"But the sheets are clean," Silas pointed out.

"Let's lay him down," Jack said. "Hopefully the ceiling won't fall on him before I return." After laying Charlie on the bed, they slipped out and made their way back downstairs.

Outside, they waited for the wagon.

"We had fun," Silas said, slapping Jack on the back.

"Thanks for the money."

Silas shrugged. "I would've just spent it on liquor and women anyhow."

"Yeah," Jack said. "But most fellas wouldn't-"

"Hey," Silas said. "If the devil gives me one less poke in the backside with that pitchfork of his? It'll be worth it."

The wagon rolled toward them and stopped. Billy set the brake, climbed down, and shook Jack's hand. "We had fun," he said.

"Thanks Billy."

"If you want, there will be a place waiting for you in Lone Pine."

"Two places," Silas said.

Billy smacked his brother. "As if you'd ever have the gumption to build a house."

Silas swung back and missed. "Will so," he said, "and no soddy neither. It'll be grand."

"Maybe I'll come and see it," Jack said.

Billy nodded to him and then climbed back into the wagon seat. He released the brake and clicked the reins. Silas hopped in the back.

As the wagon rolled out into traffic, Mary turned and smiled. "Go with G.o.d, Mr. Devlin," she said.

Jack had never heard her speak before. Her voice was soft, like the mew of a kitten. He wanted to say something back but couldn't find the words.

"Yeah, go with G.o.d, Jack," Silas shouted, pulling a fresh bottle of rye out from under a blanket. "And if that don't work, try try again!"

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Frosty loved to jaw. He'd tell you about the history of Rome and how their power as an empire was linked to the wearing of togas. He'd tell you why the sky never fell. He could recite the names of dozens of fish, fifty types of b.u.t.terfly, and why there was salt in the ocean but not in the creek (turns out it had something to do with gnomes). In fact, he'd talk about d.a.m.n near anything except for one subject: himself. In the three years Tracker had lived in Bear Hunt, all he knew about Frosty was that: He was originally from Bear Hunt.

He used to box.

He used to drink.

"I used have a drink," Frosty told him one morning.

"Ah," Tracker had said. He'd known plenty of men that couldn't handle their liquor. He himself spent the twenty-second year of his life in a Bear Hunt saloon called the Indigo. But there was a darkness about Frosty when he'd said it, like the way a solider says, "I fought."

After that, Frosty never mentioned it again and Tracker forgot about it. At least, until his office door was thrown open and Tate Platter ran in, shouting, "He's boxing a horse!"

Tracker sat up. "Who's boxing a horse?"

"Frosty!"

Staring at Tate a moment longer, Tracker said, "Is he winning?"

"He's been drinking since this morning," Tate said. "Blames himself for my boy's death. I tried to tell him it wasn't his fault but he wouldn't listen. Please Sheriff, come quick!"

Tate ran back outside. Tracker followed. He'd seen drunk men do some strange things in his time. He'd once seen a man dancing with a wooden Indian while calling it "My darling Athena". He'd seen another hanging from a weather vane by his suspenders. He'd even seen one try, without success, to make love to a wagon wheel. But he'd never seen a man box a horse.

Apparently, no one in Gasher Creek had seen it either. By the time Tracker caught up with Tate, a large crowd had gathered. Money exchanged hands. One vendor sold pretzels while another offered carrots. Somewhere deep in the fray, Tracker heard an old coot shouting and cursing.

"Let me through," Tracker said, pushing rushers out of his way. "Let me through!"

He broke through the crowd and ducked as Frosty's fist narrowly missed his chin. Inadvertently, he'd stepped into the middle of the fight. On one side, the horse stomped its hooves, its eyes wild, its mouth frothing. On the other, Frosty gripped the reins with one hand and growled. Blood dripped off his chin. His left cheek was swelling.

Apparently, the horse was winning.

"Out of my way, Sharf," Frosty slurred. "This beastie and me's got words."

"This beastie can't speak, George," Tracker said.

"Sure as h.e.l.l he can!" Frosty snarled, and lunged. Unfortunately, he collided with Tracker and they both fell onto the street. The horse, sensing an opportunity, reared on its hind legs, yanked itself free from Frosty's grasp, and nearly trampled a dozen rushers as it thundered away.

"Come back!" Frosty yelled, writhing in the mud. "We've got words!"

"Tate!" Tracker shouted.

Tate Platter squirmed and apologized his way through the crowd. "Yes Sheriff?" he said.

"Help me!"

"Oh, yes, very good." After hiking up his trousers, he stooped down to grab Frosty's wrist. A flailing fist caught him on the chin. He dropped.

"Thanks, Tate," Tracker said. He looked around for another sympathetic eye, but everyone was too busy gambling.

