Gasher Creek Part 3

"Nah," Don said. "Hank's gimpy leg keeps him in The Ram most days. He ain't like his pa was. You're in hitches over nothing."

"I got more cousins," Ben offered. "The Tunn family is mighty large."

"No," Tracker said, and then noticed Jack. "Devlin, you're awake. I thought you'd died you slept so long." He sat on the edge of the desk. "There's been a change of plans. Don is going to be on his own tonight. Ben has a sick hog."

"Sorry I can't stay, mister," Ben said.

"But I'll be in before dawn to check on you. In the meantime, just try to relax and get more sleep. If you stay civil with Don, he'll stay civil with you."

"You will stay civil, won't you Devlin?" Don asked, his fingers brus.h.i.+ng his leather hip sheath.

"I will," Jack said.

Don smiled. "Peaches."

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

Jack woke up, this time on the cot. For the briefest of moments, he couldn't remember where he was or how he got there. Then the sleep wore off, and he remembered.

He was in jail.

Sally was dead.

He was going to hang.

In a few days, he'd be marched up to the gallows to stand in front of a curious crowd of strangers. A noose would slip over his neck, a hood would slip over his head, and then he'd fall, and fall, and fall forever into the black.

His hands trembled. He was going to die. He was really going to die, and for what? For something he may have done?

He didn't. He couldn't have killed Sally. He wasn't capable of something so vile, no matter how much booze he- Like father like son.

"Sweet dreams?" Don said, interrupting his thoughts. He sat at the desk, flipping cards into a hat. "I hope so," he said. "I hope you were dreaming of fat little angels carrying your carca.s.s to Heaven." He bent the rest of the deck and released them, the cards bursting from his hand like confetti. Standing, he caressed the handle of his knife and said, "Problem is, there ain't no Heaven for murderers." He approached the cell. "You got fire where you're going, boy, and there's nothing you can do about it."

Don wrapped his fingers around the bars. His breath reeked of onions, tobacco, and beer. Jack sat up and slid away.

"Tell you what," Don said. "Since you got a whole lot of trouble coming your way, what say I do you a favor and be your fat little angel."

"What do you mean?" Jack asked.

"See this knife? How about you take this knife, take those little corn stalk wrists of yours, and dig in."

Jack looked at the knife, at its ivory handle glistening in the lantern light.

"Come on," Don said, twisting his hip against the bars. "Take it. Do the devil a favor." The handle clicked against the steel.

Jack's finger twitched, but he didn't act. Even if he were fast enough, what would he do with the knife once he had it-kill himself? Try to escape? Both were a fool's notion.

"This dummy ain't no dummy," Don said, backing away from the cell. "He's gonna take his medicine like a man. Good for you." He gathered his cards off the floor and held them out to Jack. "Say boy, you wanna play?"

The front door boomed, cracked, and then burst open. Three hooded men rushed in and tackled Don to the floor. Two worked him over while the third fished the keys from his pocket. Jack leapt off the cot and pressed himself against the wall, but he was trapped. The cell door opened and he was pulled out. Together, the men dragged him across the office floor, pa.s.sing an unconscious Don.

Outside, they hurled Jack clear of the sidewalk and into the mud.

Cheers erupted around him. Blinking away the filth, he saw half a dozen torches held by half a dozen hooded men. They stood around him in a semicircle. A short, fat man limped forward and said, "We don't stand for rapists and murderers in our town."

It was clearly Hank Dupois. Jack didn't know why he bothered wearing a hood.

"Let's be quick, boys," Hank said. "To Hannigan's Tree!"

They gripped his arms and legs and spirited him down Main Street.

The street was empty, but the sidewalk was full. Rushers and gentlemen, boys and cowboys stood gawking like the audience at a sideshow. A little girl waved to him. Someone sold apples. As they pa.s.sed the hotel, Jack saw folks standing at the windows of the restaurant. They held their dinner plates and watched. Sylvia Platter shook her head.

The mob wasted no time, moving as fast as they could against the mud and the wind. Torch sparks whirled about them like fireflies. A few settled on Jack's cheek and he squirmed.

"Be still," whispered a man at his left. "Just be still."

"Andy?" Jack said.

"I'm sorry," Andy said, barely audible in his hood. "It's a done deal. I don't much like it, but-"

"You got to help me."

Someone cuffed him across the head.

"Hup boys, put some leg into it," Hank said, limping alongside them.

The Ram loomed ahead like a giant blazing hearth. It was another raucous evening. Jack could hear Foster on the piano, Delilah on fiddle, hoots of drunken delight, cheers, and stomping boots. Veering to the right, the mob carried him alongside the house, its windows speeding past like the cars of a locomotive.

Hannigan's Tree was the oldest in town. It stretched up from the muddy tip of the creek like a skeletal hand. It never grew leaves. Folks said it was cursed from the spirits of all the men hung there, but Jack figured it was because of the stagnant water it sucked from the old, scar-shaped ditch that gave the town its name. No one could drink that water and survive long.

They dropped him at the base of the tree. Hank stood above him, orange in the torchlight. He pulled off his hood, his gut a bellows as he tried to breathe. "Lordy, it's been a while," he said, his face slick with sweat. "I need to eat less and ride more. What do you fellas reckon-blondes or brunettes?"

The other men laughed as they removed their hoods. Andy ran for the livery.

