Tate pulled himself out of the mud and rushed over to his wife. "Come on," he said, unable to fight his own tears. "Come on, love." Thankfully, instead of knocking him out, she turned and sobbed into his neck.

"The Doc needs to look him over," Tracker said. "Find out what happened."

Tate nodded.

"I want to see him," Sylvia said.

"Not now," Tate said. "Not just now, wife."

Finding his nerve, Ben said, "Sheriff, should I-"

Tracker nodded at Ben, and together he and Tate led Sylvia back to the hotel.

"It's over," Tracker said to the others. Standing, he said, "Clear off. You'll all hear about it soon enough."

As the crowd dispersed, Tracker saw Frosty shuffling back to the mercantile, his hand covering his mouth.

Tracker returned to the examination room. As he entered, he saw the Doc standing next to the body. "Poor boy," he said, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. "He choked to death."

"Choked," Tracker said. "How?"

Using the handkerchief, the Doc pressed Jimmy's cheeks and opened his jaw. "Come closer, Tom."

Tracker drew closer and peered into the boy's throat. "I don't see anything," he said.

"I know," Doc said. "I want you to hold his mouth open."

"Me?"

"Just for a moment."

He replaced the Doc's fingers and felt the spongy flesh of Jimmy's cheek. At that moment, he wanted to be anywhere else but there. He'd gladly fish a dozen dead rushers out of the creek instead.

The Doc retrieved a pair of tweezers from the cabinet, and then lowered them into the boy's mouth. They clicked against Jimmy's teeth.

"Please hurry," Tracker said.

"Almost-there, got one," Doc said. He lifted the tweezers, revealing a small, green object. Saliva clung to it like webbing.

"See?" he said.

"What is it?"

"A berry," Doc said, "and there are two more down there, mashed up. The boy must've eaten them, his throat closed up, and he choked. They may be poisonous." He retrieved a washbasin from his desk and plunked the berry into it.

"Where do you find those berries?" Tracker asked.

Doc Ansen stepped over to the window and held the basin up to the light. Rolling the berry around, he said, "I'm not sure."

"You don't know?" Tracker asked. "You are a doctor, aren't you?"

"Yes Tom, I'm a doctor. Not a botanist."

"We have to find out where he picked them," Tracker said. "I'll not have another child die."

The Doc set the washbasin down and turned back to the body. "Well, the berries appear washed, so that doesn't help us. I found no evidence of scratches on his fingers or hands, so they probably didn't come from a th.o.r.n.y bush. The knees of his cuffs and trousers are muddy, but that doesn't mean much with that bog of a street out there."

"Did you check his boots?"

"No," Doc said. "Why would I?"

Tracker crouched at the foot of the table and examined Jimmy's boots. "In Bear Hunt, I worked with an officer named Warlitser. He always said that you could tell a lot about a man by the soles of his boots. Every time he'd arrest someone, he'd always demand their footwear."

"Anything?" the Doc asked, removing his gla.s.ses.

"Mud," Tracker said. "A bit of straw. Smells like Main Street."

A lump of mud clung to one heel. Tracker sc.r.a.ped it off with his thumb and smeared it on his palm.

"What in blazes are you doing now?" the Doc asked.

Tracker touched something sharp. Plucking it out, he said, "Got any water?"

The Doc fetched a pitcher and poured. Water spilled over Tracker's hand and splattered onto the floor. What remained, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, looked like a flake of white paint.

"I have no idea what that is," the Doc said, slipping on his gla.s.ses.

Tracker examined it carefully, turned it over in his palm, and then said, "I do."

Chapter Nineteen.

Jack's ma once told him about the Morning Blue. "The sun's shadow is blue," she said. "It runs over the land, whispering to every gra.s.shopper and fox and boy and girl that it's time to rise and see the dawn. It fancies the dawn and wants to show her off to the world. It whispers, 'Wake up. Wake sleepy head...'"

Wake up sleepy head...

Jack opened his eyes and shivered, his breath steaming over his face. It was early, the Morning Blue drowning the world. He stared up at it, feeling as though he were lying at the bottom of an ocean.

Rolling onto his shoulder, he poked his finger into the fire pit. Dew had soaked the cinders cold. He thought about building a fresh fire but didn't have any kindling, matches, or cow chips.

Charlie was still asleep. His bowler had fallen off, but his eyes were shut. Silas lay face down in the gra.s.s.

Jack stood and walked a short ways from camp. He rubbed his arms and stamped his feet. He gazed out over the prairie. Soon, the sizzle of bugs, the cackle of Silas, and the clatter of breakfast would fill his ears. For now, it was silent. The Morning Blue was his only companion. It helped him forget.

But only for a moment.

"Morning."

Jack turned around to see Charlie. He held his bowler in his hands, saying, "Did you sleep?"

"Suppose," Jack said. "What I could, with-"

"Yeah. It's still following us, isn't it?"

Jack plucked a blade of gra.s.s. "I don't think Silas saw a different black coyote."

Charlie nodded slowly. "What are we going to do now? From here on out, we're on foot."

"I see that thing again, I'm killing it," Jack said. "Fashion me a new coat from its pelt."

Charlie gazed out at the prairie. "It's hard being a half-breed," he said. "You got two ways of looking at the world: the white way, and the Chewak way. Now, the white preacher in me says you're right. It's just a crazy old coyote and it'll bleed. But the Chewak in me says the Old Man is wile. You never know what he's up to."

