Gasher Creek Part 48

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 s.h.i.+rt. Sally cupped a hand over her mouth and shook. Her shriveled b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 s.h.i.+vered. 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 unb.u.t.toned his slicker. The breeze struck his damp chest like a blast of winter wind. Quickly, he unb.u.t.toned 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 gra.s.s- "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 gra.s.s. 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 wh.o.r.e. You will 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 gra.s.s 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."

They whooped and cheered as Sally screamed. When Jack sulked off, they howled with laughter. But Andy didn't laugh. He could already feel the dread swelling his chest. He was going to pay for what had just happened. It wasn't his fault-he was only a spectator-but his pa had a funny way of looking at things.

That night, Andy lay reading in bed. He felt better. The dread over his pa was gone now. The screw token lay next to him, greasy with blood. The wounds on his arms throbbed a little but it wasn't too bad. It'd been a long time since he'd cut himself; not since he was a boy, since his ma died. Back then, he'd called the pain It. It would scuttle beneath his skin, itching to get out. And the only way to get It out was to bleed It out. And once he did, he always felt a world better. He could breathe again. He stopped feeling like an overstuffed powder keg.

All these years later, and the results were the same. But now he was older and stronger. He could cut deeper.

Andy licked a finger and turned the page.

He sighed.

Then the door burst open.

Hank stormed in, reeking of whiskey. His cheeks trembled. His eyes were wide and gla.s.sy. "She won't work!" he growled.

Andy held up the book to protect himself, but Hank swatted it away with a meaty paw and gripped him by the hair. He yanked Andy off the bed and onto the floor. Andy tried to get up but was cuffed across the face.

"She's upset over Devlin," Hank said. "She says she won't lie down until he's gone. She said this to me!"

"Yes sir," Andy said, cupping his cheek.

Hank threw up his arms. "These women. These G.o.d d.a.m.ned women. I get no help with them. Delilah lets them run wild, do as they please, and you-you're nothing but a sniveling little gutter mary."

Andy's eyes blurred with tears.

"Stop that," Hank said. "Get up. Try being a man for once. You think you can do that?" He grabbed Andy by the s.h.i.+rt and hoisted him to his feet. "Can you do that?" he said, slapping him. "You think you can do that for your pa?" He shoved him. Andy hit the wall and cracked the plaster.

"I will not have a bunch of wh.o.r.es telling me what to do!" he shouted, wobbling on his crippled foot. He could barely stay balanced while sober. Add in the whiskey, and he was like a tightrope walker on the verge of toppling.

"You keep an eye on them from now on," he said. "Keep them in line."

Andy gripped his chest and struggled for breath.

"What?" Hank said.

"Yes sir," Andy managed. A tear slipped down his cheek.

"I said stop crying!" Hank roared. "You stop that right now or I'll throw you in the creek."

"Yes sir."

Hank turned to leave, when he spotted Andy's book on the bed. Picking it up, he read: "Fam-il-iar Lec-t-ures on Bo-ta-ny. This here is a woman's name. You're reading a book by a woman?"

"Yes sir."