Gasher Creek Read online

  Upon first inspection, the town was in chaos. But what overwhelmed Tracker after his first election was now endurable only if you knew that it was the chaos of an anthill, and most folks were too busy to make much of a ruckus.

  Most folks. Tracker still had his hands full, and he was short of deputies, especially since Ed Weld’s death the previous week.

  Tracker moved fast, but he knew someone would ask about Jack before long. Even in a town full of longriders and criminals, there was always someone whose nose compelled his mouth. As he pulled Jack around a rain barrel, a prospector with a mouthful of blackened teeth said, “What he do, Sheriff?”

  The traffic seemed to slow a bit as a myriad of dirty faces turned to gawk. Tracker side stepped the man and pulled Jack along. “We gonna have a hanging?” the prospector shouted, cackling.

  Tracker saw Devlin swallow.

  Outside the mercantile, George Frosty stood shaking his apron. Seeing Tracker, he said, “Morning Sheriff.”

  Another nose—the nose of Gasher Creek.

  “George,” Tracker said, not stopping.

  Scratching his bald head, Frosty squinted at Jack and said, “What you got there?”

  “Business.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Good day, George.”

  They passed the gunsmith, the bank, and the Gasher Hotel. Through the large front window, Tracker caught Sylvia Platter’s eye as she wiped the front desk with a cloth. The tall, severe looking woman stopped wiping long enough to glare at Jack. It was as if she knew him, knew his crime, and absolutely knew he was guilty. She folded her arms tightly under her chest and shook her head. A strand of fiery red hair swung loose from its bun.

  Finally, they reached the sheriff’s office. It was the last building on Main Street before a muddy swath cut into the Crows Peak forest. Officially, the office was where Tracker’s jurisdiction ended. The rusher camps inside the forest were on their own. However, he did keep a close eye on the church. It stood on an incline at the edge of the forest like an angel to The Ram’s demon. It was a small church with an even smaller congregation, but Reverend Tickie kept busy filling the cemetery on the hillside behind it. Most folks hated a cemetery, but Tracker liked it there as a reminder to the rushers entering the forest and hills: you might find a little gold, but you’re bound to find a whole lot of trouble.

  At the office door, Tracker said, “Stand still.” He retrieved a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and opened it. Morning light filled the office and illuminated the small jail cell, a firearms cabinet, two yellowing wanted posters, a desk, and one snoring deputy. Don leaned back in Tracker’s chair, his mouth hanging open wide enough to fit an apple. His boots, caked in mud, sat on the desktop.

  Tracker pulled Devlin inside and slammed the door.

  Don smacked his mouth, blinked a few times, and kept snoring.

  “Don,” Tracker said.

  The snoring grew louder.

  Tracker released Devlin, moved over to Don, and shoved his boots off the table. The deputy’s legs crashed to the floor and nearly took the rest of his body with it. Don’s eyes flashed open as he clung to the chair arms. “Tom,” he said, glancing from him to Jack. “Is it morning?”

  “It is,” Tracker said. “I see it’s been another trying night for you.”

  “I did my rounds,” Don said, wiggling himself back into the seat. Scratching a head of unruly black hair, he said, “Had a rusher take a swing at me at the hotel, but he was drunk and cracked his fool head on the bar. Sylvia threw him into the street. Can I go home?”

  “Not yet,” Tracker said.

  Don turned his attention to Jack. “What’s going on?”

  “He’s under arrest.”

  “For what?”

  “Put him in the cell,” Tracker said. “I have to speak with Hank, but I’ll return directly. Don’t fall back asleep.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping,” Don said, stretching and pulling a suspender over his shoulder. He massaged a jaw dark with stubble. His badge lay on the desk beside an overturned pipe.

  Tracker didn’t say anything about it. He’d already asked Don to wear it and polish it and keep it clean, but Don liked to play deaf. Probably why he was almost Tracker’s age and still lived with his longsuffering parents. No woman would have him outside of The Ram girls, and he didn’t own a horse. The only thing he seemed to care about was the knife strapped to his hip. He polished its ivory handle so much the grip was wearing thin.

