Gasher Creek Read online

  Gasher Creek

  J. Birch

  (2011)

  * * *

  Rating: ★★★★☆

  Tags: Western

  Westernttt

  Jack Devlin awakes with a shotgun pointed at his face. Sally, a whore, lay dead beside him. He’s arrested for murder, although he remembers nothing of the previous night. Could he really have killed her? And if so, why?

  He has questions, but some folks in the town of Gasher Creek don’t want them answered. And after a lynch mob storms the jail, he manages to escape into the vast and empty prairie. Now he has no food, no water, and no horse.

  And he’s not alone.

  Meanwhile, Sheriff Tom Tracker is missing his prime suspect. He’s certain Jack is the murderer, but without a confession he’ll need evidence. What he finds is unlike anything he’s ever seen before. If Devlin is guilty, then he isn’t the simple odd jobs man everyone thinks he is. Instead, he’s something much more calculating and dangerous.

  GASHER CREEK

  J. Birch

  Gasher Creek

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2011 J. Birch

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design and illustration by Tracy McCusker copyright 2012

  For Stan, Faye, Albert, and Betty

  Distant lights on a dark prairie

  Chapter One

  Jack rode a giant horse. He didn’t know what breed, but it was big, and fast, and galloped with such speed he thought he’d lift clear off the ground. He sped across a vast expanse of open prairie, alone except for the buffalo grass. He was sweating. He sat in the saddle as rigid as cordwood. Someone was chasing him—he was chasing someone—he wasn’t sure.

  “Faster,” he commanded, leaning into the wind. “Fly!”

  The horse tossed its head and snorted. It was an odd snort, like two metallic clicks.

  “Devlin.”

  A voice rolled over the prairie like thunder. Jack knew that voice. It was Hank Dupois, proprietor of The Ram whorehouse. He needed to go faster—

  “Wake up, Jack.”

  The horse and prairie vanished, and Jack opened his eyes. He lay in a bed in one of The Ram’s upper rooms. His bottom half trembled, naked, under the sheets. His shirt hung bunched and twisted around his chest. The room stank like a dead rabbit. He squinted in a wash of grey morning light and turned his head.

  He faced a twin barrel shotgun.

  Hank held the shotgun. His arms shivered with fury. “You awake?” he asked.

  Jack blinked.

  “Good. Now you lay there and don’t move. If you move, I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch.”

  Jack didn’t dare move. He’d never seen Hank this deranged. The man’s fat, flabby face was the color of a tomato and his eyes were fixing to bug out. His enormous gut heaved, threatening the buttons on his shirt. His hair, usually oiled flat against his scalp, stood out in tufts.

  “Jack,” Andy said. “What did you do?”

  Jack noticed Andy Dupois cowering beside his pa. He held his own shotgun but didn’t point it. Like Hank, Andy was tall (when he stood straight), with the same dark eyes and dark brown hair. But unlike Hank, he was skinny. Sick skinny like a lunger. His shirt drooped over the band of his trousers. His hands barely made it out of their sleeves.

  “Andy,” Jack said, “I don’t understand—”

  As he spoke the words, his toes brushed something hard and cold.

  Looking, he cried out and jerked himself away. A stiff, stinking body lay next to him. It was a woman, a whore—

  “Sally,” he whispered.

  Her head lay on the pillow next to him. Her red hair sat twisted on top of her head as if yanked away from her face. Her right arm lay above her as if posed for a painting, but the hand sat bent at an odd angle. The other arm lay across her breasts. A blanket hid most of her naked body. Green, brown, and blue bruises stretched around her throat like a necklace. Her face was the color of a plum. She sported two black eyes and a broken nose. A bloody moustache of crust had dried over a split upper lip.

  “What happened,” Jack said, twisting around.

  Hank leaned closer, the barrels inches from Jack’s forehead. “It wasn’t enough to fuss over her,” he said, “follow her around like a lost puppy. But when she finally tells you to back down, you do this,” he said, glancing at the body.

