Gasher Creek Part 15

"I shot it," Jack said. "You can be certain of that."

"No," Charlie said. "I don't think you did."

Jack stopped the horse. Twisting around in the saddle, he said, "Do you really believe that dog is some kind of spook? Pardon me, preacher, but that don't sound like Bible stuff. That sounds like Indian nonsense."

"I didn't say I believed it," Charlie said. "I just said it's what my ma told me."

"Well, my ma told me that if you pull a broken carrot from the ground, it's one year's bad luck," Jack said. "I pulled tons of broken carrots from our garden and nothing ever happened to me."

Charlie smiled a little. "How's your luck been lately, Jack?"

Jack nudged the horse and they started moving again. "Spook coyotes," he said, shaking his head. "That's why white folks are taking your land. We don't pray to the coyotes and the buffalo, we shoot them." Giving the horse a scratch, he said, "What about horses? Let me guess ... a horse is ... the ghost of your kin, guiding you swiftly across the land."

"That's not funny," Charlie said. "It may mean nothing to you, but those beliefs meant everything to my ma."

"Wind," Jack said. "It's all wind, Charlie. Coyotes are small dumb animals and this horse is a big dumb one. Coyotes chase rabbits and horses pull wagons. They got as much soul as we got. None."

"That's all there is to it then?" Charlie asked.

"That's all."

"Then why was that big dumb coyote following us?"

"Charlie," Jack said, "Why don't you-"

The horse stumbled and pitched forward. Jack heard a loud crack followed by a shrill, terrified scream. The horse collapsed, throwing Jack and Charlie off. Jack fell into a thick patch of gra.s.s. Charlie tumbled like a rag doll.

The horse screamed again.

"Oh no," Charlie said, scrambling to his feet. "Jack!"

Jack crawled over, trying to blink off the dizziness.

The palomino bucked and thrashed as it tried to get back up, its eyes wide and wild, its teeth bared. A bone protruded from its left hind leg, greasy with blood and ragged where it snapped.

"Dammit," Jack cursed. "Must have stepped in a prairie dog hole." He looked around and found it. It was big.

"Poor thing," Charlie said, touching its neck. "We didn't even know its name."

The horse whimpered like a child.

Cursing again, Jack got to his feet and looked around. Here they were, still caught in the middle of naught with no way of knowing how far it was to Brush town. They had no water. They had no food. And now, they had no horse. The trek ahead would be hard. Would Charlie hold up? He didn't seem like the strong sort, having been citified in Bear Hunt. Maybe Jack would have to carry him like a pack mule when he got tired, or keep him from crying out at shadows when it got dark. He'd always heard that Indians scare like a flock of crows, not much courage to- The blast nearly knocked him off his feet.

Turning around, he saw Charlie standing over the dead horse, a puff of rifle smoke blowing away on the wind.

"Charlie?" Jack said.

Charlie handed him the rifle and started walking.

Charlie didn't say anything for a long time. Jack commented on the weather, how it was warm and good for sleeping. He said he was so hungry he would eat the next gra.s.shopper he saw and just anyone try and stop him. But Charlie didn't smile, nod, or seem to notice his existence. Finally, Jack ran out of things to talk about and kept his mouth shut. He figured it wasn't his business trying to cheer up the Indian anyway. If he didn't want to talk for the rest of his days then that was fine by him.

"I didn't like shooting it."

Jack, surprised to hear something, anything come out of Charlie's mouth, said, "What?"

"That horse."

"I reckon it's hard to shoot a horse," Jack said, plucking a dandelion as he pa.s.sed.

"You never?" Charlie asked.

"Nope. Where I come from, shooting a horse is like tossing a year's earnings in the river. It happens, but not very often."

"I never have either," Charlie said. "My pa always took care of the lame ones. I don't like guns. Don't like the sound of it, like the air is ripping apart. You think that's odd?"

"What."

"That I don't like guns."

"It's a might odd," Jack said, "like hating a hoe or a plow. Everyone needs a gun."

"Even preachers?"

"You go into a reservation and not carry a gun?" Jack said, and whistled. "That mixer scalp of yours is a goner."

