"What in creation is an O.M. Lightfeather?" Tracker asked, thumping Don on the back.

"It's a revolver," Doc said. "Similar to the Colt, but for-pardon-the dainty gentleman."

Don started howling with laughter. "I can't breathe," he exclaimed, "and I don't care!"

"I told him about the pain in your wrists," Caroline said, "so he ordered one for you. It's very prestigious, Tom. It comes all the way from Seaview city."

"Oscar Matthews is an actor," Doc explained. "He does a gun show, travels all over the world. But he's small, see, small wrists, so he had these guns made special for him. He liked them so much, he manufactures and sells them."

"I don't need a dainty gun," Tracker said coolly.

"They're quite expensive," Caroline said.

"I'm no gent," Tracker said, taking a drink of the foul tasting wine. Lowering the cup, he said, "Tell your father to send it back."

"I can't do that," Caroline said. "It would break his heart."

"Not to mention robbing me of a good belly laugh when I see it," Don said.

"Now, don't dismiss this off hand," Doc said. "A lighter gun might just be the answer to your aches." He removed his gla.s.ses and wiped the tears off his cheeks. "Why, even I've considered buying one for myself, and-"

He and Don crumbled into laughter.

"Doctor, deputy, compose yourselves," Caroline said, swatting Doc and kicking Don. "If not, there will be no pie for either of you."

"My-ha-heartfelt apologies," the Doc said.

"Sorry, Sheriff," Don said, pinching his lips tight. His cheeks trembled. He snorted.

"Dainty guns," Tracker said, shaking his head. "Any chance for my father-in-law to see me the fool."

"Now Tom, that's simply not true," Caroline said, standing up. She turned to the windowsill to fetch the pie, but Tracker caught her grinning.

The after pie discussion was a sober affair as Tracker told them about the bruising on Hank's neck. The Doc leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his fingers steepled under his nose. Don looked sleepy, but concerned. Caroline busied herself with the dishes, but he knew she was listening.

After he finished, Tracker sat back and took a sip of coffee.

"So what are you saying, Tom," the Doc said. "You think because their bruises looked similar, they weren't bruises?"

"I'm saying it's odd," Tracker said. "Could it be some kind of paint? Make it look like they were choked?"

"And who would do that-Andy?" Don said, stifling a yawn. "Andy and Sally got along well enough, and he's tore up about his pa's pa.s.sing."

"Rest a.s.sured they were bruises," the Doc said, "the kind you get when life is squeezed out of you. I'll stake my trade on it."

"Then what else can explain their similarity?" Tracker asked.

The Doc thought about it, his gla.s.ses fogging in the steam of his coffee. "Funny thing about bruises," he said. "They can take all sorts of shapes. Sylvia once dropped a plate on her foot and many folks said it looked just like Australia."

"I saw that," Don said. "It was funny until she hit me."

"But I'll wager you don't see many Australian bruises," Tracker said.

"Not at all," Doc said.

"If I dropped a plate on my foot, it'd probably look like something else."

"Not necessarily."

Squinting at the Doc over the candlelight, Tracker said, "I don't follow."

"A bruise is an explosion of blood under the skin," the Doc said. "And when it explodes, it creates an amorphous blotch, like a cloud. I'm a.s.suming you gazed at clouds as a child. I'm sure Caroline did."

Caroline returned from the washbasin, wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n. "I did," she said, lowering herself into her seat. "Most times, I saw turtles."

"And I saw sheep," Doc said. "No two clouds are alike, yet they all take shape in the human eye. Sometimes we see lots of strange things in clouds, but sometimes we see the same thing over and over, whether sheep, turtles, or Australia."

Don smiled. "I once saw this woman with the largest pair of..." His smile faded. "Sorry."

Tracker said, "You're telling me the reason those bruises look identical is because I imagined it?"

"Coupled with a long shift and little rest, it's not inconceivable."

"But what about the pattern?" Tracker asked. "Green, brown, and blue."

"I'll grant you it's rare to see such a sight, but it does happen." The Doc reached into his pocket and pulled out a pipe. "Let me ask you, Tom. Do you think Jack Devlin is guilty?"

Tracker shrugged. "It doesn't matter what I think."

"Honestly?" Doc said, tapping the bowl onto his palm. "Might I conjecture that this has less to do with bruises and more to do with your ideas about the boy?"

