"I can't read."

"Oh," Charlie said, and then brightened. "I'll teach you."

"We're going to be here that long, huh?" Jack said.

Charlie threw his head back and laughed, his teeth glistening in the sunlight. It was a loud, boisterous laugh that reverberated around them.

"I can see why you got robbed," Jack said. "All of creation can hear you."

Charlie tucked the canteen under his arm. "My ma told me you have to laugh loud enough for the Old Man to hear."

"The Old Man?" Jack said. "Who's that, your pa?"

"No, the Creator."

"That Bible stuff?"

"Chewak stuff," Charlie said. "She said the Old Man made the sky, the prairie, even these Badlands, although I'm not sure why he'd want to do that."

"Me neither," Jack said.

"Maybe this was a testing ground," Charlie said. "A place where my ancestors came to see the White Eagle. Legend says the White Eagle is the size of a horse, with wings the length of mountain pines. And he's pure white, not one spot on his feathers. My ma told me he's a tear from the Old Man. When you see the White Eagle, you're supposed to find your purpose-path-something like that."

"You ever seen it?"

"No," Charlie said.

"Any Indians you know seen it?"

"I don't know any except my sister," he said. "But that's going to change. When I finish my studies, I'm going to travel to the reservations and preach the good word. In return, I hope to learn their ways and language. My ma taught me all sorts of things, but she died when I was young so I've forgotten most of it."

"Except for white eagles," Jack said. Squinting up at the sky, he said, "Well, I don't see no eagles, but I reckon we'll have our share of buzzards soon enough."

Charlie laughed again.

As noon burned down, they decided to rest. Leaving the riverbed, they slipped behind a giant boulder at the edge of the path. Although it provided shade, it offered no respite from the heat.

Jack couldn't resist any longer. When Charlie offered, he grabbed the canteen and gulped two mouthfuls. It hurt to swallow, but the water tasted gritty, warm, and good. He was still worried about getting sick, but at that moment sick was preferable to death from thirst.

Charlie took a swig from the canteen before closing it. "So, where are you headed?" he asked, licking the water off his lips.

"I don't know," Jack said. "Heard of a place up north called Lone Pine. They got free land for settlers."

"Lone Pine? Yeah, I know it. You running away?"

"No."

"Folks tend to head north when they're running away from something."

"Well I'm not," Jack snapped.

Liar.

Charlie gave him an apologetic smile. "Sorry," he said. "Preacher habit. We ask lots of questions."

"You like being a preacher?"

"Well, I'm not a full preacher yet," Charlie said. "But of course I like it. I get to speak to folks about Jesus, and that's the most important thing anyone can ever speak about."

"How do you figure?"

"He keeps you from going to h.e.l.l," Charlie said. "What can be more important than that?" He pressed his fingers to the boulder, leaving three spots of moisture on the surface. "But it's not easy. You have to have the faith of a mountain. Sometimes it's hard to believe, especially when I think about my people..."

Charlie stopped talking. The three spots of moisture evaporated.

"Chewaks don't like Jesus?" Jack asked.

"Sometimes I think it's the other way around," Charlie said. "See, the Bible teaches us that when Jesus died, there was a new law. The only way of getting into Heaven was to believe in him."

"Yeah," Jack said, nodding. "My ma taught us that."

"Like all good mothers do," Charlie said. "Even my ma taught me that, although she mixed it with stories of the Old Man, the Crow, and the Winter Bear."

Jack didn't know those Bible stories, but his ma had never read him the Bible. She couldn't read either. She just liked to hold it sometimes.

"So there was Jesus," Charlie said, "a carpenter living in Nazareth. That's far away."

"Another country?"

"Over the ocean."

"Oh."

"So after this carpenter died and came back to life, he was the only way of getting into Heaven. It became the law."

"So?"

"So there's a problem," Charlie said. "White man only came here four hundred years ago."

Like every other preacher he'd ever heard, Jack was having a hard time following him. "So?" he repeated.

"Well, it wasn't until four hundred years ago, and less than a hundred for the Chewak, that any Indian would have heard of Jesus. Yet, according to the Bible, if you don't know Jesus you go to h.e.l.l. That means that for almost two thousand years my people have been dying and going to h.e.l.l because they didn't know Jesus, although there was no way they could have known Jesus."

Jack sat back and thought about Jeanie. She never went to church once their ma died of the fever, and he never saw her pray a word in her life. And because of that, she was burning in h.e.l.l? He didn't know about all those Indians, but that didn't seem right about his sister.

"It's a thorn I can't pluck," Charlie said, giving his canteen a swish. "Tell you the truth, I'm glad to be heading home for Emily's wedding. I don't want to think about it for a while. All I want to do is see my pa and play my fiddle." He mimicked the stroke of a bow. "I'm not sure if the good Lord will approve, but I reckon the Old Man will be fine with it."

