Part 9 (2/2)
”How many?”
”Five, maybe more. They had knives.”
”Whites?”
”Yeah.”
Jack was surprised they didn't kill him. ”All right Charlie, we'll camp here tonight.”
Sitting against an opposite column of rock, Charlie tipped his bowler over his eyes and said, ”Dandy.” Then he fell asleep, or at least finally stopped talking.
Jack couldn't sleep, although he wanted to. He liked being unconscious. It was the only time he didn't think about Sally and what he might have done- monster- to her.
The sun crawled into the west. It touched the horizon, turned into a fire red coal, and then disappeared.
Shadows swallowed the world.
Charlie vanished.
The shelf vanished.
He thought of Sally.
Chapter Ten.
The Doc and Don arrived at Tracker's house shortly after sundown. Caroline had washed the dinner table, lit two candles, and surrounded the candles with plates of warm bread, salted pork, and bowls of mashed potatoes and fresh carrots from the garden. She brewed some coffee, but Doc brought a bottle of red wine that he'd purchased during his last trip to Bear Hunt. They sipped it in dented tin cups. At Tracker's last count, Caroline had apologized six times for not having any proper wine gla.s.ses.
Tin or gla.s.s, it didn't matter to Tracker. He hated wine, believing it colored vinegar and nothing else. Still, he took polite sips and nodded approvingly when Doc asked him what he thought.
”But it would taste grand in gla.s.s,” Caroline said. ”Thank you again, Albert.”
She was the only one who called Doc by his Christian name. Everyone else, even Reverend Tickie, just called him Doc. Tracker once asked her why she called the Doc by his first name, and she said, ”We all have trades and we all have names, but our trades are not our names.”
The Doc sipped his wine, saying, ”I do believe this wine tastes better in tin. Now, I may not be a connoisseur such as yourself, Caroline, but that is my belief.”
She blushed a little at the compliment. Tracker liked to see her blush.
”Good vino,” Don said, slurping from the cup. Wine dribbled down his chin. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he picked up his knife and fork and sawed into the pork until the knife grated against his plate. Stuffing the pork into his mouth, he chewed and smacked his lips and winked at Caroline.
”Don,” Doc said. ”If I didn't know your parents, I'd swear you were raised by wild hogs.”
Don stopped smacking, his cheeks stuffed with food. ”What?”
Doc shook his head.
”What did I do?”
Tracker decided not to get involved. Concentrating on his own plate, he sawed into the meat and felt a jolt of pain in his wrist. Wincing, he set the knife and fork down.
”Those wrists of yours still bothering you?” Doc asked.
”Not too much,” Tracker said, pulling his hands under the table.
”Sure they do,” Don said, chuckling. ”You should've seen him last week when Abe Wilkes needed a hand lifting a bag of flour. He near wailed like a sick cat, and...”
Don trailed off as Tracker gave him his best I'll-shoot-you-like-a-mangy-dog-if-you-don't-stop-talking-about-my-wrists kind of look.
”I'm fine,” Tracker said.
The Doc nodded, staring at the table as if he could see through the wood to Tracker's wrists.
”It's all those years spent working in your father's saloon,” Caroline said. ”Throwing men out, getting into fights.”
”Or my time in the army,” Tracker said. ”Or as a police officer. My wrists have seen plenty of action.”
”Could it be his gun?” Caroline asked the Doc.
The Doc leaned back from his empty plate. ”Could be,” he said, pulling on his chin whiskers. ”A revolver weighs about three pounds. That could put a strain on your wrist.”
”There's nothing wrong with my gun,” Tracker said.
”Besides, he never uses it,” Don said, his mouth full of mashed potato. ”I reckon that gun his has an inch of dust on it.”
”Isn't it time for pie?” Tracker asked, trying desperately to change the subject.
Caroline bit her bottom lip.
When he saw it, Tracker knew something was amiss. As a lady trained in all things lady-like, she never bit her bottom lip unless she was hiding something. She'd nearly chewed it off during the first month of her pregnancy.
”What is it?” Tracker asked.
”Nothing,” she said, fidgeting now.
”Is it the baby?” Doc asked.
”You bake an extra pie?” Don asked hopefully.
”No, no, it's nothing,” she said, blus.h.i.+ng again. ”It's just-oh-father's buying you one!”
Doc, Tracker, and Don looked at each other. Tracker said, ”A one of what?”
”An O.M. Lightfeather.”
Don choked. The Doc burst out laughing, smacking his knee so hard that his bifocals slipped off his nose.
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