Gasher Creek Part 37

"It's true," Emily said. "This isn't my blood, it's-"

Seeing Charlie, she cried out. The man forgot about Jack and rushed down the hill. He leapt onto the porch and wrapped his arms around her. "There there, little lady," he said, stroking her head. "You're safe now."

Crushed against the man's chest, Emily said, "Jack-this here is Troy Plymouth."

The three of them sat at the table drinking coffee. Troy Plymouth sat in Charlie's seat and balanced his hat on his knee. He was handsome for an older fella, with graying brown hair and bright green eyes. He had large, rough hands from ranching. He wore big boots. He took long sips of coffee and stared at Jack and Emily through the steam.

They must have looked like survivors of a ma.s.sacre. Jack's s.h.i.+rt was stained a rusty brown, while Emily's dress looked as if it could stand on its own. They stunk of sweat and blood.

Troy said, "Tell me what happened."

Blinking back the tears, Emily recounted the story in a vague, dreamlike voice. Plymouth listened intently and nibbled on a biscuit. Jack couldn't eat.

When she'd finished, Troy said, "The army camped on my land late last night." He placed his hand over Emily's stained fingers. "I offered them some water. Now I wish I had not." He looked at Jack. "Who'd you say you were again?"

Jack told him.

"A friend of Charlie's?"

"Yes."

"A preacher?"

"No."

Troy nodded. "Then we'll need my preacher, a coffin, and two men to dig the grave. No offence, Devlin, but that hole of yours just won't do. Unless you want him up," he said, looking at Emily.

"Up?" Jack asked.

"Never seen a Chewak burial, huh?" Plymouth said. "I seen plenty. They get wrapped up and put on this platform, and then the animals and birds and bugs come along and eat them, return them to the earth as I understand it."

"Our ma was put up," Emily said softly. "But no, he should be buried like Pa. I reckon."

"Buried it is then," Troy said. He took a swig of coffee. "I'll have one of my men build a cross for him A preacher's got to have a big cross."

Jack considered pointing out the fact that Charlie wasn't a preacher, but he had the feeling it wouldn't make much of a difference.

Admiring his cup, Troy said, "Best I've drunk all day, darling." He patted her hand again. "Say, could you fetch some water for another round? I'd like to speak to Mr. Devlin a moment."

Emily nodded and stood.

As she stepped out onto the porch, Troy said, "All right. Now tell me what really happened, Devlin."

Jack didn't know what he was on about. Emily had said it all, adding much more detail than he would've ever been capable. She'd mentioned the Colonel's blue eyes. She'd seen a mole on Private Owen's chin. Jack had been too frightened to notice anything but his own pounding heart.

"It's just as she said," Jack said.

Troy nodded. "You can never be certain when a woman's suffered the hysterics. Did you have a gun?"

"Charlie's shotgun was on the ground at my feet," Jack said. "I didn't use it."

Troy tapped a finger against his temple. "That was some good thinking, Devlin. If you took your rightful revenge, you and Emily would have been shot. I was in the army in my early years, I know how those runts think." He thrust his hand out and gripped Jack's arm. It was a powerful grip-one that could steady a bull. "Your grit saved my little girl's life," he said. "For that, I'll always be in your debt."

Jack still didn't know what he was on about. There hadn't been one ounce of grit in what he'd done. His inaction was the result of sheer terror and nothing else.

Troy let go of his arm and sighed loudly. "I've buried too many friends and loved ones in recent years. First, my wife, Sara. Then Charlie's pa, and now Charlie." He shook his head. "How long did you and Charlie know each other?"

"We-"

"It's a darned shame, Devlin. An Indian preacher could have done so much good for his people. Brought them to Jesus. Not to Heaven, of course, but wherever their kind goes." He nodded to himself thoughtfully. "Jesus loves everyone, even old drunks like me." Leaning forward, he said, "Do you know Jesus Christ, Devlin?"

Emily carried the water bucket back in, her bare feet leaving wet prints on the floor behind her. Plymouth grinned. "Darling, you should see the ranch. I've not seen it this fancy since my marriage to the dear departed Sara. Ezzie's been working everyone to the bone getting things ready, squawking so much my ear is liable to fall off."

Emily set the bucket of water down and didn't reply.

"Six cooks are working on the wedding feast, preparing the kind of food you'd only find at a restaurant in Seaview. It's costing me, but it's worth it for my June bug." He stood. "All right, I'll return shortly, my dumpling. You be good now."

Emily nodded.

As soon as he left, she entered her bedroom and shut the door. Jack sat at the table and stared into his cup.

It was a quick burial. Plymouth returned with four stout men and a thin, nervous looking preacher named Acker. The men made quick work of the grave, digging vigorously as if Plymouth had threatened them with a las.h.i.+ng. After they finished, everyone gathered on the hill and listened to the preacher say a few kind words about a man he'd never met. Plymouth stood next to Emily, his arm around her. She wore a simple black dress, her face twisted with grief.