Tracker stood and retrieved a pouch of tobacco and a box of matches from the mantle. Handing them to the Doc, he said, "Perhaps. He certainly didn't strike me as a killer. Now, I know that anyone from a young child to an old maid can murder-I saw it all the time in Bear Hunt-but there was something different about Devlin. My gut didn't itch."

"You're what?" Doc said, stuffing his pipe with tobacco.

"When you work as a police officer, you learn to read people. I could always tell someone was guilty because my gut would start to itch. I didn't get that with Devlin."

"Well, itchy guts aside," the Doc said, striking a match, "we have two dead bodies, and Devlin was the last to be seen with both. That's guilt in my eyes."

"Perhaps we'll never know," Tracker said.

"No need to fret over that," Don said. "Cole is the best bounty hunter in town. He'll bring him back."

Puffing on his pipe, the Doc said, "I never thought I'd utter these words: I agree with Don. This isn't the first man Cole's gone after. He brought in w.i.l.l.y Thompson when he was only fifteen."

"w.i.l.l.y Thompson?" Tracker said, impressed.

"Who's w.i.l.l.y Thompson?" Caroline asked.

"A cattle rustler," Tracker said. "A bold one. He'd steal cattle anytime he pleased. Day, night, it didn't matter. And if anyone interfered? He'd just shoot them. I saw him hang in Bear Hunt."

"Cole went after him after he cheated Hank on a wh.o.r.e," Don said. "Only took two days to hunt him down and bring him in. Compared to Thompson, Jack Devlin will be a barrel shoot."

"Oh yes," the Doc said. "Before the week is out, that boy will hang like a Christmas goose."

Chapter Eleven.

"Jack."

The voice was strange and far away. Jack hovered above sleep, hoping he could sink again.

"Jack, wake up."

He didn't want to wake up. There was peace in the darkness.

"Jack."

Leave me be!

Someone grabbed his shoulder.

Instinctively, Jack twisted away. A moment later, he felt his body tumble. A moment after that, he slammed onto the ground. His eyes flashed open; he was now fully awake and fully in pain. It felt as if someone had punched him in the back. His backside burned as if full of buckshot.

Charlie looked down at him from the top of the rocky slope. "Good ... morning?" he said. He slid down after him, kicking up a cloud of dust and pebbles. He reached the bottom and said, "You okay?"

"What-happened," Jack coughed.

"I tried to wake you and you fell."

Jack felt the seat of his trousers and discovered a small hole. He touched bare skin and winced. His fingers came away b.l.o.o.d.y.

"You injured?"

"No worse for wear," he said. "Why did you wake me? It's still dark."

"Not for long," Charlie said, nodding at a ribbon of light in the east. He helped Jack to his feet. "I sure wish we could find ourselves some breakfast."

"You keep wishing," Jack said. "I'll walk."

"You okay to walk?"

"Never mind about me, let's just go."

They continued along the riverbed path. Jack moved slowly, his backside throbbing. Charlie slowed to keep pace with him. Daylight broke above them, filtered through the valley, and chased shadows back to their crevices and crags. It didn't help much. The place almost looked worse in the sunlight.

Glancing around, Charlie said, "I know a little something about this land. My ma said it was special."

"This place?" Jack said. "What's so special about it."

"It's supposed to be an ancient land where creatures lived long before anyone else, even the Chewak. The grandfather of the buffalo."

"What made those tracks back there?"

"Yep."

"Where'd they all go?"

"She didn't know."

Jack couldn't see how a giant grouse could be the grandfather of a buffalo, but he supposed Indians believed strange things like that.

They walked in silence for a while, their boots echoing off the hillocks. The sun rose high above them and cooked the land. Sweat spread over Jack's back. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, swallowed dust, and coughed. His throat was parched, but the swish of Charlie's canteen still didn't tempt him. Besides, drinking would only make him hungrier.

"So," he said, trying to take his mind off his stomach, "raised on a ranch, huh?"

"That's right," Charlie said.

"Where abouts?"

"Near the town of Pan Hope."

"Never heard of it."

Charlie pulled down the brim of his bowler. "Beautiful country up there. It was hard to leave. I'm mighty glad to be heading back for my sister's wedding."

"Why'd you leave?"

"I went to Bear Hunt to study."

"Study," Jack said. "You mean schooling?"

Charlie nodded. "I'm going to be a preacher. Are you a G.o.d fearing man, Jack?"

"I don't suppose."

"Why?"

"Never went to church much. My pa said it took time away from working the field. My ma took us sometimes."

"You don't read the Bible?"