"I want to thank you, fellas," Hank said, lifting his arms. "This took fort.i.tude and bravery. You didn't let me down. So I hope you'll pardon me when I say there will be no hanging tonight."

A rush of disappointment swept through the crowd. "He's not gonna die?" a man yelled.

"Oh, he's gonna die," Hank said.

"But it'll be a Christian death, won't it?" another inquired. Jack hoped it wasn't Reverend Tickie.

"It will be a death befitting a gentleman, if that's what you mean," Hank said. Then, pausing dramatically, he said, "We're giving him a run down!"

The mob cheered. They clapped each other on the back and shook hands. Jack didn't know what a run down was, but he didn't think he'd like it any better than a hanging.

Andy returned, leading a horse with one hand and holding a silver flask in the other. The horse tossed its head and dug in its hooves, trying to resist.

"Keep a hold on her," Hank demanded.

"I am," Andy said. He wrapped his fist double around the reins, but the horse still nearly pulled him off his feet.

"Never was a Dupois man that could tame a horse," Hank joked. When Andy finally managed to lead the horse close enough, Hank grabbed the flask but kept a good distance from the horse. "I thought I'd lost this," he said, giving the flask a shake.

"You left it on the mantle," Andy said.

Hank scrutinized him as if the last place anyone in their right mind would ever leave a flask was on a mantle, but said, "At least I have it. I'll not ride that beast without my courage." He grasped the reins and took an uneasy step backward. The horse snorted at him.

"Here's your chance, Devlin," Hank said. "The same chance my daddy gave to men who double-crossed him. I'm giving you the chance to run for your life." He pointed into the darkness beyond the tree. "Out there is an endless ocean of gra.s.s. If you can out run me, you're free."

The horse stamped a hoof, startling Hank so much that he stumbled over his lame foot and fell hard onto the ground.

No one said a word.

Or breathed.

Or made any sounds that could possibly pa.s.s for amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Help me up, you idiots!" Hank cried, flailing his arms like an overturned turtle.

Three men helped him to stand. "She must sniff something on the air," one of them said. "Probably just a skunk or prairie dog. Don't fret, she's behaving now."

Hank nodded, but he was sweating profusely. Reluctantly, he took the reins again. With a head full of gra.s.s blades and his flask held to his chest, he said, "I do this because I'm a gentleman, Devlin, like my pa was. Any man can hang another man. But I'm giving you the respect to be chased and crushed."

The horse tossed its head. Hank dropped the reins as if they were hot and shouted, "What the h.e.l.l is wrong with this beast!"

The reins whipped about as the horse reared on its hind legs. Andy leapt for cover. A man named Brady grabbed the reins with a steady grip and held his ground. The horse settled. Stroking its neck, he said, "She's spooked. Something's out there."

The mob leaned forward with their torches and searched the darkness.

"It's fine," Hank said as if rea.s.suring himself. "Everything's fine."

Then someone screamed.

It was such a high-pitched squeal that Jack figured the mob had startled one of the wh.o.r.es on her way to the outhouse. Instead, it was a tall burly man with a long red beard. Stumbling back, he pointed and whimpered.

"What's got into you, Bill?" Hank asked.

"Coyote," the man said in a trembling voice. "Biggest d.a.m.ned coyote I ever seen!"

The horse whinnied.

"Look at it," someone else said. "I could carpet my entire house with its hide."

Everyone peered into the darkness. Jack couldn't see anything.

"Forget it," Hank said. "We have work to do."

"Someone give me a shotgun," Bill said.

Hank limped over, reached up, and grabbed him by the collar. "I said forget it! We got to get this done, and you shooting up all of creation will alert Tracker. And we don't want him in on this, do we?"

"No," Bill said, staring down at Hank like a man shaken from a nightmare. He looked back into the darkness.

"Do we?"

"No," Bill said. "Sorry Hank."

Hank released him and looked at the others. "Do we, boys?"

They all agreed that no, the sheriff arresting them for murder wasn't such a fine idea.

"Grand," Hank said. "Then let us proceed."

They hoisted Jack onto his feet.

"Devlin," Hank said, limping back to the horse. "You got a five second head start before I give chase. Use all five, because I'm gonna come down on you like h.e.l.l's thunder." He opened his flask, took a drink, and grimaced. "Tastes like horse p.i.s.s," he said.

"I filled it with Old South," Andy said.

Hank drank the rest of it. He spat. "Oh Lordy, boy ... throw the rest of that bottle out."

"Yes sir."

After spitting a few more times, Hank set about mounting the horse. It reminded Jack of a cow trying to scale a muddy hillside. He couldn't lift his leg high enough to reach the stirrup. Then he got it, but slipped and fell again. Finally, it took four men, including Andy, to push him into the saddle.

Staring down at Jack triumphantly, Hank said, "Only five seconds, Devlin."

"You want my gun?" someone asked.

"Just a torch," Hank said. "I want to crush him like my pa did. Once he's down, the rest of you can follow and shoot him."

Hank s.n.a.t.c.hed a torch from Bill and raised it like a sword. "One!"

Someone gripped Jack's shoulders and spun him around to face the night.

"Two," Hank said, his voice crackling with excitement.

Jack couldn't think. His legs seemed rooted to the ground.

"Three, Devlin, almighty three!"

"He ain't jos.h.i.+n' you fool," Andy shouted. "Run!"

Like a dog given a command, Jack ran. He pumped his arms in a sudden burst of energy that carried him for three very successful steps until he plunged into the muddy edge of the creek.