After the preacher finished, the ranch hands replaced their hats on their heads and used three ropes to lower Charlie's coffin into the ground.

What are you gawking at?

Your name's Jim.

No.

Jack?

How did you know that. Some kind of spell?

No, I'm just good at guessing names. Nice to meet you Jack.

Jack's face grew tense and hot. He s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably as the coffin touched the bottom of the grave.

I want to go home.

We are going home. To your pa, your sister, and your fiddle. Sound good?

Nah. I'll never get it back.

A tear slipped down Jack's cheek. He wiped it away, but Emily had seen it. She gave him a slight, sad smile, and then started to cry.

Jack sat beside Charlie's cross for a long time. Everyone else had already left. Plymouth departed from his bride to be with several pats to the shoulder and the promise of a glorious wedding in the morning. Emily didn't even watch him go. She just went back inside the house and started chopping vegetables for a stew.

Looking over the land, Jack said, "It's a good spot, Charlie. You can see for miles up here." He knew Charlie couldn't hear him, but it didn't matter. He didn't want to leave his side. Not yet.

Twisting a blade of gra.s.s around his finger, he said, "Sounds like that Plymouth fella bled himself dry for the wedding." He sniffed. "Should be quite ... quite the sight." He wiped at his eyes. "I reckon Emily will look pretty..."

Jack choked and grit his teeth. He swallowed, trying to find his voice again. "I don't know what to do," he said. "I followed you because you knew the trail. But I've lost sight of it, Charlie." Pulling out a handful of gra.s.s, he said, "So how abouts you give me your best reckon."

He opened his hand. The wind scooped the gra.s.s from his palm and carried it in a northerly direction.

"All right then," he said, nodding. "North it is."

Chapter Thirty-Eight.

"Care for a taste?"

Tracker shook his head.

"You, Deputy?"

Ben, as well, shook his head.

The Doc shrugged, took a long drink from the whiskey bottle, and then slipped it back into his pocket.

The three men stood in the sheriff's office. A single lantern burned on the desk. Ben and Tracker carried a shovel.

"I still don't feel right about this, Tom," the Doc said.

"It gives me the jibbers," Ben said.

"The what?" the Doc asked.

"You never get the jibbers?" Ben said. "It's when your skin crawls and your knees get cold and you feel like death himself is tickling your ears."

"Can't say as I have," the Doc said. "What about you, Sheriff. You ever get the jibbers?"

"Quiet, both of you," Tracker said. "It doesn't matter whether we think this is right or whether it frightens us. It has to be done."

The Doc nodded. "You're right Tom. I'm ready."

"My apologies, Sheriff," Ben said. "I'm ready too."

"One moment," the Doc said. He pulled out his bottle and took another swig. "All right," he said. "Now I'm ready."

"Let's go," Tracker said. "Be quick, and be quiet."

They extinguished the lantern and stepped outside. As he'd hoped, the streets were empty. The Ram only offered cheap drinks one night of the year, and no rusher in his right mind would miss that. The few stragglers that were not already at The Ram would hurry past without so much as a glance toward the graveyard.

They stepped off the sidewalk and hurried toward the cemetery. "Ben, I want you to stay in the shadow of the construction," Tracker said. "Crouch down beside those stacks of wood and keep watch."

Removing the shovel from his shoulder, Ben said, "That's all I got to do?"

"That's it," Tracker said. "We should be hidden by the hill, but if you see someone wander too close to us, you give us a signal and we'll crouch down."

"What sort of signal, Sheriff?" Ben asked, handing the Doc his shovel.

"I don't know," Tracker said. "Anything. A bird call."

"Ain't many birds out this time of night."

"Make it an owl, then."

"I can't hoot," Ben said. "I've tried and it always sounds like a moose calling his cow."

"Try your best," Tracker said. He and the Doc climbed the footpath.

"Why couldn't I be the look out?" the Doc asked. "Ben can dig a hole much quicker than I can."

"Ben hasn't seen the bruises on Sally and Hank. You have."

"Lucky me," the Doc said.

They reached the top and stopped. Moonlight illuminated the graveyard and settled onto the markers like snow. Thankfully, Jimmy was buried just over the crest of the hill. If not, they'd be as visible as actors on a stage.

"There," Tracker said, pointing to the mound. "Come on."

They approached the grave.

"Right," the Doc said, reaching into his pocket. "I think I'll have one more nip."

"Leave that be and help me," Tracker said. Standing over the mound, he lifted the shovel, paused, and then drove it into the dirt.

The Doc joined him. "The air is cold," he said, lifting a shovelful. "Much colder than usual for this time of year."

"Yeah," Tracker said. "I feel it too."

"It's not the dead," the Doc said.

"I know that," Tracker said, groaning under the heft of the dirt.

"It couldn't be the dead," the Doc said.