"I'm sorry, dear," he said. Although taller than Sylvia, Tate hid it well with a permanent slouch that increased in proximity to his wife. He had wispy brown hair, a drooping moustache, and brown eyes that rarely left the ground. When he spoke, his voice trembled as if he'd just spent the afternoon in an ice house. "Sorry to be a bother, Sheriff, but perchance, did you-I mean, have you seen our-"

"I already asked him and he doesn't know," Sylvia interrupted. "That means he's out in the long gra.s.s catching filthy bugs again, or playing in that ditch we call a creek."

"I'll have a look around," Tracker said. "You two go on to the church."

"There's no time," Sylvia said. "You'll miss the funeral."

"Don can represent the sheriff's office," Tracker said.

"Oh no-no, no, no," Sylvia said, wagging her finger. "That baby of yours will be born backwards if you don't attend. Didn't you know that? Of course not. Honestly, men are such-"

"I'll take my chances," Tracker said.

"Chances?" Sylvia said. "Sheriff, surely you must be-what is it!" she snapped as Tate touched her elbow.

We'll be, uh," he said, "we'll be late for the-"

"Yes, yes, you're right," she said, smoothing the arms of her dress. "Unlike our sheriff here, we don't want ill luck by not attending."

"I'll come as soon as I find your boy," Tracker said. "I have an idea where he might be."

George Frosty was one of the richest men in town, although you'd never know it. He wore the same clothes every day, never ate at the hotel, and lived above his store in a room the size of a water closet. But without him, Gasher Creek would have turned into a ghost town years ago. Prospectors, ranchers, and farmers depended on the mercantile as much as they did on gold, cows, and rain. It was the place to go for all the essentials: tea, coffee, hammers, saws, nails, boots, and, of course, pick axes and sifting pans. Frosty also ran the post office and could guess, with amazing accuracy, how long it would take your package to get to its destination, and vice versa.

But George had one fault that made his mercantile a necessity and not a pleasure: he could talk. Incessantly. Buying your essentials could cost you twenty minutes of gossip. Because Tracker was partial to brown sugar, he'd send Caroline in to purchase it. She used the excuse of her pregnancy to keep her visits short.

Tracker reached the mercantile and paused in the doorway. A ten-year-old boy with s.h.a.ggy brown hair and a dusty black suit stood inside.

Jimmy Platter.

Tracker knew he'd find him there. If Jimmy wasn't in a field picking flowers or digging near the creek, he was in the mercantile talking to Frosty. Some folks (his ma in particular), thought Jimmy asked too many questions, but Tracker always encouraged his curiosity, as did Frosty.

"The p.r.i.c.kly weed can also be used for sc.r.a.pes," Frosty said, leaning on his counter. "Rub it on the injured skin and those sc.r.a.pes will clear up in a flash."

Jimmy admired the weed in his palm. "Gosh," he said. "Can you eat them?"

Frosty cackled. "I suppose you could. Nothing that grows in the creek will hurt you. Why, even the mud can be used to soothe a sunburn."

The boy was quiet a moment before saying, "So ... it couldn't have killed Whiskey?"

"I don't reckon so," Frosty said, scratching his head. "I've seen deer eat the p.r.i.c.kly weed and it doesn't seem to trouble them. Andy's dog was old. He probably just dug one too many bones and flopped over. You keep right on pulling your p.r.i.c.kly weed and catching your toads, Jimmy," he said. "Nothing is more important than learning about the world around us."

"Yes sir," Jimmy said excitedly.

Tracker slipped into the store. He leaned on the counter next to the candy jars and nodded at Jimmy.

"Hi there Sheriff," Jimmy said. "I'm learning about p.r.i.c.kly weed and Dotser toads."

"Doser," Frosty corrected him.

"It's this toad that lives under the creek. Can you believe that, Sheriff? It digs itself in the mud and lives there!"

"Well, I'll be," Tracker said. "The things I learn from you, Jimmy."

"Frosty told me," he said, beaming at the old man.

"The things you'd learn if you ever stopped long enough to shoot the breeze," Frosty said to Tracker. "Jimmy understands the importance of shooting some breeze, don't you Jimmy?"

The boy seemed to ponder the idea very seriously before saying, "I ... think so?"

Frosty clapped his hands.

"Unfortunately, there's no time to shoot the breeze today," Tracker said. "I'm here on official business. Seems a little boy is missing."

Jimmy's smile faded. "Me I bet," he said.

Tracker nodded. "Your ma's looking for you."

"Oh, let the boy be," Frosty said, waving Tracker away. "He can do ch.o.r.es later."

"This ain't a ch.o.r.e," Tracker said. "Well, come to think of it..."

Jimmy looked at his suit, at the weed, at his suit, and then exclaimed, "Oh no, the funeral!"

"The funeral?" Frosty said. "Oh no!"

"Throw that weed outside and catch your folks," Tracker said.

"Yes sir!"

"And Jimmy?" Tracker called after him.

Jimmy skidded to a halt just outside the door.

