to the wagon. Moments later, he returned with a large bottle of rye.

Billy groaned.

"Just a sip," Silas said.

"That's all the devil asks," Billy replied.