  Don was barely a man and nowhere near a deputy, but Tracker needed him. He was the only deputy who didn’t get shot at.

  Tracker glanced at the stool next to the cell. It had belonged to Ed Weld. Ed always polished his badge.

  “I know you,” Don said to Devlin. “You’re the odd jobs man at The Ram.”

  The boy didn’t seem to hear him. He was staring at the cell: a small cage with an even smaller cot beneath a single, barred window.

  “You deaf, boy?” Don shouted, startling him.

  “Just put him in,” Tracker said.

  Scratching his hip, Don said, “All right.” He gripped Jack’s arm and chuckled. “It’s like a corn stalk. You got any muscle?”

  Tracker sighed. “Don—”

  “I’m doing it,” Don said, pulling Devlin toward the cell.

  Tracker left the office and closed the door behind him. Rotating his wrists and flexing his fingers, he headed back toward The Ram. He passed the barbershop, the hotel, and the mercantile (“What’d he do, Sheriff?” “Mind your business, George”). When he reached The Ram, Hank was sitting on the front porch wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. Tracker couldn’t believe he was sweating on such a chilly morning.

  “He’s gonna hang,” Hank said.

  Tracker climbed the steps. “In Bear Hunt, by a judge’s decision.” He wrinkled his nose at the barnyard stink of the place. “I wanted to ask you a few questions, get your side of things.”

  Hank shifted in his chair. The wood creaked under his weight. “Simple story,” he said. “I was downstairs eating some eggs when Liza came to fetch me. She said Sally was dead, and Jack was in there with her. I grabbed my shotgun, followed her to the room, and there was Devlin asleep like a babe. I woke him up as she went to fetch you.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a silver flask, and took a swig. He stared at Tracker, his eyes sinking between a fatty forehead and swollen cheeks. Lint speckled his greasy hair. Stains spotted his shirt. He smelled like his whorehouse.

  “You hear anything last night?”

  Hank wiped his mouth and snorted. “Yeah, I heard plenty of hoots, hollers, and farts. I had a saloon full of rushers, Sheriff.”

  “No screams?”

  “A few boys losing their claims on a poker game.”

  “That it?”

  “That’s all,” Hank said. “I ain’t a liar, Sheriff.”

  Ordinarily, Tracker wouldn’t trust anything Hank said, but he did look like he was telling the truth. His arms hung at his sides. His legs lay open and relaxed. A liar folds himself so tight you can roll him around like a ball.

  “All right,” Tracker said. “Fetch Liza, would you?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to hear her side again. She was in hitches this morning; maybe she’s settled enough to remember more.”

  Hank sighed—a great, exaggerated sigh. “Her side? You want a woman’s side?” He stabbed a chubby finger at him. “That’s what happens when you marry an educated girl, Sheriff. She fools you into thinking she’s got brains. Next thing you know, you reckon all women got a nut in their shell—”

  “My wife has nothing to do with this,” Tracker said.

  “Educating a woman’s like teaching a horse numbers,” Hank said, his eyes growing excited. “It’s good for a chuckle but won’t make for a better ride.” He burst into squeals of laughter, slapping his belly and snorting.

  Tracker wanted to cuff him. It would’ve been easy to cuff that fat man, but he’d maintained an un
easy peace with the Dupois family and wanted to keep it that way. Even if it meant enduring a few insults about Caroline.

  He squeezed his anger into a fist. “Liza.”

  “Busy,” Hank said, jerking a thumb. “Got her toes up.”

  “What about Andy?”

  “Fetching his shirts in Chinatown. How that idiot soils so many shirts is a mystery to me.”

  “I’ll come back then.”

  “You do that, Sheriff,” Hank said, rolling off the chair and pushing himself onto his feet. His right foot, twisted from a childhood riding accident, slapped the floor like a slab of meat as he hobbled to the doorway.

  Tracker turned and hurried down the steps.

  “Hey Sheriff.”

  Tracker stopped. He cringed. “Yes Hank?”

  “You think that judge of yours could hang Devlin on my birthday? I could think of no greater present.” He smiled.

