Gasher Creek Part 36

"Then by G.o.d let them do it! Bury the others and let's go go go!"

Emily struggled in Jack's arms. "Let me go," she said.

"No," Jack said.

"Release me!" she demanded.

Jack twisted her away and dragged her back to the house. She dug her nails into his hands, but he managed to hold on. She tried to hook her toes under the edge of the porch but wasn't strong enough. She clutched at the front door, so he hoisted her onto his shoulder like a sack of grain. With his last gasp of strength, he reached the bedroom and collapsed with her onto the bed.

She screamed in his ear, but he didn't let go. She beat his chest with her fists, but he didn't let go.

Charlie's blood soaked through his clothes. He didn't let go.

When Jack awoke, he was still holding Emily. Her head rested on the pillow next to him, their noses touching. Not wanting to wake her, he carefully inched his body toward the edge of the bed. His s.h.i.+rt, stiff with blood, crackled as he separated from her.

Jack sat up and shut his eyes against the throbbing in his temples. It felt as if he'd been drinking all morning. His mouth tasted rusty. His arms and legs ached. He wanted to lie back down, but Charlie needed him.

Mustering his strength, Jack stood and stepped out of the bedroom. He threw up in the washtub. Wiping his mouth, he made it as far as the porch and needed to rest again. He leaned on a post.

Out in the gra.s.s, Charlie lay baking in the noonday sun.

"I'm coming," Jack said.

He stepped off the porch and shaded his eyes. Gazing into the distance, he tried to spot the army but they were long gone. The only evidence they'd ever been there were the two mounds of dirt on the other side of the wagon trail. Jack approached Charlie and disturbed a cloud of black flies. The stench caught his nose and he coughed.

"I'm here, Charlie," he said. He squatted next to him and slipped his arms underneath the body. The head formed an ugly red blur in the corner of his vision, but he refused to look. He pulled the body tight, braced himself, and lifted.

He'd never carried a full grown man before. Charlie was heavier than he looked and long in the trunk. Jack turned slowly and moved toward the house, his legs shaking under the strain. "I won't drop you," he said, the flies crawling over his ears and lips. "I got you." Charlie's head rested in the crook of his arm. Something warm oozed through his s.h.i.+rtsleeve. He heard the click of bone.

After making it around the house, Jack knelt on the back porch and lay Charlie down. He wiped his hands on his trousers and looked at the hill. Charlie's pa was buried in a good spot; you could see the whole ranch from up there.

And there was room for one more.

Jack climbed the hill and knelt in the gra.s.s. He measured an arms length between mounds and started to dig. The earth was soft and moist. He pulled out two handfuls and set them on the gra.s.s next to him. He plunged back in. Dirt crammed under his fingernails. It stained his hands black. "Nice and deep," Jack said, sweat trickling down his face. "As deep as the sea." It would take hours to hollow out a proper grave, but it didn't matter. He had nowhere else to go. "A fine mess," he chuckled. His vision blurred with tears. Removing a rock, he thought about the last time he was on his knees like this. It was when he was looking at those funny bird tracks in the Badlands, right before Charlie snuck up on him. "Remember that?" Jack said, setting the rock in the gra.s.s. "Remem-"

A hand gripped the back of his neck and pinned him to the ground. He felt the cold touch of metal on his skull and knew it was a gun.

"I've got you," a voice said.

Chapter Thirty-Six.

Tracker decided not to tell Caroline of his intent to dig up Jimmy Platter. It was not an easy decision. He'd often looked to his wife for rea.s.surance, even advice. Perhaps, if she hadn't been pregnant, he would have. She didn't mind talking about grizzly things. When he'd told her about fis.h.i.+ng a body from the creek, she'd asked, "Is it true a dead man and a dead pig smell the same? I've heard it is true. Describe the smell and don't be stingy with your adjectives."

But this was different. This concerned a child.

At breakfast, Tracker ate quickly and avoided conversation. Thankfully, Caroline was preoccupied with Sylvia's upcoming visit. "I dread it," she said. "It's that raspberry leaf tea she forces me to drink. I'm near drowning by the time she goes. And I don't see what good it does other than to make me sick."

"Sylvia knows best," Tracker told her.

"I should throw up on her," she replied, rubbing her belly. "Then she'd understand my feelings on the matter."

Tracker also decided to keep it from Ben. He'd need his deputy's help, but didn't want to spring the news on him before he had a chance to sleep. No one could sleep soundly with that knowledge. Tracker certainly didn't.

When he arrived at the office, Ben was sitting at the desk reading a wanted poster. He looked weary, but strangely content. Tracker had to admit, the badge looked good on him.

Glancing up from the poster, Ben said, "Morning Sheriff."

"Morning," Tracker said. "How was it?"

"Still as a pond," Ben said, lowering the poster. "Everyone's resting up for Hank's birthday. Seeing it's the last one ever? This town is going to rumble like thunder tonight."

"Yeah," Tracker said, rankling at the thought of it. Still, there was one advantage. With everyone on one side of town, a man looking to exhume a corpse on the other side might do so without arousing too much suspicion. The loudest, rowdiest, most lawless night of the year could actually be an advantage.

That is, if one man agreed to it.

"Go home and rest," Tracker said to Ben. "You're going to need it tonight."

