Part 51 (2/2)

As the morning stretched into noon, the sky remained cloudless and the sun burned hot. Tracker's clothes dried. He was able to sweat out the fever. Bucko moved at a good pace and seemed to enjoy the heat. If they didn't stop to rest, they'd reach Gasher Creek by late evening.

Smiling, he imagined himself entering the cabin. Which would he want to do first, kiss Caroline or hold Edward? It was impossible to decide. Of course, the very first thing he'd do is listen to Caroline cuss him out for not saying goodbye to her. This cussing out may or may not involve a book hurtling toward his head. But after that, a kiss was surely forthcoming. He hoped.

After spending a few more minutes thinking about his wife and son, his thoughts returned to Jack Devlin. He thought about him traveling north on that giant horse of his, wondering where on earth he got such an animal. He pondered the meaning of the words I promised but didn't know what they meant. And, of course, he thought about the black coyote. There was something unsettling about that animal. It wasn't just its size, although its size was alarming. It wasn't its strange, copper colored eyes or gaunt appearance. It was the fact that it had disappeared. Tracker didn't have the eyes of a hawk, but he could still spot a prairie dog at four hundred yards. That coyote hadn't run away. He knew it.

When he was a boy, his mother often visited a Chinese fortune teller named Liu Ying. Tracker thought it was a load of hogwash, but his mother believed it without question. He once asked her why she believed, and she said, ”Thomas, there are things in life that make us s.h.i.+ver, and that's all we'll ever know about them.”

At the time, he dismissed her words as nonsense. But now, in a strange way, he understood. The black coyote was one of those things. It reached into the deep, dark places of the mind, like the emptiness of a dead body or the kind of thoughts that only arise in bed at night. Thoughts of a dark tapestry, and what lies behind...

Tracker snapped the reins, urging Bucko to go faster. Bucko eased into a canter, stretched into a gallop, and then started to waver and buck his head. Tracker slowed him down, saying, ”Whoa, whoa. What's the matter, you smell something?”

Months later, when Tracker recounted the tale, an old rancher named Ferguson said he wasn't surprised at Bucko's sudden switch. ”They can smell it on the wind,” he said to Tracker. ”They can smell blood the way we can smell the hotel's coffee from the other side of the street.”

Tracker didn't know if this was a fact, as Ferguson also claimed that horses could read minds, count to ten (but not eleven), and recite the poems of Tennyson under a full moon. But even if he was a little touched, he may have been right about Bucko's twitchiness. Until that moment, the young quarter horse had performed admirably, carrying his master over uneven land with little rest, braving the lightning and thunder without spooking, and staying with Tracker throughout the night even though he wasn't tied off. The only time he'd put himself in hitches was when it sensed the dead paint mule.

And now it was happening again. Bucko snorted, bared his teeth, and made strange guttural noises in his throat.

Tracker slowed to a stop. He scanned the land but couldn't see anything. ”I don't,” he said, and then fell silent as his eyes caught a shape in the east. It was too small to be a soddy, too large to be a cow or buffalo. He wished he carried an army telescope.

”Come on,” he said, snapping the reins. Bucko swished his tail, but obeyed.

As they drew closer, the shape spread in length and definition until he recognized it as a homesteader wagon. But something was off about it. There was no movement around the wagon, no cooking fire, no smoke. A mule, freed from its harness, stood near the wagon and grazed.

Then Tracker spotted the first body. He pulled on the reins, dismounted, and moved closer to investigate.

Up on the wagon seat, a woman lay slumped over as if napping. She was young, eighteen maybe, her face partially obscured by a slip of blonde hair. She wore a dark green bonnet and matching dress; or at least the dress used to be green. Blood had drenched it a muddy brown. She'd been shot in the neck.

The wagon appeared untouched. There were no tears to the bonnet or breaks to the bows. No broken dishes littering the ground, no ripped clothing, no signs of looting at all.

Circling the wagon, Tracker looked inside and found pots and pans, a shovel, and some other supplies. All untouched. Whatever happened to the woman, it wasn't at the hands of longriders or rogue Chewaks.

Returning to the front, he nearly tripped over the second body. It was a young man, most likely the woman's husband. He lay face down in the gra.s.s, still gripping his shotgun. The back of his head had been blasted out.

Tracker scratched at his moustache and glanced from the man to the woman. It didn't make sense. Why would someone shoot them and not rob them? Perhaps whoever did this was in an awful hurry.

Examining the tack, Tracker found two harnesses. He looked at the mule as it grazed on the long gra.s.s.

It was a paint mule.

”Oh ... G.o.d.”

He turned and stared at the unconscious body of Andy Dupois.

He'd done it. He'd shot the both of them.

Tracker marched back to Bucko. He untied Andy, grabbed him by the s.h.i.+rt, and yanked him off. Andy fell onto the ground but didn't move.

”Wake up,” Tracker said. He dug his canteen out of the saddlebag and dumped the water onto Andy's face. ”Wake up. Wake up, you dog!”

Andy's purple, swollen eyelids opened. Blinking away the water, he said, ”Sheriff?”

Tracker gripped him by the arm and pulled him onto his knees. ”Look at this,” he said, pointing. ”Look!”

Andy looked. Despite the bruises, the blood, and the dirt, he turned very pale.

”You coward,” Tracker said.

”No,” Andy said. ”No, Sheriff, I didn't-”

”Don't lie to me. You see that mule? It's a paint, a rare breed. Your mule, the one you borrowed from your pa's friend? That was a paint as well. Andy, you shot these people!”

Andy held his hands up to Tracker. ”I did,” he said. ”Yes sir, I did, but it was in self-defense. I needed a horse, a mule, anything to help me get away. My ankle was sore and I couldn't run. So when I came across these folks, I tried to take one of their mules. But then they shot at me. I had no choice but to shoot back.”

”You were shot at?”

”Honest to G.o.d.”

Tracker released him and marched back to the second body. He bent down, pulled the shotgun from the man's grip, and checked. It was fully loaded.

As he turned, he saw Andy hobbling away.

Tracker ran after him and tripped him. With his hands still cuffed, Andy fell hard, his face smacking the ground. He cried out as blood spurted from his nose.

”Shut up,” Tracker said. He gripped Andy's ankles and dragged him back toward the wagon.

”No,” Andy cried, trying to kick free. ”No!”

Tracker dropped him inches from the dead man. He reached into his belt and pulled out the pepperbox. ”This is a close shooter. You looked these folks in the eye when you shot them, didn't you?” He crouched and gripped Andy's head. ”Look at this man. Look at what you did.” Yanking him to his feet, he said. ”Look at her. You shot a woman, Andy. A woman!”

Andy dropped to his knees and started sobbing. ”I was frightened,” he said. ”I thought you were coming to kill me.”

”You ever see me shoot a man?” Tracker asked. ”You ever see me pull my gun without provocation?”

Andy shook his head. ”No, no, no. No I haven't, I have not.”

”How did you figure on me not finding out about this?”

”I didn't think you'd catch me,” Andy said, trembling. ”I'm sorry. Forgive me, Sheriff.”

”I'm not your judge,” Tracker said. ”That's O'Donnell's task, not mine.”

”He won't forgive me. Not for this. He's going to hang me, isn't he?”

Tracker looked down at him. He could have lied to the boy in an effort to keep him calm, but Andy was smart enough to know the truth anyway.

”Yeah,” Tracker said. ”He's going to hang you.”

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