  Jack tried to think, but his temples throbbed like a drum. He’d drunk enough whiskey the previous night to soak a horse. His memories were all blur and color and didn’t make any sense.

  “Hank,” he said, “I—”

  “Save the speech for Sheriff Tracker,” Hank said. “He’s on his way with Doc Ansen.”

  “What are they going to do with him?” Andy asked tentatively.

  Hank cuffed him. Andy hit the wall. The barrel of his shotgun scraped the floor, but he managed to hold on to the stock.

  “This isn’t a time for your blathering,” Hank said. “Be a man.”

  “Yes sir,” Andy said, his eyes glassy.

  “Stand up.”

  “Yes sir,” he said, standing as tall as he dared.

  Hank shook his head. “That shotgun was a goddamned waste of money.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver flask. He took a swig and then slipped it back into his pocket. He turned to Jack. “Keep looking at me, Devlin. You won’t garner any help from my willow branch of a son.”

  Jack tried to keep his eyes on his boss, but he was growing cold. His stomach churned as if a horse had just bucked him.

  “Seems a shame we have to wait on the sheriff,” Hank said. “In my daddy’s day—”

  A heavy footfall interrupted him. Sheriff Tracker entered the room, glanced at Hank’s shotgun, and moved past him. He stopped at the foot of the bed.

  Jack had never talked to Tracker but knew him from his reputation. Word was he never had to fire his gun to keep the peace, which was unheard of in a rush town. All he needed was his stare—he could disarm a man with those stone colored eyes of his. He was tall, even taller than Hank, with short brown hair partially hidden under a black Stetson. A neatly trimmed moustache sprouted from his top lip and stretched to his chin. He wore a white shirt, black waistcoat, and black trousers. His badge caught light from the window. A revolver sat in the holster on his hip.

  The Ram girls loved it when he came around. They’d whisper excitedly to each other and bat their eyes at him. They hated his wife.

  Tracker looked at the body. Tall as he was, he must have caught the stench because he brushed his finger under his nose before turning his attention to Jack.

  “Devlin, is it?” he asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “You kill this girl?”

  Jack lost his nerve under the sheriff’s scrutiny.

  “Well?”

  His lips trembled as he tried to remember. He knew he was downstairs in the saloon drinking with Andy. He remembered a red ace card. Whiskey. Nothing else.

  Gripping the bed sheets, he said, “I don’t recall.”

  “Who says he did the killing?” Tracker asked.

  “Do you not see where he’s sitting, Sheriff?” Hank said.

  “I’m asking if there were any witnesses. What do you say, Andy?”

  “I was with Liza next door,” Andy said. “It was Jack and Sally in this room.”

  “So Liza told me,” Tracker said. “She didn’t hear anything or see anything until sh
e came to collect the sheets. It’s a curiosity.”

  “It’s common sense!” Hank exclaimed. “The boy is lying next to her!”

  “I wouldn’t hurt her,” Jack said.

  Monster.

  “Says you,” Hank said, the gun barrel lowering to the general area of Jack’s crotch. “But you ain’t from Gasher Creek. How do we know you haven’t done this elsewhere?”

  “I haven’t.”

  Hank fumed. “Sheriff, in my pa’s day they didn’t put up with this kind of talk; they just did a run down. Let the man run for his life, then get on their horses and trample him under—”

  “Enough about your pa,” Tracker said. “We all know how your kin used to carry out justice, but things are different now.” He held out his hand.

  Hank passed over his shotgun, reluctantly. “What if he tries to run?”

  “I’ll handle him.”

  Jack caught his breath. He had no idea what that meant, but he didn’t want to find out.

  Doc Ansen appeared at the door, gripping a black medical bag. He was short and skinny, with a head full of curly red hair and a trim, pointed beard. A pair of bifocals sat on his nose. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow.

