Part 51 (1/2)
”Drop the gun,” Tracker said, standing.
Jack c.o.c.ked the hammer again. He pulled the trigger-another misfire-and c.o.c.ked the hammer a third time.
Tracker ran toward him. ”Stop!”
It may have been the hours in the rain, or his summersault into the stream. Whatever the reason, the gun was useless; or at least useless enough to give an idiot a second chance.
Tracker had almost reached him, but not before Devlin pulled the trigger click- again and again- click click click.
He'd nearly c.o.c.ked for a seventh try when Tracker rammed his shoulder into Devlin's chest and knocked him down. He stomped on his wrist and ripped the gun from his grasp. ”You fool!” he shouted.
Jack stared up at him, desperate as a drowning man. ”I have to do it,” he said.
”No you don't.”
”I have to!” he pleaded, his face a quivering mess of dirt and blood and tears. In that moment, he looked so much like a child that Tracker fought the urge to scold him like one.
”Listen to me, Devlin. Whatever you reckon that coyote is, it won't go away by you scattering your brains all over the ground.”
”You-don't-understand,” Jack insisted.
”I understand plenty. You think you got no reason to live. You let your pa, Andy, and everyone else treat you like a cur and you want it to stop. But they gain by your death, don't you see that?”
”I can't keep feeding it,” Jack said, his eyes on the coyote.
”It's just a wild dog,” Tracker said, ”starving and crazed. Look how skinny it is.”
The black coyote growled. Tracker knew it could pounce on him again, but he didn't dare take his eyes off Jack. ”Look Devlin, I know there are plenty of shadows in the day. Most men spend their lives without promise, but-”
”What did you say?” Devlin asked.
”Most men spend their lives without promise,” Tracker repeated. ”But that doesn't have to be your lot in life. If you just-”
Devlin looked at his hands. He looked at the gun. He whispered a word but it was too soft to be heard.
And that's when something extraordinary happened.
When Tracker was a soldier, he hated marching on damp, fall mornings. The wind chilled him to the bone, the grey clouds muted his spirits, and he marched as if wearing leaden boots. But every once in a while the sun would break through. It would warm the top of his head, spill down his back, and chase away the gloom.
That's how Jack Devlin looked; like the sun had broken through.
”What is it, Devlin?” Tracker asked.
”I ... promised,” he said. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then re-opened them. He stared past Tracker.
Tracker turned.
The black coyote was gone.
Moving away from Jack, Tracker scanned the landscape and peered into the patches of long gra.s.s. ”Devlin,” he said. ”What in blue Heaven happened to your coyote?”
When he turned back, Jack was on his feet.
”I have to go,” he said.
”It was here,” Tracker said, ”and then-go? Go where.”
Devlin started walking toward his horse. ”Wait,” Tracker said, raising his gun. ”Halt!”
Jack stopped and turned around.
It was an empty threat. A gun with soaked powder was nothing more than a fancy little club. But he couldn't let him go.
”You need to come back with me,” Tracker said.
”Why?”
”I need you to testify against Andy.”
”I need to go.”
”I need your help. Don't you want justice?”
Devlin looked at Andy's unconscious body. ”Not anymore,” he said.
”Then let me protect you from Smith,” Tracker said. ”I have reason to believe he's involved in the murders. If he finds you-”
”He's dead,” Jack said. ”Shot in Brush.”
”Dead ... by your hand?”
”No. I just saw it.”
”I send word to Sheriff Garnell and he'll tell me the same story?”
”He's dead, too,” Jack said. ”Cole shot him. You send word to anyone in Brush and they'll tell you that.”
Tracker couldn't detect any trace of a lie. In fact, it was the first time the boy didn't look twitchy and frightened. He stood taller somehow, his chin held high.
Tracker knew he should force him back to town. Andy had confessed to an involvement, but perhaps there was more. The threat of Jack's testimony could draw that out of him. It was the logical course of action. It's what the law required.
”Well?” Jack said.
Tracker slipped the gun into his holster. ”All right, Devlin,” he said. ”I came out here to get my man, and I got him. You can go. You're a free man.”
”Yeah,” Devlin said. ”I reckon I am.”
Shortly after Devlin left, Tracker turned south. Andy was still unconscious, so he laid his body over Bucko's hindquarters and tied him to the saddle. It was a ch.o.r.e doing it, but Tracker preferred an unconscious prisoner to a conscious one. A man in custody could be counted on to cry, plea, hara.s.s, and bargain, but rarely did he stay quiet. It was a bit of good fortune that Tracker hoped would last all the way home.