Gasher Creek Part 39

Chapter Thirty-Nine.

Supper was good, although Emily didn't make much noise outside of an occasional sniffle. Jack wanted to reach across the table and hold her hand, but didn't. He wanted to say something, make her feel better, but couldn't find the words. So he said nothing. After supper, he sat on the front porch and listened to the crickets. He held his pipe in his hand. It wasn't lit. He ran his thumb along the bowl, feeling the nicks. Charlie's blade nicks.

"Is it okay if I sit?"

Emily stood on the porch, holding a chair. Jack nodded to her and she sat beside him. Firelight shone through the window and touched the back of her neck. Her cheeks were dusty with flour again. Jack wondered how she always managed to do that.

"Thank you," he said. "For the food."

"You're welcome," she said.

They stared out into the darkness.

"I saw your wedding dress," Jack said. "One of Plymouth's men brought it in. Looks store bought, probably all the way from Bear Hunt."

"Seaview," she said. "Troy told me."

"Isn't that something," Jack said, stretching his legs out. "Never been to Seaview myself. Reckon you need money just to walk the streets."

She gave a slight smile, but it didn't last. "Should be quite the day tomorrow," she said, rubbing her arms slowly. "All those people..."

A shadow settled on her face. Jack had seen that look on The Ram girls when they'd get a regular who stunk, or was old, or had the sickness about him. Emily seemed to look forward to her wedding about as much as Delilah looked forward to entertaining Mud Boots McGuffer.

"I don't," Jack said, but stopped himself.

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Please," she said. "Talk to me, Jack."

He looked into those coffee colored eyes of hers. "I don't claim to know much about it," he said. "Love." The word sounded foreign in his mouth. Had he ever said it aloud? Maybe to a gla.s.s of rum. "But," he continued, trying for the best words, "you don't seem all that moon-eyed over your wedding."

Emily was silent for a moment. Then she said, "Don't be foolish. Of course I am."

"You are?"

"You know nothing about me and Troy."

"You're right, I don't," Jack said. "But I've seen my fair share of girls get sweet on a fella. You don't got that look."

She held her hands in her lap and twisted her fingers. "He's a good man," she said.

"True," Jack said. "He's got money."

"What do you expect from me?" she suddenly exclaimed. "My Pa is gone. My brother is gone. I have to get by, don't I? And he-he's a good man."

Jack shut his mouth. She was right. She was right, and he knew it. Only two days before, he'd said a similar thing to Charlie. A young woman only has one task in life, and that's to find a man. Most stumble over snakes that coil around their necks and choke the life from them. But Emily had found herself an older man with money. He wouldn't visit the brothels like a younger man, and he'd had his fill of the drink. A good life waited for her.

"I'm sorry," Jack said. "I told you I don't know much about it."

They listened to the crickets for a while. Somewhere in the darkness, Samson snorted.

"When are you leaving?" Emily asked.

"I figure tomorrow."

"Where will you go?"

"North," Jack said. "Lone Pine."

"Oh," she said. "That sounds nice."

"Free land. Good soil as I heard it."

"How will you get there?"

"I figure I'll head back to Brush and hitch a ride north," he said. "Work my way up."

Emily nodded. Giving her fingers a rest, she said, "Before you go, I'll need your help with something."

"I can leave mid-morning if need be. Is it the roof?"

"No."

"I fixed the hinge on the barn door. Did the other one break?"

"No," she said. "It's nothing like that." She looked at him. "I need you to give me away."

The pipe stem cracked in Jack's hand. "You what?"

"I don't want some stranger doing it," she said. "I don't want a hired hand to pa.s.s me over like a horse for the breaking."

"But I am a stranger."

"No you're not."

"Emily, I-"

"Please," she said, taking his hand. The broken pipe lay cupped between them. "Please, Jack. I don't want to do this alone."

When he was a boy, Jack had witnessed a man rescued from a frozen river. He gripped that rope and bawled like a baby as they pulled him from the water. And when they got him onto land, he refused to let go of the rope.

Emily squeezed his hand like that rope. She wore the same desperate look as that drowning man. "All right," Jack said, though his stomach ached to utter the words. "I'll give you away."

Chapter Forty.

It was Hank Dupois' forty-sixth birthday; a respectable age for anyone, and a feat of longevity for a drunken wh.o.r.emonger. Of course, Hank never quite reached forty-six, but the rushers celebrating inside The Ram, or on the front porch, or spilling out onto the street didn't seem to hold it against him. They still celebrated with all the whooping, shooting, and swilling they could muster.