Jack shrugged. "It's all just wind anyhow."

"You think so?"

He opened his mouth to respond when he heard the unmistakable clop clap of horse hooves. Shutting his mouth, Jack braced his knees against the boulder and folded his arms tightly across his chest. Charlie did the same. They listened. The sound grew louder and echoed around them like applause. Jack couldn't tell if it was one horse or an entire gang.

He held his breath.

Charlie cupped his hands over his nose and mouth.

It stopped.

"Devlin!" cried Cole Smith. "You're caught. Come on out."

Chapter Twelve.

Funerals happened all the time in Gasher Creek. As the town boomed, so did the graveyard. Rushers got shot, rushers fell in the creek, rushers cracked their heads on a rock. As a result, a procession carving a path through the traffic didn't garner much attention.

Unless it was a Dupois. Then the town skidded to a halt like a nervous coach horse.

Shops locked their doors and closed their shutters. Sidewalk vendors urged their customers to come back in an hour. And the two largest businesses in town-the Gasher Hotel and The Ram-looked abandoned.

At three in the afternoon, Tracker locked the sheriff's office and turned toward the church. He didn't want to go to Hank's funeral. Most folks in town probably didn't want to go to Hank's funeral. But the death of a Dupois was like the death of a king. You mourned, whether you liked it or not. Supposedly, enough people attended Louis Dupois' funeral to make the church floor buckle.

Ben Tunn, ever apologetic hog farmer, called to Tracker as he approached the office. He looked like an overstuffed undertaker in his black suit and waistcoat. Tugging at his collar, he said, "Sheriff, did you know that cold water could shrink a man's clothes? I scrubbed this suit to make sure I didn't smell like the hogs, but gosh." He wiped a sleeve across his sweaty forehead.

Somehow, Tracker didn't think it was the cold water that caused such a snug fit, but didn't say anything.

"Where's Don?" Ben asked.

"He's in the procession," Tracker said, and looked up Main Street. Removing his hat, he said, "There he is."

Seeing the procession, Ben tore off his hat and crushed it in his hands.

Carriages swerved to either side of the street. Mules brayed as their owners goaded them away from the coffin. The street cleared and everyone piled onto the sidewalk to watch.

Hank's coffin proceeded down the street on the shoulders of six men. Don was one of the six, looking respectful for once in a new black suit. He'd bathed, brushed his hair, and, to Tracker's amazement, shaved his face. He even wore his badge.

Andy held a spade and walked in front of the procession. Liza, in a blue dress, walked at his left. Delilah strutted on his right, wearing a large black dress that revealed a healthy amount of cleavage. She lifted the hem of her skirt as she walked through the muddy street, showing off her calves.

"Goodness," Ben said, averting his gaze.

After the procession moved past, Tracker said, "All right, let's get this over with."

They stepped into the street and followed the others. "Sheriff," Ben said, "I was thinking I might sweep the office when the funeral is done."

"That's not necessary," Tracker said.

"Wash the walls?"

"No."

"I noticed your door was still, broken, I could-"

"Bob Alder is doing it," Tracker said. "Listen, Ben, you don't have to repay me any favors. I hold no ill feelings against you for not watching Devlin."

He nodded. "Yes Sheriff. It's just that-"

"If I need help with anything, you'll be the first I speak to. Fair enough?"

Ben brightened a little. "Fine," he said. "That suits me just fine." Suddenly, the bottom b.u.t.ton of his waistcoat popped off and fell into the mud. "Oh no," he moaned.

"Sheriff!"

Tracker turned to see Sylvia Platter marching toward him.

"You go sit with your pa," Tracker said to Ben. "I'll be along shortly."

"Good idea," Ben said. "Sylvia sees me with a b.u.t.ton missing and she'll tan my hide." Pretending to scratch his belly, he turned away and started for the church.

"Good afternoon, Sylvia," Tracker said.

"Don't," she said, approaching him. "Don't say that. It's bad luck to greet someone on the way to a funeral."

"Oh," Tracker said. "I didn't know that."

With her fiery red hair tucked into a black bonnet, Sylvia's long pointed nose and prominent cheekbones stood out in sharp relief. "Have you seen my boy?" she asked. "I haven't seen him. He needs to be here. He must pay his respects to the dead."

"I haven't seen him," Tracker said.

"No one has," she said, crossing her arms. "That boy's a ghost. And do you know why? His father."

"Tate's missing as well?"

"No," she said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. Tate Platter finished locking the hotel and then hurried to catch up. "Lazy with the switch," she said. "Children need a good swat now and then, don't you agree?"

"I-"

"If more boys got the devil smacked out of them there would be fewer men for your jail cell, don't you agree?"

Reaching them, Tate said, "Morning Sheriff."

"Don't say that!" Sylvia snapped.