Tracker pointed at the boy's dusty knees. Jimmy gave them a swat and then dashed off, shouting, "Thanks Sheriff!"

Frosty rushed around the counter, a ring of keys jangling in his hand. "I best hurry," he said, "lest that gospel sharp give me the evil eye."

Tracker waited outside. Locking the door, Frosty said, "Come on, we'll run together and pray Hank's ghost forgives our tardiness. The last thing anyone needs is the wrath of a Dupois!"

Chapter Thirteen.

"I know you're around here, Jack," Cole said.

Charlie stared at Jack. Jack shook his head, thinking, don't move. Don't even breathe, Charlie. He didn't know much about Cole Smith, but he did know that he used to do some bounty hunting for Hank.

He was good. w.i.l.l.y Thompson good.

"You're close by," Cole said. "I can smell you."

Charlie sniffed his armpit. He shrugged.

"Come on out and you'll get a fair trial in Bear Hunt. That's a promise from me and Sheriff Tracker." Then, c.o.c.king the hammer of a firearm, he muttered, "Come get some."

No one would have heard his muttering out on the prairie, but the echo of the rocks amplified everything.

Charlie's eyes grew wide and frightened.

Jack swallowed.

Now he knew. Cole wasn't trying to arrest him. Cole was trying to kill him.

Blinking back the sweat, he tried to think. He needed a plan. He looked at Charlie, who looked back at him as if waiting for the plan.

Taking a very shallow breath, Jack forced himself to concentrate.

Plan A: surrender and hope that Cole wouldn't shoot him.

Of course, Cole would shoot him.

Bad plan.

Plan B: they sit and wait for Cole to leave.

That's a.s.suming Cole was bluffing about their smell. If not, he'd dismount and search every boulder and column until he found them. And then he'd shoot them.

A little better, but still no good.

Plan C: they try to jump him.

It was two against one, but Cole was mounted and carrying some kind of firearm. Plus, Jack was a farmer and Charlie was a preacher. Plus, you couldn't move an inch without disturbing a handful of stones. Cole would shoot them on the principle of being stupid.

Out of ideas, Jack's mind reverted to blank panic.

"You're trying my patience!" Cole shouted.

Jack tilted his head back and gazed at the sky. It was a bright, blue day. Perhaps, once he was shot, he'd keep his sights on the heavens and feel the sunshine on his face for as long as he could. He'd watch the blue and wait for it to happen.

It might not be so bad.

As he stared, a black speck appeared above him. At first, he thought it was a grain of dirt in his eye, but it grew larger. Then he thought it might be the falling feather of some pa.s.sing crow, but it stopped in mid-air.

Then it started again.

Jack's stomach clenched as he realized it was a large, black spider. It lowered toward them on an invisible thread of webbing. Charlie looked up and clasped both hands over his mouth.

"Don't make me come look for you," Cole said. "I don't much like spiders, and these hills are crawling with the deadly sort."

The spider descended faster. It was the size of a child's fist, pure black, and hairy. Long, ragged pincers sprouted from its head. It probably held enough venom to kill a horse.

It drew closer to Jack, its legs reaching out for him like ancient, withered fingers. Jack could see its eyes.

Closer- he needed to move but didn't dare- closer- please, no, Jack thought frantically.

As one of its legs sc.r.a.ped his forehead, Charlie yelped and tumbled out from behind the boulder.

"What the!" Smith exclaimed.

Jack seized the moment of noise and confusion and swatted the spider away. It tumbled into the rocks and scurried into a crevice.

Beside the boulder, Charlie sat in a dust cloud and looked up at Cole.

"An Indian," Cole said. "Chewak, chi'kan es-cona?"

"I speak English," Charlie said. "But yes, I am Chewak."

"What are you doing out here, hiding in these rocks?"

"I fell asleep," Charlie said, wiping at his knees. "I was robbed."

A pause, then, "Have you seen a white boy around here? He's a fugitive from the law."

"I saw a bunch of white boys," Charlie said. "They beat me senseless."

More silence. "You don't dress like a Chewak."

"Yeah," Charlie said. "That's what I hear." He stood up, grinding his boots into the stones and making a racket. Jack inched around the other side of the boulder and caught a glimpse of Cole. His back was turned to him.

Finally, he got an idea.

"You're the first Chewak I've seen in three months," Cole said, lowering his rifle. "Used to be like gophers in these parts, but I hear the army's moving your kind further west."

A rock the size of an apple sat next to Jack's boot. He picked it up and held it to his chest. He stood, slipping alongside the boulder.

"So, you live out here?" Charlie asked.

Cole grunted as if it were the most absurd thing he'd ever heard, and then cried out as the rock struck his head. Twisting around, he spotted Jack and shouted, "You!" before blinking, wavering, and falling off his horse.

"Nice throw," Charlie said, moving to steady the horse. "You ever play baseball?"

Jack rushed over to Cole and dropped beside him. He placed his ear against his chest and found a steady heartbeat. "We don't have much time," he said.