Part 20 (1/2)

Jack heaved until his stomach was empty. He wished he could do the same with his mind. ”I'm fine,” he said.

What you'll do to her- ”h.e.l.l no!” Silas shouted, jumping to his feet. He marched toward them. ”Do I see what I think I'm seeing?”

Billy waved his brother away. ”He's just a little under.”

”Not that,” Silas said. ”You're thinking of leaving the redskin behind, aren't you?”

”Why do you care?”

”We need him!” Silas exclaimed, wedging himself between Jack and his brother. ”His magic is keeping us alive.” Turning, he waved back at Charlie, who now looked thoroughly confused. ”I know you think I was drunk and seeing things, but that coyote was real. It would have eaten us and picked its teeth with Mary's bones if he hadn't been here. Land sakes, Billy, he prays to prairie dogs! If we don't take him, our horses will break each and every leg, you just watch.”

”I'm all for taking him,” Billy said. ”But you know how Mary gets. Once her mind is made up there's no turning it.”

”We got a day's ride to Brush,” Silas said. ”I'm sure Charlie can keep his p.e.c.k.e.r in his trousers until then.”

Billy scratched his chin. After a moment, he said, ”All right. If you and Jack speak for him, I'll settle it with Mary. Tell her to come over-”

”Mary!” Silas bellowed.

”Go back there with Jack and send her over,” Billy said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Slapping Jack on the back, Silas said, ”Come on, son, let's go tell the Chewak the good news. You hungry?”

”No,” Jack said.

Mary pa.s.sed them as they walked back. The look she gave Silas could've set the gra.s.s on fire. ”It's okay,” he said to Jack. ”She hates me anyway.”

They returned to the fire pit. ”Good news, Chuck,” Silas said, rolling onto his blanket. ”You're coming with us.”

Jack sat down beside Charlie. ”They're giving us a ride to Brush.”

Charlie nodded to Jack and smiled. ”Thank you,” he said.

”Don't thank him,” Silas said. ”I told Billy you're magic will keep us safe.”

”Uh-sure,” Charlie said. ”I'll tell the rain G.o.ds to stay away and the ... serpents not to bite us.”

”Thanks preacher,” Silas said. ”Oh, and while your at it, keep your own snake away from Mary, we savvy?”

Charlie looked at Jack. ”My what?”

Chapter Twenty.

In Gasher Creek, it was virtually impossible to keep a boy from his mud. He'd get muddy watching the rusher traffic on Main Street, or playing baseball in the field outside the town limits, or hunting rabbits in the Crow's Peak forest. It was so common that most of the town mothers simply gave up on their sons and settled for chiding their daughters. Jimmy was no different, save for his fascination with one particular spot; the only spot in town where the mud was littered with chips of white bark.

Tracker crouched at the tip of the old creek where its muddy bank met the gnarled roots of Hannigan's Tree. Under his boots sat flakes of white, papery bark that had peeled off in the decades of wind, snow, and rain. He opened his hand. The flake from Jimmy's boot fluttered into the mud.

Above him, Hannigan's limbs creaked like spring ice.

”Sheriff?”

Ben Tunn ducked the clothesline and lumbered toward him.

”Thanks for your help, Ben,” Tracker said. ”How's Sylvia?”

”She's lying down,” he said. ”Took two mouthfuls of rum, but she finally calmed a little.”

”I'm sorry for your family's loss. Jimmy was a cousin, wasn't he?”

”Yes sir,” Ben said. ”Do you know how this happened?”

”Doc said he ate some poison berries. I think they came from here.”

”Berries,” Ben said, crouching beside him. ”From the creek?”

Tracker looked out over the creek and understood Ben's doubt.

Fifty years prior, the creek had been a prairie oasis for watering cattle and horses, but now it was little more than a long, scar shaped ditch running the outer length of the town. No one knew for sure why the creek was named Gasher (and even less of an idea why the town was named after the creek), but it was rumored that Louis Dupois gave it that name after he'd cut a man named Hannigan from throat to groin and tossed him in. Now it was rotten, used primarily as an outhouse for drunks. Besides a few limp stalks of p.r.i.c.kly weed, it didn't look like anything could grow on its muddy banks. The water was thick as mola.s.ses, not suitable for man or beast.

”I found a flake of white bark on his boot,” Tracker said. ”And the other day, he was jawing with Frosty about p.r.i.c.kly weed.”

Ben removed his hat and scratched his head. ”Gosh Sheriff, weeds and toads are ugly things, so they'd live in a hole like this. But not berries.”

”I'm not talking about strawberries or raspberries,” Tracker said. ”These were small and green.”

”But even if he found berries, why in creation would he eat them?”

”You heard what killed the tom cat,” Tracker said.

Ben thought about it a moment. ”Whose cat?”

”No, it's a saying. The answer is curiosity.”

Ben frowned at him.

”Come now, Ben, didn't you do foolish things as a boy?”

”I'm a grown man and I do foolish things, Sheriff. But even as a boy I knew better than to eat berries from a ditch.”

”Yeah, so did I,” Tracker said. Examining the mud, he said, ”Ben ... don't move.”

A small, green toad sat beside Ben's boot. It was virtually invisible, its skin the color of the mud.

”Doser toad,” Tracker said.

”Well I'll be,” Ben said. ”That's not so ugly.”