"No," Sylvia said impatiently. "Why are you asking such foolish questions?"

"If he hasn't broken a law, then I can't hold him," Tracker said. "He's a free man, and a free man can do as he pleases."

"That's right," Tickie said.

"But surely there's a law against losing a preacher," Sylvia protested. "Doesn't every town need a man of G.o.d?"

"Not without a church!" Tickie declared. "No church, no preacher. I'm leaving."

"We'll rebuild it," Sylvia said, clutching his shoulders.

"The law doesn't require a town to have a church," Tracker said. "And who's going to rebuild it, you?"

Sylvia stomped her foot. "Men. If The Ram had burned, you'd already have a new frame sunk into the ground. But a church is of no consequence."

Tracker heard the rumble of the stagecoach. "He's early."

"The sooner I'm out of here, the better," Tickie said, wrenching himself from Sylvia's grasp.

"Reverend, I'm begging you," she said, clasping her hands. "Stay. I'll do anything."

Looking at the hotel, Tickie said, "A twenty percent share."

"Absolutely not!" she exclaimed.

"Then goodbye."

"Sheriff," Sylvia said. "Please do something."

"You got any luggage needs loading?" Tracker asked.

Tickie pulled a Bible out of his coat pocket. "This is all I have left."

The coach stopped in front of them. "Got no mail," the driver said. "You got any pa.s.sengers?"

Tickie raised his finger. "Just one." He opened the door and climbed aboard.

"Where will you go?" Tracker asked.

"Away," Tickie said, slamming the door.

With a snap of the reins, the coach turned around and headed out of town. Sticking his head out of the window, Tickie yelled, "Devil's trough! Devil's trough! De-vil's Trough!"

Don stopped eating long enough to say, "I for one will miss him."

"This won't stand, Tom," Sylvia said, pressing her fingers to her forehead. "This town needs a church. Without it, we're nothing but Satan's bed."

"Trough," Tracker corrected. He watched the coach roll out of sight. "Don, I want a word with you at the office."

"I still got coffee coming."

"Bring it with you."

"Once Tate finishes brewing it, I'll come," Don said. "Until then, you'll just have to wait, now won't you?"

Tracker looked at him. He nodded. He wouldn't give the blowhard any satisfaction, especially in public. He continued on to the office.

"Sheriff," Sylvia called after him. "This is the worst sort of luck. You'll see!"

Don took his sweet time, more than enough for Tate to make three pots of coffee and most of a banquet. "Sorry I'm late," he said, strolling in. "Sylvia wouldn't let me take my cup with me."

"Sit down, Don," Tracker said, motioning to the stool.

"Oh, I'm not staying," he said, plucking his hat off the nail beside the door. "My shift is done and I'm going home."

Tracker stood from behind the desk. "Please. I just want to square things between us."

Don grunted. "You want to square things? You threatened to shoot me."

"I was angry with Tickie, not you," Tracker said. "I had no proof you had anything to do with Devlin's lynching."

"No, you surely did not," he said, leaning in the doorway. He dug into the frame with his thumbnail. "Know what your problem is, Tom? You don't know how valuable I am to this office. So I'm gonna tell you. Gold. I'm gold to this office."

"How do you figure?" Tracker asked.

"Ed gets shot, and who cares?" Don said. "A few toothless kin from the mountains. I get shot and you lose your peace with the Dupois family. Last night, you were wrong about everything except for one thing: I am pals with Andy Dupois. Now, he may not be the bear his pa was, but he's still a Dupois."

"So?"

Andy chuckled. "Haven't you ever wondered how it is three lawmen can keep this town from folding? How many deputies you figure ol' Garnell has up in Brush, a half-dozen? They got ranch land up there. How about in Waterbrick or Murphy? Seven lawmen protecting two silver towns gone dry. We're a gold town, Tom, and yet you've never employed more than two deputies. Do you really think that's because you're some big shot policeman from Bear Hunt?" He smiled. "If it wasn't for the Dupois family, the longriders and b'hoys would've rolled into Gasher Creek like dynamite and blown this town to Heaven. You're nothing without that family, and you'd take care to remember that before cussing me out again." He turned to leave.

"Wait," Tracker said, moving toward him. "I'm not through with you yet."

Don slipped his hat on. "Oh yeah? You got something else to say to me?"

"I do," Tracker said, and punched him in the face.

Don stumbled out the door, fell off the sidewalk, and splashed into the mud. Rolling onto his knees, he pulled his knife, but Tracker was there to kick it out of his hand and crack him across the jaw. "Stay down," he said, then cried out as Don smashed his foot into his knee. Tracker dropped, but drove his elbow into Don's chest on the way down.

Don growled up at him, his teeth b.l.o.o.d.y.