  “Pardon my tardiness,” he said. “Jane wanted more laudanum, and I had a terrific time rebuking her…”

  He stopped beside Hank. “My God,” he said, the bag leather crinkling under his fingers. “Look at her.” He crept past Tracker. “Beaten,” he said, and gasped at the stench. He reached into his bag and removed a handkerchief. Holding it to his nose and mouth, he added, “And choked. A pair of hands squeezed the ghost out of her.” He moved around the bed, turning black against the window light. Gingerly, he lifted the covers and turned his face away. “Her nethers are bruised something awful.” He looked at Jack. “You sick son of a bitch.”

  “All right,” Tracker said, propping Hank’s shotgun against the wall. “Mr. Devlin, I’m placing you under arrest.” He moved in front of Hank and grasped Jack’s arm.

  Jack peeled back the sheets. He tried to stand, but his head whirled.

  Under arrest…

  Sally dead…

  He took a deep breath. The stink whipped his stomach into a froth.

  “Up, Devlin,” Tracker said.

  Jack retrieved his trousers off the floor, managed to get one leg in, and then vomited. Hank jumped back and nearly collided with his son. “Ugh, look at that mess,” he said. “Liza’s going to be busy for a spell.” He moved to the door, stuck his head into the hallway, and bellowed her name.

  Tracker grabbed the trousers and pulled them up. He even kept Jack balanced as he got his feet into his boots.

  “Thank you,” Jack managed.

  The sheriff nodded. “Let’s go.”

  He led Jack out of the room. As they moved down the stairs, Liza rushed past with a bucket of water and a rag in her hands. Jack didn’t look at her. He couldn’t face her or anyone else. He kept his eyes down as they crossed the saloon floor and left The Ram.

  Chapter Two

  Sheriff Tom Tracker had awoken early that morning on account of his wife, Caroline. It wasn’t her fault—the baby kicked her sick again. And it wasn’t the baby’s fault either—it didn’t ask for its pa’s long legs. The fault, as she saw it, lay squarely on him. Tracker, of course, didn’t think it was his fault. How could anyone reckon the length of a baby’s legs inside the belly, anyway? But he took the blame and helped her outside to vomit.

  “Legs,” Caroline said, heaving into the grass. Tracker knelt beside her, holding her long brown hair and rubbing her shoulders.

  “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

  After helping her back to bed, he made some coffee and sat at the table. He kept the lamp low. There was no use going back to sleep; he’d have to get up soon anyway. If he slipped back under the blankets, he might refuse to rise again.

  A few moments of peace would have to do.

  He leaned back in the chair. He listened to the wind outside the cabin. He listened to Caroline breathing. He raised the cup to his lips.

  Someone pounded on the front door.

  He sighed. Sometimes, even a moment was too much to ask.

  “If that’s death, welcome him in,” Caroline croaked.

  Tracker set the cup down. Next to the lamp, his revolver lay cleaned and oiled.

  “Probably Don needing help,” he said, gripping his gun and standing.

  A second barrage—two fists now.

  “Sheriff, help!”

  Tracker hurried to the door, slid aside the wood bolt, and yanked it open. A woman fell into him.

  “Come quick,” she said.

  “Liza?” Tracker said. “What’s happened.”

  “Jack killed Sally.”

  * * *

  Tracker and Liza hurried toward town. Steam puffed from their mouths in the early morning chill. Tracker pulled his hat brim low and pinched the collar of his coat to his neck, while Liza wrapped her shawl tightly about her shoulders. Liza was a short, diminutive woman with long blonde hair and ice colored eyes. Looking at her, you’d think she was only a girl of sixteen, although it was rumored she was on the high side of twenty. For that, she was one of the popular ones, one of Hank’s favorites.

  “We had some fun,” she said. “I was with Andy and Jack was with Sally in the next room. Jack was drunker than I’d ever seen him before. In they went, and nothing more until this morning. I saw her first,” she said. “Went in to gather the washing and caught that stench—like when the afternoon sun hits the shithouse.” She shuddered, but Tracker couldn’t tell if it was the memory or the cold. “Still, I thought she might be asleep until I saw her neck. I ran to fetch Hank, and then ran to fetch you.”

