Gasher Creek.

J. Birch.

For Stan, Faye, Albert, and Betty.

Distant lights on a dark prairie.

Chapter One.

Jack rode a giant horse. He didn't know what breed, but it was big, and fast, and galloped with such speed he thought he'd lift clear off the ground. He sped across a vast expanse of open prairie, alone except for the buffalo gra.s.s. He was sweating. He sat in the saddle as rigid as cordwood. Someone was chasing him-he was chasing someone-he wasn't sure.

"Faster," he commanded, leaning into the wind. "Fly!"

The horse tossed its head and snorted. It was an odd snort, like two metallic clicks.

"Devlin."

A voice rolled over the prairie like thunder. Jack knew that voice. It was Hank Dupois, proprietor of The Ram wh.o.r.ehouse. He needed to go faster- "Wake up, Jack."

The horse and prairie vanished, and Jack opened his eyes. He lay in a bed in one of The Ram's upper rooms. His bottom half trembled, naked, under the sheets. His shirt hung bunched and twisted around his chest. The room stank like a dead rabbit. He squinted in a wash of grey morning light and turned his head.

He faced a twin barrel shotgun.

Hank held the shotgun. His arms shivered with fury. "You awake?" he asked.

Jack blinked.

"Good. Now you lay there and don't move. If you move, I'll kill you, you son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Jack didn't dare move. He'd never seen Hank this deranged. The man's fat, flabby face was the color of a tomato and his eyes were fixing to bug out. His enormous gut heaved, threatening the b.u.t.tons on his shirt. His hair, usually oiled flat against his scalp, stood out in tufts.

"Jack," Andy said. "What did you do?"

Jack noticed Andy Dupois cowering beside his pa. He held his own shotgun but didn't point it. Like Hank, Andy was tall (when he stood straight), with the same dark eyes and dark brown hair. But unlike Hank, he was skinny. Sick skinny like a lunger. His shirt drooped over the band of his trousers. His hands barely made it out of their sleeves.

"Andy," Jack said, "I don't understand-"

As he spoke the words, his toes brushed something hard and cold.

Looking, he cried out and jerked himself away. A stiff, stinking body lay next to him. It was a woman, a wh.o.r.e- "Sally," he whispered.

Her head lay on the pillow next to him. Her red hair sat twisted on top of her head as if yanked away from her face. Her right arm lay above her as if posed for a painting, but the hand sat bent at an odd angle. The other arm lay across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. A blanket hid most of her naked body. Green, brown, and blue bruises stretched around her throat like a necklace. Her face was the color of a plum. She sported two black eyes and a broken nose. A b.l.o.o.d.y moustache of crust had dried over a split upper lip.

"What happened," Jack said, twisting around.

Hank leaned closer, the barrels inches from Jack's forehead. "It wasn't enough to fuss over her," he said, "follow her around like a lost puppy. But when she finally tells you to back down, you do this," he said, glancing at the body.

Jack tried to think, but his temples throbbed like a drum. He'd drunk enough whiskey the previous night to soak a horse. His memories were all blur and color and didn't make any sense.

"Hank," he said, "I-"

"Save the speech for Sheriff Tracker," Hank said. "He's on his way with Doc Ansen."

"What are they going to do with him?" Andy asked tentatively.

Hank cuffed him. Andy hit the wall. The barrel of his shotgun sc.r.a.ped the floor, but he managed to hold on to the stock.

"This isn't a time for your blathering," Hank said. "Be a man."

"Yes sir," Andy said, his eyes gla.s.sy.

"Stand up."

"Yes sir," he said, standing as tall as he dared.

Hank shook his head. "That shotgun was a G.o.dd.a.m.ned waste of money." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver flask. He took a swig and then slipped it back into his pocket. He turned to Jack. "Keep looking at me, Devlin. You won't garner any help from my willow branch of a son."

Jack tried to keep his eyes on his boss, but he was growing cold. His stomach churned as if a horse had just bucked him.

"Seems a shame we have to wait on the sheriff," Hank said. "In my daddy's day-"

A heavy footfall interrupted him. Sheriff Tracker entered the room, glanced at Hank's shotgun, and moved past him. He stopped at the foot of the bed.

Jack had never talked to Tracker but knew him from his reputation. Word was he never had to fire his gun to keep the peace, which was unheard of in a rush town. All he needed was his stare-he could disarm a man with those stone colored eyes of his. He was tall, even taller than Hank, with short brown hair partially hidden under a black Stetson. A neatly trimmed moustache sprouted from his top lip and stretched to his chin. He wore a white shirt, black waistcoat, and black trousers. His badge caught light from the window. A revolver sat in the holster on his hip.

The Ram girls loved it when he came around. They'd whisper excitedly to each other and bat their eyes at him. They hated his wife.

Tracker looked at the body. Tall as he was, he must have caught the stench because he brushed his finger under his nose before turning his attention to Jack.

