Jack heaved until his stomach was empty. He wished he could do the same with his mind. "I'm fine," he said.

What you'll do to her- "h.e.l.l no!" Silas shouted, jumping to his feet. He marched toward them. "Do I see what I think I'm seeing?"

Billy waved his brother away. "He's just a little under."

"Not that," Silas said. "You're thinking of leaving the redskin behind, aren't you?"

"Why do you care?"

"We need him!" Silas exclaimed, wedging himself between Jack and his brother. "His magic is keeping us alive." Turning, he waved back at Charlie, who now looked thoroughly confused. "I know you think I was drunk and seeing things, but that coyote was real. It would have eaten us and picked its teeth with Mary's bones if he hadn't been here. Land sakes, Billy, he prays to prairie dogs! If we don't take him, our horses will break each and every leg, you just watch."

"I'm all for taking him," Billy said. "But you know how Mary gets. Once her mind is made up there's no turning it."

"We got a day's ride to Brush," Silas said. "I'm sure Charlie can keep his p.e.c.k.e.r in his trousers until then."

Billy scratched his chin. After a moment, he said, "All right. If you and Jack speak for him, I'll settle it with Mary. Tell her to come over-"

"Mary!" Silas bellowed.

"Go back there with Jack and send her over," Billy said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Slapping Jack on the back, Silas said, "Come on, son, let's go tell the Chewak the good news. You hungry?"

"No," Jack said.

Mary pa.s.sed them as they walked back. The look she gave Silas could've set the gra.s.s on fire. "It's okay," he said to Jack. "She hates me anyway."

They returned to the fire pit. "Good news, Chuck," Silas said, rolling onto his blanket. "You're coming with us."

Jack sat down beside Charlie. "They're giving us a ride to Brush."

Charlie nodded to Jack and smiled. "Thank you," he said.

"Don't thank him," Silas said. "I told Billy you're magic will keep us safe."

"Uh-sure," Charlie said. "I'll tell the rain G.o.ds to stay away and the ... serpents not to bite us."

"Thanks preacher," Silas said. "Oh, and while your at it, keep your own snake away from Mary, we savvy?"

Charlie looked at Jack. "My what?"

Chapter Twenty.

In Gasher Creek, it was virtually impossible to keep a boy from his mud. He'd get muddy watching the rusher traffic on Main Street, or playing baseball in the field outside the town limits, or hunting rabbits in the Crow's Peak forest. It was so common that most of the town mothers simply gave up on their sons and settled for chiding their daughters. Jimmy was no different, save for his fascination with one particular spot; the only spot in town where the mud was littered with chips of white bark.

Tracker crouched at the tip of the old creek where its muddy bank met the gnarled roots of Hannigan's Tree. Under his boots sat flakes of white, papery bark that had peeled off in the decades of wind, snow, and rain. He opened his hand. The flake from Jimmy's boot fluttered into the mud.

Above him, Hannigan's limbs creaked like spring ice.

"Sheriff?"

Ben Tunn ducked the clothesline and lumbered toward him.

"Thanks for your help, Ben," Tracker said. "How's Sylvia?"

"She's lying down," he said. "Took two mouthfuls of rum, but she finally calmed a little."

"I'm sorry for your family's loss. Jimmy was a cousin, wasn't he?"

"Yes sir," Ben said. "Do you know how this happened?"

"Doc said he ate some poison berries. I think they came from here."

"Berries," Ben said, crouching beside him. "From the creek?"

Tracker looked out over the creek and understood Ben's doubt.

Fifty years prior, the creek had been a prairie oasis for watering cattle and horses, but now it was little more than a long, scar shaped ditch running the outer length of the town. No one knew for sure why the creek was named Gasher (and even less of an idea why the town was named after the creek), but it was rumored that Louis Dupois gave it that name after he'd cut a man named Hannigan from throat to groin and tossed him in. Now it was rotten, used primarily as an outhouse for drunks. Besides a few limp stalks of p.r.i.c.kly weed, it didn't look like anything could grow on its muddy banks. The water was thick as mola.s.ses, not suitable for man or beast.

"I found a flake of white bark on his boot," Tracker said. "And the other day, he was jawing with Frosty about p.r.i.c.kly weed."

Ben removed his hat and scratched his head. "Gosh Sheriff, weeds and toads are ugly things, so they'd live in a hole like this. But not berries."

"I'm not talking about strawberries or raspberries," Tracker said. "These were small and green."

"But even if he found berries, why in creation would he eat them?"

"You heard what killed the tom cat," Tracker said.

Ben thought about it a moment. "Whose cat?"

"No, it's a saying. The answer is curiosity."

Ben frowned at him.

"Come now, Ben, didn't you do foolish things as a boy?"

"I'm a grown man and I do foolish things, Sheriff. But even as a boy I knew better than to eat berries from a ditch."

"Yeah, so did I," Tracker said. Examining the mud, he said, "Ben ... don't move."

A small, green toad sat beside Ben's boot. It was virtually invisible, its skin the color of the mud.

"Doser toad," Tracker said.

"Well I'll be," Ben said. "That's not so ugly."