"You're right, Don," Tracker said, cuffing him across the forehead. "I'm as useless as a mewling kitten. What would I ever do without you?"

"Sheriff!"

Tracker heard Sylvia, but ignored her. He didn't care that he was rolling in the mud and the s.h.i.t, that everyone in town was watching, that he wasn't acting like a proper lawman. After all, he was proving her right. Children did need a good swat now and then.

"Sheriff, help!"

Tracker turned. Between the spokes of a wagon, he saw her standing outside the hotel, holding what appeared to be some sort of sack. The crowd that had gathered to watch the brawl was now staring at her as she screamed his name a third time.

Tracker stood to get a proper look.

It wasn't a sack.

It was a small, limp body.

"Jimmy," Tracker said. He turned to Don. "Come on, something's wrong with Jimmy."

Don got to his feet and flicked the mud from his hands. Blood spilled over the sides of his mouth. He spat. "No Tom," he said. "I'm through with you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. Dropping it in the mud, he said, "Hope the nights are to your liking." He pulled his knife out of the mud, wiped it on his leg, and then limped away.

Tracker didn't have time to argue. He turned and charged through the traffic, shoving rushers out of his way as he hurried toward Sylvia.

"Sheriff," she said. "Please, help him."

Tracker leapt onto the sidewalk.

Jimmy lay in her arms, his head resting in the crook of her elbow. His eyes were shut, his little hands squeezed into fists. His face was ashen.

Tate rushed out of the hotel, wiping his hands on a towel. Seeing his son, he let out a squeak and cupped his hands to his face.

"I called for him, but he never answered," Sylvia said, sobbing. "When I went upstairs, I found him in the hallway. What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," Tracker said. "Give him to me."

She hesitated.

"I promise I won't drop him," Tracker said. "Please-I can get him to the Doc's faster than you can."

"It's all right," Tate said, touching her arm. "Let the sheriff take him."

"You can follow," Tracker said, scooping the limp child into his arms. He was heavy; the kind of heaviness a body only got when- "Out of my way!" he shouted, turning around. The crowd parted as he ran toward the Doc's house. He held the boy close, dodging the pedestrian traffic and trying not to slip on the muddy planks.

"Doc!" he shouted, jumping off one sidewalk and leaping upon another. "Doc, wake the h.e.l.l up!"

Up ahead, the Doc's side door opened. He stuck his head out and squinted in the sunlight. His hair was a mess. He wasn't wearing his gla.s.ses. His trousers weren't b.u.t.toned and a dollop of jam clung to his shirt. He said, "What in creation is going on out-oh!" and jumped back as Tracker charged into the waiting room.

Seeing the boy, the Doc said, "Quickly, on the table."

Tracker entered the examination room and lay Jimmy on the table. The Doc nudged him out of the way as he pushed on his gla.s.ses. He leaned in for a closer look.

"Well?" Tracker asked.

The Doc placed his ear against the boy's chest.

"Dammit, Doc, speak to me!"

"No heartbeat," he said, straightening up. "Hand me that mirror, Tom."

Tracker grabbed a small mirror off the shelf and handed it to the Doc. Holding it under the boy's nose and mouth, the Doc said, "d.a.m.n."

"What are you doing?"

"Checking for a breath." The Doc removed it, held it under.

Removed it.

Held it under.

Finally, he removed the mirror and swore with such viciousness that Tracker took a step back.

Setting the mirror back on the shelf, the Doc said, "I'm sorry, Tom. He's gone."

"Dead?" Tracker said. "How?"

"I-"

The Doc stopped talking as he looked out the window. "Oh no. Here she comes."

Sylvia marched toward them, flanked by Tate and Ben. A gaggle of onlookers followed close behind.

"She can't come in," Doc said. "Not yet. I need a moment to examine the child."

"I'll stall," Tracker said. "Tell her the bad news."

Glancing at his gun, the Doc said, "That thing loaded?"

Tracker exited the house. Sylvia saw him and stopped. Everyone stopped to listen.

"How is he," she asked. "How's my boy?"

Tracker wished there weren't so many people watching. Approaching them, he said, "Sylvia, I..."

"Tell me," she said, but the tears were already streaming down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Tracker said. "He's dead."

Sylvia stared at him a moment, almost as if she hadn't heard him.

And then she screamed.

Tate reached out for her, but she shoved him so hard that he stumbled and fell. Ben froze as she howled and flailed her arms.

Bracing himself, Tracker ran up to her and wrapped his arms around her. She screamed in his ear, kicked at him, hammered him with her fists. Together, they collapsed onto the street. She bucked and pulled, pushed and scratched, but he held on. Finally, she gave up fighting and buried her face in his chest.

"Tate," Tracker said.