"Devlin, is it?" he asked.

"Yes sir."

"You kill this girl?"

Jack lost his nerve under the sheriff's scrutiny.

"Well?"

His lips trembled as he tried to remember. He knew he was downstairs in the saloon drinking with Andy. He remembered a red ace card. Whiskey. Nothing else.

Gripping the bed sheets, he said, "I don't recall."

"Who says he did the killing?" Tracker asked.

"Do you not see where he's sitting, Sheriff?" Hank said.

"I'm asking if there were any witnesses. What do you say, Andy?"

"I was with Liza next door," Andy said. "It was Jack and Sally in this room."

"So Liza told me," Tracker said. "She didn't hear anything or see anything until she came to collect the sheets. It's a curiosity."

"It's common sense!" Hank exclaimed. "The boy is lying next to her!"

"I wouldn't hurt her," Jack said.

Monster.

"Says you," Hank said, the gun barrel lowering to the general area of Jack's crotch. "But you ain't from Gasher Creek. How do we know you haven't done this elsewhere?"

"I haven't."

Hank fumed. "Sheriff, in my pa's day they didn't put up with this kind of talk; they just did a run down. Let the man run for his life, then get on their horses and trample him under-"

"Enough about your pa," Tracker said. "We all know how your kin used to carry out justice, but things are different now." He held out his hand.

Hank pa.s.sed over his shotgun, reluctantly. "What if he tries to run?"

"I'll handle him."

Jack caught his breath. He had no idea what that meant, but he didn't want to find out.

Doc Ansen appeared at the door, gripping a black medical bag. He was short and skinny, with a head full of curly red hair and a trim, pointed beard. A pair of bifocals sat on his nose. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow.

"Pardon my tardiness," he said. "Jane wanted more laudanum, and I had a terrific time rebuking her..."

He stopped beside Hank. "My G.o.d," he said, the bag leather crinkling under his fingers. "Look at her." He crept past Tracker. "Beaten," he said, and gasped at the stench. He reached into his bag and removed a handkerchief. Holding it to his nose and mouth, he added, "And choked. A pair of hands squeezed the ghost out of her." He moved around the bed, turning black against the window light. Gingerly, he lifted the covers and turned his face away. "Her nethers are bruised something awful." He looked at Jack. "You sick son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"All right," Tracker said, propping Hank's shotgun against the wall. "Mr. Devlin, I'm placing you under arrest." He moved in front of Hank and grasped Jack's arm.

Jack peeled back the sheets. He tried to stand, but his head whirled.

Under arrest...

Sally dead...

He took a deep breath. The stink whipped his stomach into a froth.

"Up, Devlin," Tracker said.

Jack retrieved his trousers off the floor, managed to get one leg in, and then vomited. Hank jumped back and nearly collided with his son. "Ugh, look at that mess," he said. "Liza's going to be busy for a spell." He moved to the door, stuck his head into the hallway, and bellowed her name.

Tracker grabbed the trousers and pulled them up. He even kept Jack balanced as he got his feet into his boots.

"Thank you," Jack managed.

The sheriff nodded. "Let's go."

He led Jack out of the room. As they moved down the stairs, Liza rushed past with a bucket of water and a rag in her hands. Jack didn't look at her. He couldn't face her or anyone else. He kept his eyes down as they crossed the saloon floor and left The Ram.

Chapter Two.

Sheriff Tom Tracker had awoken early that morning on account of his wife, Caroline. It wasn't her fault-the baby kicked her sick again. And it wasn't the baby's fault either-it didn't ask for its pa's long legs. The fault, as she saw it, lay squarely on him. Tracker, of course, didn't think it was his fault. How could anyone reckon the length of a baby's legs inside the belly, anyway? But he took the blame and helped her outside to vomit.

"Legs," Caroline said, heaving into the gra.s.s. Tracker knelt beside her, holding her long brown hair and rubbing her shoulders.

"I know," he said. "And I'm sorry."

After helping her back to bed, he made some coffee and sat at the table. He kept the lamp low. There was no use going back to sleep; he'd have to get up soon anyway. If he slipped back under the blankets, he might refuse to rise again.

A few moments of peace would have to do.

He leaned back in the chair. He listened to the wind outside the cabin. He listened to Caroline breathing. He raised the cup to his lips.

Someone pounded on the front door.

He sighed. Sometimes, even a moment was too much to ask.

"If that's death, welcome him in," Caroline croaked.

Tracker set the cup down. Next to the lamp, his revolver lay cleaned and oiled.

"Probably Don needing help," he said, gripping his gun and standing.

A second barrage-two fists now.

"Sheriff, help!"

Tracker hurried to the door, slid aside the wood bolt, and yanked it open. A woman fell into him.

"Come quick," she said.

"Liza?" Tracker said. "What's happened."