Tracker and Doc navigated through the crowd as best they could. The badge helped a little, although some of the revelers were too soaked to see straight. Tracker had to stop twice to break up a fight. The Doc paused to examine a man sitting on the sidewalk.

"I'm okay," the man said slowly. "I think I just need to-"

He vomited. And then he vomited again.

And then he vomited again.

"My work is done," the Doc said, patting him on the back.

When they reached his house, Tracker said, "I'll fetch you in the morning. We'll both speak to Andy."

Behind them, Foster banged out Nellie Bly on the piano. Someone fell off the porch and squealed with laughter.

"I'll not sleep a wink with this racket," the Doc said.

"Take this," Tracker said, offering the shotgun.

The Doc grinned. "Well, that's mighty nice of you, Tom, but I doubt I'll crave the silence quite that badly."

"No, keep it beside your bed. And bolt your doors."

"That's not necessary."

"Someone may have seen us in the graveyard," Tracker said. "We may be watched even now."

"No one suspects what we're up to," the Doc a.s.sured him. "You're in hitches over nothing."

Tracker waited.

"Fine," the Doc said, taking the shotgun from him. "If it'll make you feel better. But as a doctor, I detest these things."

"I don't much care for them myself," Tracker said.

After the Doc shut his door, Tracker slipped away from the glare of The Ram and disappeared into the darkness. He moved quickly, his fingers on the grip of his revolver. Several times, he stopped to look back, expecting to see a dark figure against the light of The Ram.

He saw nothing.

It was pointless going home. In a few hours, these happy drunks would degenerate into angry drunks and Ben would need his help. One of the girls would fetch him and he'd have to rush over to The Ram to keep someone from getting shot. If it wasn't for Caroline's condition, he would have just pulled a double s.h.i.+ft and stayed with Ben.

Tracker reached the cabin. He crept inside, shut the door, and listened. Outside, the wind rustled the gra.s.s. The cabin creaked. Caroline breathed deeply and steadily as she slept. Nothing else. He sat on the edge of the bed, removed his belt and boots, and then laid down. He set the revolver on the floor beneath him.

Caroline snorted.

Tracker startled and reached for his gun. "Good Lord," he said, stopping himself. Doc was right. He was in hitches, nearly lighting up the cabin because of a snort. He cupped a hand over his mouth and shook with laughter.

He'd have to tell Caroline about it the morning. If he timed it right, he might get her to shoot tea out her nose.

He found her cheek and gave it a kiss. Then he slipped a hand under the blanket and cupped her belly. He felt a kick.

Any day now, their silent nights would end. Sleep would become a strange notion, a myth as elusive as the unicorn. They'd go deaf from the constant howling and lose their sense of smell from the stink.

Tracker smiled. He couldn't wait.

Creak.

His smile vanished.

The door hinges. He was certain of it. It wasn't a trick of his mind, nor was it the cabin shrinking in the night's chill. Keeping his head still, he moved his eyes to the left. Moonlight shone through the window and illuminated the supper table.

He could feel it. Someone was in the cabin with them.

Crick.

Tracker's muscles tensed as he recognized the crick of the floorboards. His heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to move. He didn't dare move. His looked up into the shaft of moonlight- And saw a pair of eyes watching him.

Tracker dropped his hand, grabbed his revolver, and his wrist seized. He cried out as if a hot poker ground into the bone. Ahead of him, something glinted in the moonlight and hissed past his ear. A hot liquid burst upon his neck. Gritting his teeth, he raised the gun and fired.

Inside the cabin, the shot was as loud as dynamite. Tracker went deaf and lost his target in the smoke.

He waited for the retaliatory shot that would end his life.

He waited, holding his breath.

And then he heard a body hit the floor.

Tracker rolled out of bed and crouched down. "You still alive?" he shouted.

No response.

"I'm standing up now. If you're hurt, you best keep still. Try anything and I'll empty my gun. You hear?"

No response.

Tracker stood and hurried over to the supper table. He groped for the box of matches and managed to steady his hands long enough to light a lantern. Then he moved around the table, his revolver c.o.c.ked.

Don Kivel lay on a floor, his chest heaving blood.

"Don?" Tracker said.

Don's eyes rolled around to meet him. A gurgle rose from his throat. Thin streams of blood ran down the sides of his mouth.