  Chapter Three

  Deputy Don shoved Jack into the cell. The door slammed shut. The tumblers of the lock clicked into place. “You stay put now,” Don said, returning to his chair at the desk. From a hip sheath, he pulled out a long knife with an ivory handle. He flipped it, caught it, flipped it, and caught it again. He looked at Jack. He smiled.

  Jack retreated from the bars until his back touched the slick, cold surface of the stone wall.

  He’d never been in a jail cell before. It was small, allowing him only a few paces from bars to wall. The air stunk of piss and sweat. Beside him, a cot sat against the wall, chained in place. A mattress lay on the cot, no thicker than a blanket and spattered with stains. It was dark despite the light streaming through the barred window. Through it, he could hear the rusher traffic roll and clatter into the forest.

  “You come here to get rich?” Don asked.

  “No,” Jack said.

  “Make yourself a millionaire?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “No man comes to Gasher except he wants gold or whores. Unless he’s a longrider looking to hide. You rob a bank?”

  “No.”

  “Kill a man in some other city?”

  “No,” Jack said, sitting on the cot. It groaned, but held his weight.

  “Just an odd jobs man,” Don said, leaning back and picking his fingernails with the tip of his knife blade. “I done odd jobs for Hank. Long time ago, when I was a boy. Cutting wood, fetching bath water for the whores.” He smiled. “That was my favorite. So what you done that landed you in here, you steal from Hank?”

  Jack sighed, but didn’t answer.

  “Hey,” Don said, his feet slipping off the desk. He pointed the knife. “I asked you a question.”

  The front door opened. Tracker entered the office and paused, staring at the knife.

  “Hey Tom,” Don said, slipping the knife back into its sheath. He relinquished the chair to his boss and fetched the stool from the corner.

  “Everything fine, Deputy?” the sheriff asked.

  “Peaches,” Don said, setting the stool down beside the desk.

  Tracker removed his hat and dropped it onto the desk. “You can go home now,” he said, taking a seat. “Get some sleep.”

  “I think I’ll stay a spell,” Don said, the stool wobbling a little as he sat down.

  Tracker stared at the stool a moment before shrugging and saying, “Suit yourself.”

  Both men turned to face Jack.

  Questions were coming, but Jack didn’t know how to answer them. He couldn’t even tell a lie. A lie would mean that he secretly knew the truth.

  “All right, Devlin,” Tracker said, leaning forward in his chair. “Here’s the deal. Hank says you did the murder.”

  “Murder!” Don exclaimed. “Who’d he murder?”

  “Sally,” Tracker said.

  “The one with the red hair and the freckles on her neck?”

  “She had red hair, yeah,” Tracker said.

  “Green eyes?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Tiny feet?”

  “How should I know?” Tracker said impatiently. He looked back at Jack. “There were no eyewitnesses to the murder, but Liza, Hank, Andy, myself and the Doc all saw you laying next to her. That’s a lot of people, Devlin.”

  Jack tried to swallow, but his throat felt as dry as a snake hole.

  “So now that Hank’s shotgun isn’t pointing at your balls, let’s talk,” Tracker said. “What happened—you get rough with her? Was it because of your fight?”

  With all the death, vomiting, and near shootings, Jack had forgotten about the fight.

  “I saw that,” Don said. “Was sitting on the hill behind The Ram when it happened. You sure got tore up by her. Did you see it, Sheriff?”

  “Caroline did.”

  “Sally went to help Liza take in the wash. This one followed Sally out the back door and then bam!” Don clapped his hands. “She starts screeching at him like an alley cat. And this runt,” he said, laughing. “This runt just stood there like a whipped puppy.”

  The darkness of the cell helped Jack relive it. Everyone in town stopped like a broken clock to gawk at them, at her, the red-haired whirlwind. “You leave me be,” Sally had shouted, her eyes watery and mean. “I can take care of myself.”

  And he, the fool, the whipped puppy, made the mistake of whispering, “You can’t.”

  “I can’t?” she’d shouted, stepping so close to his face that they nearly touched noses. “I may look like your sister, but I ain’t her, you get it, lunatic!”

