Gasher Creek Part 14

"The wickedness of men," Tickie said. "That's what happened to me. It lives in every man's heart, Sheriff, but some men choose to bathe in it, grow drunk on it like whiskey."

"All right," Tracker said, silently cursing Don for being late. "Tell me about some men, specifically the some men that beat you down."

Clearing his throat loudly, Tickie said, "This afternoon, I was about my business at the church. Due to Hank's funeral, I was behind on my preparations for this Sunday's service. As I stood at the pulpit, rehearsing my sermon, two men rushed in and demanded money. What money! No one ever gives money to the church. I live on food handouts from the congregation. I'm not like those high-falutin' priests in Bear Hunt or Seaview, who have giant churches and platefuls of offerings-"

The door opened and Don sauntered in, singing, "Took her by her lil-y hand, took her to the prom-ised land, on her backside I did-Reverend!"

"Evening Don," Tracker said, making a point of glancing at the wall clock.

"Sorry I'm late," Don said.

"And drunk," Tickie said, sniffing.

Don, who'd lived with Tickie much longer than Tracker, hung his head and said, "Yes Reverend. Well, I did have a few drinks at The Ram, but that's to be expected on a day such as-"

"Drunkenness, lad, is never warranted," Tickie said. "I buried the man and I'm not toddling with the drink."

"No Reverend," Don said.

"No Reverend, indeed," Tickie said. "I carry a Bible instead of a bottle."

Tracker didn't see a Bible, but Tickie's hat was suffering in its absence. "Reverend," he said. "I apologize for the interruptions. Please continue."

Tickie muttered something Tracker was certain wasn't a prayer, then said, "Yes, well, as I was saying, I was inside the church practicing my sermon-it's about the five greatest guilts-when those two beasts burst in. I said I had no money, so they beat me and told me to leave town."

"Do you know who they are?" Tracker asked.

"No."

"Can you describe them?"

"Yes," Tickie said. "Brutish."

Don, standing behind the reverend, smirked. Tracker, under the scrutiny of Tickie, didn't have that luxury. "Brutish," Tracker said, nodding. "Anything else?"

"Thick arms," Tickie added, holding up his hands as if to choke someone.

Don snorted. Tickie twisted around, saying, "I'm glad you think this is humorous, but I find no humor in it at all. It's a shame. A shame that our town is turning into a ... a devil's trough!"

"The color has attracted all sorts of folks," Tracker said. "We just have to wait it out."

"Wait it out?" Tickie said. "In a few months there will be nothing left but saloons and wh.o.r.e houses."

"Not under my watch," Tracker said.

"Your watch?" Tickie screeched. "You allow rapists and murderers to run off into the night like jack rabbits!"

Don's smirk disappeared. Tracker folded his arms and said, "Pardon?"

"That Devlin fellow, who, might I add, never once stepped foot inside my church, did those awful things to that wh.o.r.e and you just let him run off."

Don stepped back, waiting for it, but Tracker didn't hit the reverend. One, because he'd spent just enough years at a Lutheran church in Bear Hunt to have a modic.u.m of respect for the clergy. And two, because Caroline attended church every Sunday and he didn't want to embarra.s.s her. But if it had been any other man, he would've cracked his jaw.

"Jack Devlin," he said in a measured tone, "was lynched by Hank and got away. Cole Smith is, at this very moment, on his trail. I haven't allowed the boy his freedom, reverend. He'll be back."

"Grand," Tickie said. "With Cole on his trail, you have more than enough time and opportunity to apprehend the men that attacked me."

Tracker sat on the edge of the desk. "I doubt that," he said.

Tickie looked struck. "Why not?"

"Based on your description of brutish? It may prove difficult."

"They also had beards," Tickie said. "Big beards."

"Most of the men in this town have big beards."

"You don't. Don doesn't."

Tracker sighed. "Tonight, I'll have Don keep a close eye on the church to make sure no one tries to break in. That's all I can do."

Tickie trembled as if he might burst into tears. "That's unacceptable!" he said.

"Accept it."

The reverend leapt to his feet, almost knocking Don over. "You claim to be the law in this town," he said, shaking with rage. "But I've never seen you do anything other than collect drunks. Do you protect the innocents of Gasher Creek, or don't you? The Dupois family was no friend of the church, but if there was a problem in town they dealt with it swiftly."

"What's your meaning?" Tracker said, standing. "You think I should swing every man that misbehaves?"

"No," Tickie said. "Of course not, but-"

"How many men did you bury when the Dupois settled matters? I'll bet half the cemetery is full of folks who broke the family law. What's so Christian about that?"