They hiked up a steep incline, the gra.s.s brus.h.i.+ng their knees.

"You hate the Chewak, don't you?" Charlie asked.

"Sure I do," Jack said.

"Why?"

"Same reason I hate snakes, spiders, and bears," Jack said. "They kill white men."

"I haven't killed you," Charlie said.

"You ain't a Chewak, you're a half-breed," Jack said. "Trust me, Charlie, if you didn't have that white blood in you, you would've killed me back in that G.o.d forsaken valley and not given it a second thought."

He reached the top of the incline and stopped.

Charlie said, "Now that's not true, Jack, I-"

He froze.

They both stared at it.

Jack couldn't believe his eyes. He figured he'd finally gone crazy from hunger. "Charlie," he said, "Is that-"

"A wagon," Charlie said.

A homesteader wagon stood in the distance. Beside it, a woman with straw colored hair poked at a smoking campfire. She was cooking.

Jack's gut clenched like a fist.

"Food," Charlie said.

"Food!" Jack cheered. "Let's go!"

He rushed forward, waving his arms and yelling at the woman. In his excitement, it took him a moment to realize that Charlie wasn't with him. He skidded to a halt. Spinning around, he saw two men emerge from the gra.s.s. One frowned and held his shotgun to Charlie's head, while the other trained his barrel on Jack. For a delirious moment, he thought he was Cole Smith. Then he took a closer look.

They were both around Jack's age, both with dusky brown hair and a few days growth on their chins. The frowning one looked younger. His suspenders hung over his thighs and his s.h.i.+rt spilled over his trousers. His arms trembled as he held the gun to Charlie's head. The older one kept a steady aim on Jack, his blue eyes meeting Jack's without any betrayal of excitement or fear.

"Drop your rifle," he said.

Jack dropped it.

"See that camp? It's ours. That food my missus is cooking is ours and your mouths won't go anywhere near it. So you best keep walking. We got nothing of value."

"We're not going to rob you," Charlie said.

"Shut it redskin," the younger one said.

He wanted to shoot. Jack could see it in his pale green eyes, the way his elbows twitched.

"We mean no harm," Jack said to the older one. "We're just pa.s.sing through on our way to Brush town."

"You smell foul," the younger one said.

"Hush Silas," the older one said. Looking at Jack, he said, "Why are you heading to Brush?"

"To find food and supplies. My friend is heading back to his pa's ranch, and I might be moving on to a place called Lone Pine."

"You a farmer?"

"Was."

The older one lowered his shotgun. "Drop your aim, Silas."

Silas stiffened. For a sickening moment, Jack thought he was going to blow Charlie's head off.

"But Billy-"

"Look at them," Billy said. "They're wind beaten and half-starved. A good shove would kill both of them. What are your names?"

"Jack Devlin," Jack said. "This here is Charlie Sewell."

"Funny name for an Indian," Silas said. "Shouldn't you be called Marching Red Feather, or maybe Chief Gra.s.sy Trousers?"

"Those names were already taken," Charlie said.

Billy smiled and lowered his shotgun. "Come on," he said. "We got plenty of food."

Chapter Sixteen.

That evening, Caroline declared that she'd never made a meat pie so savory.

Tracker nodded.

"The crust is delicate, but heavy enough to be filling," she said.

He nodded again, spooning it into his mouth without tasting it. When she started talking about something else, he kept nodding and stared at the table lamp.

"So I said yes to Frosty's proposal, and we're running away together," she finished.

Tracker stopped nodding. "What?"

"Oh," she said, smiling. "So you are listening."

"Of course I am," Tracker lied. He stabbed a chunk of carrot with his fork and popped it in his mouth.

"Tell me," Caroline said.

"Hm?"

"Tell me what you're thinking about."

Tracker tried a rea.s.suring smile. "Nothing much."

Sighing, she rubbed her belly and said, "What did he do this time?"

"Who?"

"Don."

Tracker set his fork down. "How did you know?"

"You always look like that when Don has done something. Or, as is often the case, hasn't done something."

"How do I look?" Tracker asked.