Gasher Creek Part 17

Silas pulled the cork out with his teeth. "See? This is what happens, boys." He spat the cork. "You take a woman, she churches you up, and then you forget yourself. Next thing you know you're saying, 'yes my dove my flower anything you say yes ma'am I'll never take another drop of the devil's p.i.s.s as long as I live.'" He stomped his foot and snorted. "A man should be able to fight and fart as he pleases."

"You keep jawing like that and you'll never find a woman," Billy said. "My wife will be feeding you until the day you die."

"Then I'll die fat and happy," he declared, and plopped himself back down on the ground. After taking a long drink, he let out a triumphant "Woop!" and licked his lips. "Besides," he added, "I'll have all the women I please once we reach Brush."

Mary shot Silas a withering look and collected the plates. She stood and stormed off toward the wagon.

"Dang it," Billy said. "Your tongue should be cut out of your head."

Silas took another swig. "Acknowledge the corn here, fellas," he said. "You boys reach Brush and the first thing you're doing is some digging, am I right?"

"I'll just be pa.s.sing through," Charlie said.

"Ah," Silas said, nodding. "Got yourself a squaw on your ranch."

"Not a wife if that's what you mean. Just my sister."

Billy pointed his finger at his brother and said, "Don't even think it."

Silas sputtered and took another long drink from the bottle. "Jack," he said, "if you're heading to Lone Pine, you better dunk in Brush. Hear there's not much up there but acres of empty land cold enough to freeze a man's nuts off."

"That's where we're heading," Billy said. "We came on hard times and sold our land to the railroad. Thought we'd have to move to a city for work until we heard about Lone Pine. It's virgin land, never been plowed."

Silas coughed and spat rye into the fire. Laughing, he said, "Now whose tongue should be cut out?"

After supper, Billy and Mary went to sleep in the wagon. Silas, who obviously hadn't been on a starving death march earlier that day, continued to fire off questions like a Gatling gun. Jack forced his eyelids open but he was losing the battle. Charlie's bowler inched further down his forehead.

"How long you fellas been outdoors?" Silas asked, handing the bottle to Jack.

"Don't know," Jack said, and took a polite swig.

"Five for me, I think," Charlie said, declining the bottle with a pa.s.s of his hand.

"Three for us," Silas said. "Didn't have much to pack-just sold our farm to those rail b.a.s.t.a.r.ds and hit the spokes. Where's your farm, Jack?"

"Don't have one. I used to work on my pa's farm, but I left. I'm coming from Gasher Creek."

"Heard color was found in the Crow's Peak Hills."

Jack looked at the bottle. "That's true."

Silas hooted, then said, "If I had money for tools and such? I'd be there right now, knee deep in some stream. Find one or two nuggets and you're set. How the wh.o.r.es in Gasher Creek?"

Her nethers are bruised something awful.

Jack drank from the bottle, the rye spilling over the sides of his mouth. It seared his throat like boiling water.

"Jack?" Charlie said, sitting up.

You sick son of a b.i.t.c.h.

"Easy!" Silas said, s.n.a.t.c.hing the bottle away. "Another swig like that and you're paying."

"Sorry," Jack croaked, wiping his mouth. But he wasn't sorry. He needed the relief. Charlie kept staring but he didn't care.

Slowly, the heat of the rye spread over his body. It felt as if he were slipping into a warm bath. He smiled.

Silas held the bottle up to the firelight. "Billy's gonna tan my hide for sure." Then he shrugged and took another drink. "Tell me something redskin," he said, "how do they allow Indians to be preachers? I mean, how can you speak about sweet Jesus when you're praying to the birds and the prairie dogs?"

"I don't pray to birds and prairie dogs," Charlie said.

Silas clicked his tongue and raised his hands, the fingers hooked into little claws. "I love you mister prairie dog!" he squealed.

Jack waited for Charlie to lunge. It was more insult than any man could stand.

But Charlie the Chewak didn't lunge. Instead, he did something unexpected: he chuckled.

"Yeah, yeah!" Silas said. Struggling to his feet, he announced, "I gotta squirt," and handed the bottle to Jack. "Pray I hit no gophers, preacher." He stumbled off into the dark. Moments later, they heard the gra.s.s crackling as Silas relieved himself, accompanied by a whistle and a fart.

"Why didn't you beat him into the ground?" Jack asked.

Charlie, who hadn't touched a drop of booze, looked relaxed enough to drown in his own clothes. "Do unto others," he said.

"I know that one," Jack said. "Never met a man who followed it, but I know it."

"It's hard, I'll grant you," Charlie said. "But I try to follow the-"

"Good Lord in Heaven!"

Silas ran back to the campfire, his trousers around his ankles. "Coyote!" he cried. He tripped, scrambled toward them on his hands and knees, reached the campfire and grabbed his shotgun. Jack and Charlie hit the dirt as he swung around and fired, the blast shaking the ground beneath them.

"Biggest d-d.a.m.ned coyote I ever seen!" he stammered, groping his trousers for more bullets.