  Slipping on a patch of buffalo grass, Tracker asked, “Why didn’t you go get Don?”

  “Hank told me to fetch you.”

  “Hank?” Tracker said.

  “Sometimes a dog sprouts two peckers.”

  Tracker smiled at that. It was unbelievable that Hank would inform the sheriff of anything, even a murder. They didn’t exactly see eye to eye on most things. Or anything.

  As the sky brightened, Tracker could make out The Ram. It was the tallest structure in Gasher Creek. The parlor house had been constructed by Louis Dupois, a Frenchman who migrated north from Bear Hunt city during the first gold rush thirty years prior. It boasted two floors: a saloon downstairs and a series of rooms upstairs where an assortment of whores gave a man all the pleasure affordable. In its day, The Ram had been a place where only the richest ranchers could afford to go. But after Louis’ wife Marla had died, it began its steady decline into an old house with peeling white paint, dusty windows, sagging foundation, and creaky floorboards. Marla’s girls had been full-hipped, healthy girls who bathed, perfumed themselves, and wore expensive dresses made in Seaview. Hank’s girls were discarded farm girls, runaways, often sick with fever. With the exception of Liza and Sally, the other girls rarely bathed. Of course, the rushers didn’t mind. They never bathed.

  Tracker straightened his waistcoat, touched the grip of his gun, and fixed his face into a frown. He hated The Ram. He didn’t like going near it or into it. It was a constant source of disturbance and grief. Tracker and his deputy, Don Kivel, were always there for an assortment of complaints: drunks who beat whores, whores who beat drunks, drunks who didn’t pay for booze. Laudanum overdoses were common among the girls. It sat at the edge of Main Street like a demon perched on the shoulder of the town.

  “Where’s Devlin now?” he asked.

  “Hank and Andy have him.”

  Tracker quickened his pace as much as the long grass would allow. Hank Dupois holding a loaded gun was a bad situation threatening to grow worse. As they drew closer to The Ram, he said, “Fetch Doc Ansen.”

  “The Doc?” Liza said. “Sally’s dead, Sheriff.”

  “I’d still like his eyes on it,” Tracker said.

  Liza looked across the street at the small
white house where Doc Ansen lived and practiced. “His windows are dark.”

  “Wake him,” Tracker said. “Now, Liza.”

  He climbed the front steps of The Ram and twisted his wrists. The pain was bad but he’d manage.

  What he found upstairs didn’t particularly shock him. As a police officer in Bear Hunt, he’d seen whores murdered before. He’d seen them stabbed, raped, and beaten. One time, a cowboy doused a girl with lamp oil and set her on fire. He nearly burned up the brothel and three buildings beside it.

  What surprised him was the method of death. Not because a strangled girl was that unusual, but because of the man accused. Jack Devlin didn’t look like a roughneck. He was short, skinny, maybe twenty, with a head of shaggy blonde hair that made him look younger. He trembled like a pup. He couldn’t even stand without vomiting. Whores were wildcats when provoked. They bit, scratched, and stabbed. Devlin didn’t look like he possessed the strength to do much more than wet himself.

  * * *

  Tracker led Devlin down the front porch and onto Main Street, their boots sinking in the mud. He kept a loose grip on his arm as they crossed the rusher traffic and stepped onto the wooden sidewalk. Handcuffs weren’t necessary; the boy wouldn’t run. He was frightened, not stupid.

  Although still early, Gasher Creek resembled a pen of hogs: loud, hungry, and mean. Wagons, mules, ranchers, rushers and cowboys shoved down Main Street on their way to the Crows Peak Hills, or to the shops for supplies, or to the saloons for the drink. They splashed and stomped and churned the mud, shit, and piss into a great roving stink. If you weren’t a local, it could water your eyes and place your hand in a permanent embrace with your nose. The sidewalk was no better, clogged with apple carts, crates of chickens, and gunpowder for sale. The boards shook underfoot as men thundered past in their desperate search for coffee, bread, shovels, and guns.