I'm learning about p.r.i.c.kly weed and Dotser toads.

Doser.

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

"Digs itself in," Tracker said. He rolled up a sleeve and then plunged his hand into the muck, startling both the toad and Ben.

"What are you doing, Sheriff?" he asked.

"I'm digging," Tracker said. His fingers inched down, the mud cold and thick like a crock of old oatmeal. His hand disappeared. Then his wrist.

"Find anything?" Ben asked.

"No," Tracker said. "There's nothing-wait," he said. His fingers touched something long and coa.r.s.e like a length of rope. He pulled, but it wouldn't budge. He tightened his grip and yanked. It burst from the ground, splattering them both with mud.

Ben cupped his hand to his mouth. "Well I'll be," he marveled.

"Here they are," Tracker said. "Jimmy was probably digging for toads when he found them."

A thick green vine hung from Tracker's fist. Cl.u.s.ters of berries dangled off the vine by stringy, coiled stalks.

"No sir, I would not eat those," Ben said, wiping the mud off his chin. "And pardon me for saying so, Sheriff, but I do not believe Jimmy would either."

"Yes he would," Tracker said grimly. Looking across the street, he spotted George Frosty sweeping out the front of the mercantile. Most mornings, the old man would attack the sidewalk with enough vigor to crack a broom handle. But now the bristles barely sc.r.a.ped the surface. He shuffled around aimlessly, nearly b.u.mping into a rusher.

Gosh. But can you eat them?

I suppose you could. Nothing that grows in the creek will hurt you.

"Frosty," Tracker said, shaking his head.

Ben shrugged. "It's not so bad with a coat on."

"No, I mean George Frosty. He told Jimmy that nothing in the creek could harm him."

Ben turned around and watched Frosty re-enter the mercantile. "Oh no," he said. "This is gonna tear him up."

"I reckon it will."

"He used to drink, you know," Ben said. "Back in his boxing days."

"He once told me that," Tracker said. Getting to his feet, he said, "Come on. Let's go show these to the Doc."

As they started toward the street, something struck Tracker's hat brim and bounced into the mud. Looking down, he spotted a silver coin. He picked it up and wiped it with his thumb, revealing the words Ram and Gasher Creek stamped onto its face. It was a screw token-an old one-its edges scratched and worn into a sharp edge. "How the devil," Tracker said, looking up into the tree. For a moment, he thought a gust of wind had stolen a bundle of rags from the Chinatown laundry and deposited them into the branches. Then the rags moved.

"Hi Andy," Ben said.

It was Andy Dupois, although Tracker had never seen him look this bad. His face was thin and sallow. Dark circles clung under his eyes like shadows. His hair hung limp about his forehead and ears. Dirt, sweat, and wine stained his shirt. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and speckled with what looked like blood. The knees and cuffs of his trousers were frayed. A belt, yanked to its last hole, protruded from his trousers like a black tongue.

"What are you doing up there?" Ben asked.

Andy stared at the creek, his eyes the color of the water. "It's a shame," he said. "It's a d.a.m.n shame what happened." A tear spilled down his cheek. "He was so young. This creek is nothing but a curse."

"Oh, it's not cursed," Ben said rea.s.suringly. "It's just a stinky hole in the ground."

From behind him, Tracker heard: "Is it true?"

He turned to see Liza walking toward them from her laundry line, a wet bed sheet draped over her arm. "Is it true what folks are saying about Jimmy?"

Tracker nodded. "Ate some berries and died. Doc will keep an eye on the body for a while, see if any signs of violence appear, but he's certain this is the culprit." He lifted the vine.

The bed sheet slipped from Liza's arm and fell to the gra.s.s. "How horrible," she whispered.

Andy climbed down from the tree. He looked at the creek and muttered, "This is my fault, Sheriff."

"Your fault," Tracker said. "Why?"

"It's my creek now." He nodded. "That boy's death is on my head."

"It's not your fault," Ben said. "Some things just happen."

"No they don't," Andy said. "Things don't just happen."

"I only meant there's no blame in this," Ben said. "You did nothing wrong, Andy-"

"Shut up!" Andy snapped. "You know nothing but feeding hogs and keeping your pa off the bottle."

His explosion of rage startled all of them. Ben nearly stumbled into the creek. Liza let out a squeak of terror and covered her mouth. Tracker dropped the vine.

"Calm yourself," he said to Andy. "Ben's just trying to help."

"I don't need his help," Andy snarled. "I don't need everyone telling me what to do."

"No one's doing that," Tracker said. As he stooped to retrieve the vine, something caught his eye. A drop of blood trickled down Andy's wrist. It slipped to his pinkie finger, paused at the tip, and then dripped into the mud.

Tracker looked at his arm and saw cuts. Dozens of cuts. Some were tiny nicks, the kind a careless barber would give you during a shave. Others were long and deep. They looked fresh.

"Sorry, Andy," Ben said. "I meant no disrespect."

"I can do this myself," Andy said. "I can fix this. Liza, go spread word about day work."

She was crying now, her arms folded tightly around herself.

"Liza!" he shouted, sounding very much like his pa. "Go inside and spread the word."