"It's no spook," Jack said. "You tell that to the Indian in you."

"I've never seen an animal pursue a man like this," Charlie said. "Have you?"

Jack shrugged. "Once saw a pony that followed its owner everywhere he went."

"Even after it was shot at?"

Back at the camp, they heard Silas say, "Curse that varnish."

They walked back, but Jack couldn't shake what Charlie had just said. It was true enough; no animal likes a gun. Ghost or not, it must have a powerful reason to keep following him.

"It's not morning yet," Silas said, rubbing his eyes.

"Just about," Jack said, returning to his spot beside the pit.

"Can't be," Silas said, rolling onto his side. "If it were morning, then Billy would've kicked me already. That boy plows a field before most take their morning p.i.s.s. Unless, of course, he is plowing." He grinned. "You think they're at it right now? Ah and ooh and whoop and pop."

"Pop?" Charlie said.

"I can't wait until we reach Brush. Find my own calico queen."

Mary appeared from behind the wagon, carrying a skillet in one hand and a cloth covered basket in the other. Despite their current location, she looked bathed, her hair brushed and shiny. Billy lumbered behind her, slow and sleepy, his shirt still missing but his suspenders hooked over his shoulders. He carried a bundle of sticks in one hand and two large baskets in the other.

"Morning boys," he said to Jack and Charlie. "Up you sow," he said to Silas, dropping both baskets behind his brother's head.

Silas snorted and squealed.

"I said up."

"Not till the good Lord stops the earth from spinning."

"Ain't the Lord making it spin," Billy said. "It's you and that poison does it."

"Mary making breakfast?"

She dropped the knives and forks into the skillet.

"Ah," Silas said, rubbing his forehead. "I do believe she is." Pulling the blanket over his head, he said, "Wake me when it's ready."

Billy looked at Jack and Charlie, raised his foot, and kicked Silas in the backside. It must have been a hard kick because Silas moved half a foot before throwing off his blanket and shouting, "Curse you churn twister, I'm up all right? I'm d.a.m.n well up!"

"Ah," Billy said. "I do believe you are."

Silas glared up at his brother as if he would throw a punch, but Jack could see the fight going to Billy. He was taller, had the muscles of a plow horse, and (more importantly), he wasn't rye sick. Silas seemed to foresee a similar defeat because he turned away and s.n.a.t.c.hed his boots. "Every morning," he said, pulling them on, "my own brother does this every morning. Can you believe it?" He shook his head. "When we reach Lone Pine, I'll gladly search out my own land, build my own house, and sleep as I please."

"Then you'll starve," Billy said, kneeling and scooping ash from the pit. "And don't think I'll help you with your crops."

"Not a problem," Silas said, knocking his heel into the dirt. "Jack will help me."

"If that's his destination," Billy said. "Have you decided yet, Jack?"

"Not sure," Jack said. Making it to Brush in one piece was more of a concern at the moment.

"Not many other places to go," Billy said, reaching into one of his baskets. He pulled out a handful of buffalo chips. "To the west you got nothing but gra.s.sland until you reach the mountains, but before that you'll run into a reservation. Pardon, Charlie, but I wouldn't have your friend go that way."

Charlie nodded.

"Not much east until you reach Pan Hope," he said, breaking a few sticks and setting them on top of the chips. "It's a boom town, but don't offer much for farm folk. If you want land, it's Lone Pine." He and his wife exchanged a glance. As Mary rooted through her basket, Billy said, "Jack, could I speak with you alone?"

"Sure," Jack said. He had a guess what it was about but decided to give Billy the benefit of the doubt. They walked toward the wagon and stopped at the rear wheel. Billy squatted and tugged on one of the spokes. "Last night, I was talking to the missus. She'd like you to come with us."

"To Brush?"

"To Lone Pine if you choose. She's the praying sort and thinks the Lord wants us to help you."

Jack looked back at the others. Smoke curled up from the campfire as Mary folded fat strips of ham onto the skillet. Silas was jawing but Charlie wasn't paying attention. He was watching Jack.

Wiping his hands on his trousers, Billy stood and said, "Some things you don't say to other white men on account of you could get in trouble. But you travel with an Indian so I reckon I can speak freely."

"All right," Jack said.

Billy rested his elbow on the wheel. "It's a shame what's happening to his people. I seen the army march them toward the mountains, moving them off their land so white folks can plant." He shook his head. "My pa once told me that the Indians were different than us, that the Good Book says the white man should be separate from the Indians and the darks, but I never read that." Billy looked as if he was either searching for the right words, or fighting with the words he already had. "It's my missus, you see. She grew up on a farm like myself. She's heard stories about Indians raping white women, and she's wary of bringing your friend with us."

"Charlie would never do that," Jack said.

But you would, wouldn't you, Jack? Tear her pretty head off like a doll and- "He wouldn't," Jack repeated, leaning against the wagon.

"You all right?" Billy asked. "You're white as egg sh.e.l.ls."

You'll rape and murder his wife like you raped and murdered Sally, and this big dumb ox in front of you will put a bullet in your head- Jack gripped his knees and vomited. Billy skipped out of the way. "I, uh," he said. "I didn't know you had such powerful feelings over this."