Sweat trickled down the Reverend's temples. "I-I don't-"

"You're a man of the cloth, and I respect that," Tracker said. "But don't tell me how to run this town."

Tracker's eyes must have blazed with h.e.l.lfire, because Tickie fell silent and seemed to deflate like a balloon. "I'll take my leave," he said, barely above a whisper.

"You do that," Tracker said.

Don held the door open. On his way out, Tickie said, "Sheriff, I look forward to seeing you in church on Sunday."

"Don't bet on it."

The reverend gained a little of his ire back and stormed from the office.

Tracker moved over to his chair and collapsed.

"Hoo, Tom, you really cut him," Don said, closing the door. "I've never seen Tickie shrink like that. I'll bet a dollar he's running for the nearest outhouse."

"Let's just forget it," Tracker said.

"And you know those gospel sharps love to squawk," Don said. "He'll run and tell Frosty, then Frosty will tell Sylvia, and the entire town will know about it before nightfall."

"I said drop it."

"All right, Sheriff," Don said. "I just hope you know what you're in for." He plucked Tracker's hat from the nail beside the door and replaced it with his own. "You might as well head on home. I can take it from here."

"What do you mean?" Tracker asked.

Don shrugged. "Heck Sheriff, if you want to work another double s.h.i.+ft, be my guest, but I figured-"

"Not that," Tracker said. "'I hope you know what you're in for'-what's that supposed to mean?"

"Folks jawing," Don said, handing Tracker his hat. "You all right, Sheriff? You're giving me the evil eye."

"You know, it just occurred to me," Tracker said. "I never got around to ask you what happened the night Jack Devlin was lynched."

"I didn't think you had to," Don said, chuckling. "Plain as the crooked nose on my face, wouldn't you say?"

"Tell me anyway," Tracker said.

"They kicked the door in, roughed me up, took the keys, and then took Devlin."

Tracker nodded. "A lot of men helped Hank that night. Men loyal to the Dupois family. You've been pals with Andy since you were kids."

Don may have been lazy, but he wasn't stupid. Tracker could see the wheels working behind his eyes.

"What are you getting at," Don said, all humor gone from his voice now. "Because I do believe you just accused me of trying to kill Jack Devlin." He folded his arms, his long, thin fingers dangling close to the bone handle of his knife.

"Are you or are you not friends with Andy?" Tracker asked.

"Andy's not like his pa," Don said. "Sure, he helped his pa with Devlin, but he'd get boxed if he didn't. He liked Jack as far as I know."

"He didn't tell you it was coming?" Tracker asked.

"Of course not!" Don said, throwing up his hands. "Sheriff, they burst in here and beat the tar out of me."

"Those bruises are healing quickly," Tracker said, standing. "Didn't put up much of a fight, did you?"

"You want to watch that talk," Don said. "I'll not stand for it."

Tracker stepped close to Don until they were inches apart. "I'll only say this once," he said. "If I ever find out that you betrayed this office, I'll shoot you where I find you."

At that moment, Ben Tunn sauntered in, carrying a basket in his arm. "Evening to one and all, how are we..."

Tracker and Don stared at each other, neither one moving.

"We have an understanding?" Tracker said.

"Oh yes," Don said. "We surely do."

He turned, pushed past Ben, and slammed the door behind him.

Holding out his basket, Ben said, "I-uh-picked some apples. I thought you fellas could use a ... treat."

Chapter Fifteen.

The middle of nowhere could be awful large. Jack had hoped for a farm by now, but saw nothing. Just gra.s.s, wind, and sky. If he'd been out for a picnic, it would've been a fine day.

"It's gone," Charlie said, pointing. "It disappeared into that patch of long gra.s.s."

The black coyote had stayed with them for a spell. Jack tried to outrun it, but it kept pace like a family dog trailing a wagon.

"It always vanishes for a while," Jack said. "Wait for it."

"I have been," Charlie said. "It's not coming back out."

Shading his eyes with his hand, Jack scanned the area but saw no movement.

He smiled.

So he'd shot it after all, or at least winged it. It must have finally bled out and lost its strength. No creature, no matter how big, could beat a Winchester.

"Why do you suppose it followed you?" Charlie asked.

"Sick I suppose," Jack said. "Or gone mad from hunger."

"Could be," Charlie said. "You want to know what my ma told me?"

"No."

"My ma told me the coyote is a trickster spirit."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he tries to fool you. Sometimes it's to teach you a lesson, sometimes it's to test your courage."

Jack chuckled. "Well, that was no spirit, Charlie. If it was some kind of ghost, I wouldn't have shot it."

"You didn't shoot it."