Billy rushed toward them. Unlike Silas, his top half was bare and his bottom half was covered. "What the devil is going on out here!" he demanded.

"A coyote!" Silas shouted, swinging around to face his brother.

Billy ducked. "Put that down, you d.a.m.ned fool, before you shoot me!"

"But-"

"I said drop it!"

Silas dropped the shotgun. It lay in the gra.s.s, its barrel smoking.

Billy cuffed him, staggering him onto his knees. "You sop," he said. He grabbed the bottle from Jack. "This was full, Silas. Now there's barely enough to wet the mouth. Fat good it will do us if someone gets hurt."

"Listen to me," Silas pleaded. "There's a coyote-"

"You're drunk and seeing things."

"I am not!"

Billy exhaled forcefully. "That blast traveled for miles. You want a gang of longriders finding us? We can't afford to lose our barest possessions."

"All right, I'm sorry," Silas said, raising his hands.

Billy picked up the shotgun. "Go to sleep," he said, and marched back to the wagon.

Scrambling over to the fire, Silas hugged his knees and stared fitfully into the darkness. "Biggest d.a.m.n dog I ever seen," he said. "I seen it."

Jack and Charlie looked at each other and moved closer to the fire.

Chapter Eighteen.

Caroline gripped Tracker's hand as he sat beside her. She lay in their bed, knees propped up, a blanket over her thighs. Sylvia Platter knelt before her, her hands disappearing under the blanket. "Push," she said.

"I did that-I pushed that!" Caroline shouted.

"Got yourself a doll ma, Sheriff."

"I am not," Caroline growled, "whatever that means." Her skin glistened with sweat. Her nostrils flared. She bared her teeth and squeezed Tracker's fingers.

"Oh, you fancy yourself a frontier woman now?" Sylvia said. "Then push like one!"

Doc Ansen stood next to the fireplace, holding a pair of forceps. His sleeves were rolled at the elbow. "Should I fetch some chloroform?" he asked.

"No point," Sylvia said, wiping her wrist across her forehead. "This girl doesn't want this child."

"I want it," Caroline gasped, "I do."

"Here?" Sylvia said. "In this devil's trough?"

"Some whiskey then," the Doc offered.

Tracker, who didn't know his fingers could turn that shade of blue, said, "What for?"

"This isn't going to be pleasant, Tom," the Doc said to him.

Caroline screamed.

"And here we are!" Sylvia exclaimed, scooping out a tiny, pink body into her arms. Tracker caught a glimpse of it before Caroline's knee obscured his view. He craned his neck, but her knee kept moving.

"I don't hear anything," Caroline said. "Why isn't the baby crying?"

"Calm yourself," Sylvia said.

"It should be crying," Tracker said, "shouldn't it?" He was still trying to see past that d.a.m.ned knee. "What's wrong?"

"I-I lost him," Sylvia said, lifting the baby. Its pink, wrinkled body lay limp in her hands. Its tiny eyes were shut, its face the color of a plum. "He choked," she said.

"Choked," Tracker said, "choked on what?"

He opened his eyes. For a moment, he was lost in the darkness. Sweat trickled down his face. His heart stomped like a wild horse as he desperately tried to think of some way to save his baby- "b.u.t.ter," moaned a voice beside him.

Tracker paused.

"Tom gets so dusty," Caroline muttered in her sleep.

Reaching out, Tracker slipped his hand over his wife's large, round belly, and exhaled. Relief washed over him.

Only a dream. A terrible, horrible dream.

He didn't go back to sleep. And in the morning, he didn't mention it at breakfast.

After the church burned into a respectable bonfire, Sylvia had led the reverend away with the promise of her finest room at the hotel. And she'd offered it at a very generous price-half. After all, it wasn't every day a man lost everything. Tickie accepted her offer with a nod, having bawled himself hoa.r.s.e. He'd trudged through the crowd like a whipped man as they gawked and pointed.

But he wouldn't stay silent for long. Tickie was a fireball that could rage hotter than his church.

As Tracker made his way to the office, he circ.u.mnavigated Frosty ("Morning Sheriff, quite the fire." "Talk to you later, George"), pa.s.sed the gunsmith, said h.e.l.lo to Hans Hefler as he opened the bank, and was nearly struck in the face as the hotel's front doors flew open. Staggering back, he saw Reverend Tickie charge out onto the sidewalk and stare down Main Street. He'd brushed the ash from his hair, but his face was still stained with soot.

"Please reconsider," Sylvia said, chasing after him. "This is madness!"

"I was told to leave," he said, rounding on her. "And that's what I intend to do."

Don strolled out of the doors, holding a plate in his hands. He shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth and watched.

"What's going on here?" Tracker asked.

Don opened his mouth to explain, but Sylvia stepped in front of him and said, "The Reverend is leaving us, Sheriff. Don't let him."

Tracker looked at Tickie. Tickie's eyes glowed in his sooty face. He blinked furiously.

"Is he acting belligerent?" Tracker asked.

"No," Sylvia said.

"He strike you or my deputy?"