Part 52 (1/2)

Bowing his head, Andy shuddered and wept.

”I'll do all I can for you,” Tracker said. ”But you need to tell me the truth. All of it.”

Andy nodded. ”Yes sir.”

”What you said about Sally's death. Was it the whole truth?”

”No,” he said. ”I poured the bottle. I poured the poison down her throat.”

”And your pa?”

”I handed him the flask. Lord help me, I did.”

”Anything else?”

”That's it,” he said, gasping. ”That's all.”

”Good,” Tracker said, patting his shoulder. ”You were right to tell me. And when you stand before the judge, I'll tell him you were honest about your crimes. It will show remorse.”

”Thank you,” Andy said.

Tracker left him alone to cry. He wouldn't run this time. Once a man confesses, he's often too exhausted to do much more than sleep.

After retrieving the shovel out of the wagon, Tracker took his time walking back. When he returned, Andy was sitting in the gra.s.s, wiping his face on his sleeve. One cheek was s.h.i.+ny, the other still covered in filth.

”All right, Andy,” Tracker said. ”Let's bury these folks proper.”

He helped him to stand. Unlocking his handcuffs, he said, ”Over there. Make them deep.”

Andy pitched the shovel into the ground and started digging. He worked slowly, scooping out tiny mounds of dirt and tipping them onto the gra.s.s.

”Swift now,” Tracker said. ”It'll be dark in a few hours.”

Andy tried, but he wasn't a farmer or a rancher. His corn stalk arms could only move so fast. After a while, he stopped to rest.

He set the shovel down. He stared into the open grave.

”I just wanted him to leave me alone. That's all I ever wanted, Sheriff-a bite of peace.”

”I know you did,” Tracker said, turning toward the horizon. ”Keep digging, all right?”

The sun was sinking low. At this rate, it would be well after dark by the time they reached town. Normally, Tracker didn't like riding in the dark, but he refused to spend another night away from his family.

Behind him, he heard Andy sobbing again.

Tracker sighed. It was going to be a long ride back.

He turned around. ”Come on, Andy, quit your blubbering and just-”

Andy sat on the edge of the grave, his wrists spurting blood. Tracker rushed over to stop him, but it was too late. Andy slumped into his arms.

He died. The screw token slipped from his fingers.

Tracker buried Andy where he died. Then he dug two new graves on the other side of the wagon and buried the homesteaders. It was a nasty business, and by the time he finished he was covered in mud and blood. But it was done. The saddle b.u.ms and highwaymen would take care of the rest. In a few days, the wagon would be gone.

Tracker tossed the shovel and climbed into the saddle. With one final look at Andy's grave, he turned and followed the setting sun.

I just wanted him to leave me alone.

Tracker often wondered why he didn't like those dime novels about famous outlaws and lawmen. Ben always left a copy at the office, but he never read them.

Thinking about Andy, he reckoned he now knew why.

In those books, the lawmen were always good and the outlaws always bad. The sheriff followed the path of righteousness while the outlaw danced with the devil. But Tracker had never met a lawman without his faults, and he'd never crossed paths with a soulless outlaw. In the end, both were just searching for their bite of peace.

He knew he could never be a dime novel sheriff. He couldn't dismiss Andy's death with a tip of the hat and a speech about good triumphing over evil.

Andy Dupois wasn't an evil boy.

Andy Dupois was a boy.

It was cold. The sun had disappeared, taking its warmth with it. s.h.i.+vering, Tracker tucked his hands into the sleeves of his slicker and tried to rea.s.sure himself that he was almost home. It didn't help. He searched his saddlebag in the off chance that Ben had retrieved his pipe when he retrieved his gun. He had not.

”Almost there,” he said, his teeth chattering. Most folks didn't believe that teeth could really chatter in the cold, but any army private knew it to be true. Cold enough and damp enough, and a man's teeth will chatter like a telegraph key.

In an effort to warm himself up, he imagined himself sitting before the fireplace, his pipe in hand. Across from him, he saw Caroline sitting in her rocking chair with Edward, the firelight dappling his forehead as he slept. Everything was warm, silent, and golden.

Inhaling deeply, Tracker could almost smell the wood smoke. It was a rich, comforting smell. He inhaled again.

”Wait,” he said, opening his eyes.

He really could smell smoke.

A plume of light appeared in the distance. It was big. Only a burning building could cast that much light.

”Oh no, not again,” Tracker said, cracking the reins. Bucko burst into a gallop and they sped toward the light. As Tracker drew closer, he could see that it was a building near the edge of town- at the edge- The Ram.

He reached Main Street at the same time as the other townsfolk. Sylvia was running out with Tate. Ben was hot on their heels, pus.h.i.+ng rushers out of his way. Tracker reined in Bucko at the livery, dismounted, and hurried across the street. As he reached Ben, a fireball exploded outward, shattering the windows and engulfing the front porch in flames. He heard liquor bottles explode. Piano strings tw.a.n.ged and popped like queer birdsong.

”Ben,” Tracker said, ”is anyone inside? Where are the girls?”

Ben turned to him, saying, ”I think everyone's out-Sheriff, you're back!”

Tracker grabbed his shoulders. ”Listen to me. Where are the girls?”

”Here, Sh-Sheriff.”