In the early afternoon, while Caroline was swimming in tea, Tracker stepped into the foyer of the Gasher Hotel. Although Sylvia would be gone a good while, he didn't want to squander his time. Tracker didn't know Tate well enough to gage his reaction. If he refused, then Tracker would have to argue for his position. If Tate broke down and blubbered over his son, it could waste precious moments. He needed a quick yes.

Entering the restaurant, Tracker could see that the dinner hour had finished. Dirty dishes littered many of the tables, but most of the customers had left. Pausing a moment, he looked at the corner table beside the window. Of course, there was no tablecloth, lamp, or ghostly poker players. Still, it gave him a chill. He could happily live the rest of his life without having that dream again.

"Sheriff?"

Tate stood behind the bar, holding a gla.s.s. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Tracker said. "I'm fine."

"I'm afraid we've stopped serving dinner, but I can get Harriet to whip something up for you if-"

"I'm not hungry," Tracker said, approaching the bar.

"A drink then?"

"No," Tracker said. "All I want is a moment of your time."

Tate touched his chest. He swallowed. "You want to talk to me?"

"Let's take a stroll."

"Oh," Tate said, setting the gla.s.s down. He smiled nervously. "Yes. Well. Delightful."

They left the hotel from a side door and emerged into a narrow alley between the hotel and the barbershop. Stepping through the muck (most of which Tracker didn't want to hazard a guess at), they emerged onto a smaller back street where the blacksmith, the butcher, and the tanner did their business. Farther down the street sat a huddle of tents that pa.s.sed for Chinatown. At the end of the street, a new road climbed the land and swept past two new houses. Rumor was more were going up beside them.

They walked past the blacksmith, the clang of the hammer seeming to put Tate on edge. If his shoulders hunched any more they'd touch his moustache.

"It's a favor I want," Tracker said. "You've done nothing wrong."

"Is your missus in need of some more raspberry leaf? We just received a fresh s.h.i.+pment."

"I'd say not," Tracker said. "No, this is a favor of dire urgency, and it's one you must keep from Sylvia."

Tate stopped. He stared at Tracker and seemed to lose the ability to speak.

"It's for her own good," Tracker said. "It concerns your boy."

"Jimmy?" Tate managed. "Wh-what about my son?"

They kept moving, leaving the sound of the blacksmith but pa.s.sing through the funk of the butcher. Tracker walked faster. He didn't want to make his request with the stench of dead meat in the air. "The Doc and I believe there is a connection between the deaths of late," he said. "And we think Jimmy can help us gain some proof to that effect."

"I don't understand," Tate said.

A rusher staggered past them, his gait a little unhinged. Most likely, he was coming from one of Chinatown's opium tents.

"You must have heard about the bruising on the necks of Hank Dupois and Sally the wh.o.r.e," Tracker said.

Tate nodded. "Folks have been jawing about it all week."

"Well, the Doc doesn't think they were bruises. He reckons they ate the same berries Jimmy did."

Tate frowned, the brown wisps of his hair drooping over his forehead. "I never saw any marks on my son's neck."

"I know," Tracker said. "But he was powdered, wasn't he? Made up fancy for his funeral. We think Andy may have offered to bury your boy in order to hide those markings."

Lowering his voice, Tate said, "Sheriff, are you saying that Andy killed my boy?"

"I don't think so," Tracker said. "But I do believe he may have had a hand in both Sally and Hank's deaths. That's why we need to see Jimmy's body. If he has the same markings as Sally and Hank, then we'll know it was poison and not strangulation. Jack Devlin may yet be innocent."

Tate stopped again. "You want to disturb my boy's rest, don't you?"

"I'm afraid so," Tracker said.

"Can you do that?"

"Due to the anti-grave robbing laws, I can only exhume him if I have your permission."

The sweet smell of opium smoke drifted around them. Tate rubbed the back of his neck and said, "I don't know ... if Sylvia found out, she'd-"

"She need never know," Tracker said. "The ground has yet to grow over, so there will be no sign of a disturbance. Both the Doc's and my testimonial will serve as evidence, so we'll never have to disturb your boy again."

Unless, of course, Judge O'Donnell demanded to see the body. He was ornery enough to make that request, but Tracker decided not to mention it.

They continued walking. "I should have guessed that a Dupois would be up to no good," Tate said. "Just like his pa I suppose." They were getting close to the end of the street. Ahead of them sat the frame of the new saloon. Beyond that, the graveyard.

Tate looked at it. "Will it be quick?"

"You have my word on it," Tracker said.

Tate nodded. "Then I give you my permission. And I will never tell my wife. Lord knows she doesn't need the burden on her heart."

"And what of yourself?"

"I'll be fine, Sheriff." Tate turned around, tucked his hands into this pockets, and hurried back to the hotel.

Chapter Thirty-Seven.

"You move," the voice said, "and you're dead."

Jack didn't move, but his thoughts went wild: Cole Smith!

Sheriff Tracker!

Private Owen!

"My G.o.d," the voice said. "What did you do to that boy?"

"Nothing," Jack said, "I-"

"On your back."

Jack flipped over. A tall man stood above him, his face obscured by the sun. Whoever he was, his duds were fancy. He wore black leather boots, black range trousers, and a black vest over a white s.h.i.+rt. He said, "Name."

"Jack Devlin."

"Where's Emily?"

"Inside."

"Emily!" the man called. "Emily, are you in there?"

After a few moments, Emily stepped out onto the back porch. Seeing her, the man ground the barrel of the revolver into Jack's forehead. "What did you do to her?" he demanded.

"Nothing!" Jack shouted.