  “I just don’t want to see you hurt,” he’d said sheepishly.

  “Well, you picked a fine place to come for that!” she’d yelled.

  “Devlin?”

  Jack blinked, back in the cell. The sheriff was staring at him. “You all right?”

  Jack nodded. “She told me to leave her alone, and I did.”

  Don grunted.

  Tracker shot him a look, then said, “Last night, you got a little drunk, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me what you remember.”

  Jack thought about it. “I was playing poker with Andy. I remember a red ace card … drinking whiskey … Foster tapping out Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair on the piano. Someone helped me to stand up, and then … that’s it. I remember nothing more.”

  “Don’t remember being with her?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing at all?

  “No.”

  “Sure he don’t,” Don said. “I wouldn’t remember killing a girl if I was in that cell neither. This dummy may not be such a dummy after all.”

  The sheriff sat back and steepled his fingers. After a moment, he said, “How did you and the whores relate?”

  “Fine,” Jack said. “I looked after them, made sure no man hurt them.”

  “Except Sally,” Don interjected.

  “Especially her,” Jack said.

  “Funny way to go about it, don’t you think?”

  Tracker slammed his palm on the desk, startling both Jack and Don.

  “You’re not helping,” Tracker said. “Go home and catch some sleep. You’ll need it for your watch tonight.”

  “For this runt?” Don said. “Seems a waste of bullets protecting him.”

  Tracker made to stand and Don slipped off the stool, raising his hands. “All right, Tom, keep tight, I’m going.” He plucked his hat off a hook beside the door, smirked at Jack, and then shut the door behind him.

  “So where you from, Devlin?” Tracker asked. It was a lame attempt to calm him, but Jack didn’t mind talking to the sheriff. He didn’t have the temper behind his words like the deputy did.

  “A farm near Corn Pass,” Jack said.

  “Corn Pass? I know it,” Tracker said.

  “You do?” Jack said, genuinely surprised. Most folks who lived in Corn Pass didn’t know where it was.

  “Sure,” Tracker said. “We were practically neighbors. I grew up in Bear Hunt. What brought you here, the gold?”

  J
ack shook his head. “Just moving through, I suppose … looking for a bite of peace.”

  “Peace,” Tracker said, grunting. “A fella will find more bite than peace in this town. Too bad you didn’t head north to Lone Pine.”

  “Lone Pine?”

  “A new settlement,” Tracker said, lifting a badge off the desk and wiping his thumb over the surface. “Free land, all a man can plow. They chased the Chewak Indians off and now it’s for the whites. It’s cold, but quiet,” he said. “Quieter than here.”

  The two men sat listening to the rusher traffic for a few moments. Then Tracker said, “Tomorrow I’ll send word to Bear Hunt and they’ll send a wagon and a deputy. You’ll be delivered to Judge O’Donnell for your trial. He’s an Irishmen, tough as they come, with six daughters. He hears you raped and killed a girl? You’re liable to swing that same day. That is, unless you got something to tell me. Something that would prove your innocence.”

  “I—I …” Jack stammered, and fell silent. He wanted to knock his head against the wall. He wanted to dig his fingers into his skull and rip out the memory, but he couldn’t.

  “Good news is you have about two days to think,” Tracker said. “And if you do remember anything else, I promise I’ll listen.” The sheriff held the badge in his palm. “I wish I could do more for you. I’d like to think, one day, that a man will need more than the words and eyes of another man to prove him guilty, but …” He trailed off, looking genuinely disappointed.

  “Thank you,” Jack managed.

  Tracker nodded and set the badge back on the desk. “You hungry?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get you some food from the hotel in case you change your mind,” he said, standing. “It’s decent.”

  As the sheriff crossed over to the door, Jack said, “Are you going to be here tonight?”

  Tracker shook his head. “Sorry Devlin, no. Most days, you’d be right. But my missus is expecting and I don’t like to leave her alone at night. However, I’ve arranged to have an extra man sit with Don tonight. And don’t worry about Don, he’ll keep you safe. He’s not much to look at, but he likes his steady pay. You’ll be fine.”