"I'm here," Tate said, rolling over in the mud. "I'm here." For a wiry little man with no visible muscles, he was awfully resilient. Tracker wondered if it had something to do with living with Sylvia.

"Take his arm," Tracker said.

Tate, dazed and a little cross-eyed, said, "Yes. Indeed." This time he did it right, falling on Frosty's arm and gripping it with both hands.

"I've got words!" Frosty screamed, his face ugly and mud splattered.

Stuffing his forearm into Frosty's mouth, Tracker said, "Let's get him back to the mercantile."

They dragged him across Main Street, the old man cursing and trying to step on their boots.

"Settle," Tate said.

"I'll beat you both into the mud!" Frosty raved.

"Now, Frosty," Tate said, "there's no need-"

"Let me go and I'll fustigate the lot of you!"

"Listen to me!" Tracker roared, grabbing Frosty by the shirt collar and shaking him. "Pipe down or I'll knock every last one of your teeth down your throat, you hear?"

Frosty whimpered. "Fustigate," he said, and then grew silent.

They lifted him onto the sidewalk.

"I don't know how you do it, Sheriff," Tate said as they reached the mercantile. "Working with human misery as you do. I suppose you get used to it."

"Do I?" Tracker said, and opened the door. They pulled Frosty across the shop floor and lugged him up a narrow staircase. At the top, a bedroom door stood propped open by an overturned wine bottle.

As they entered the room, Tracker could see that the story about Frosty sleeping on a pile of gold every night was greatly exaggerated. The room consisted of one grimy window, a cot in the corner, a dented chamber pot, and a lantern. A wardrobe with one missing leg stood in the corner. There was no other furniture, books, or portraits on the wall.

"Lay him down," Tracker said, nodding at the cot. Together, he and Tate heaved him onto his bed.

"Medicine," Frosty groaned, touching his fingers to his lips.

"You've had enough medicine for one day," Tracker said.

"He'll get no more at the hotel," Tate said. "I can promise you that."

"Medicine," Frosty whispered, and then started to snore.

Tracker fished his keys out of his pocket. Then they crept out of the room.

"It's not his fault," Tate said as they moved down the stairs. He crossed over to the counter and touched the gla.s.s. "My boy was just the curious sort. Frosty didn't know there was anything bad in that creek."

"You're not sore with him?"

Tate shook his head. "But I do want someone to blame. I've dreamed about a fella swinging from the gallows. But he's got no face, Sheriff. He doesn't exist. The only one I could blame is my-my boy." His voice faltered. "But I can't do that either."

Tracker found a couple coins in his pocket and placed them on the counter top. "What do you like?" he asked.

Tate cleared his throat. "What's that, Sheriff?"

Tracker nodded at the row of candy jars.

"Oh," Tate said. "Thank you, but-"

"Come on. My treat."

Looking at the jars, Tate said, "Oh, well ... does he have any black jacks?"

Tracker opened a jar and removed two of the dark candy sticks. He handed one to Tate. Tate held it in his palm.

"My favorite candy is peanut brittle," Tracker said. "You ever eat peanut brittle?"

"Sure," Tate said. "My ma used to make it at Christmas."

Tracker clenched the candy between his teeth. It jutted from his mouth like a cigar. "I used to eat it all the time," he said, "but Caroline doesn't like the smell of peanuts."

"How is she?" Tate asked. "I mean, her condition-"

"Good. Should be any day now."

Tate nodded, still staring at the candy in his fist. "Being a father is the finest thing a man can do," he said. "When you see your baby's face for the first time? You know it's the truth." He thanked Tracker for the candy and placed it in his mouth. It cracked. "Oh," he said.

Tracker smiled.

"I always do that," he said. "Always bite too hard."

They finished their candy and closed up the mercantile. Behind the counter, Tate was swinging the shutters closed when he said, "Looks like you didn't get your package."

"A package," Tracker said. "For me?"

"Came early this morning by stage," Tate said, fixing the latch. "I brought it over to Frosty, but he must have forgotten." He reached below the counter and retrieved a thin, rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper. He placed it on the counter.

"It's from my in-laws," Tracker said. "Must be something for Caroline." He tore open the wrapping.

Inside, he found a heavy rectangular box of oak or walnut. It was covered in a glossy black paint. On the lid, stamped in gold lettering, was the word: Lightfeather Tracker groaned.

"What's wrong, Sheriff?" Tate asked.

"It's a-gift-from my father-in-law. He bought me a Lightfeather revolver."

"Lightfeather," Tate said, nodding. "For the dainty gentleman."

Tracker sighed. "Yup."

"Well, I've ... heard good things about them."

Tracker tucked it under his arm. "I'm sure you have. Let's go."

He locked the mercantile. Outside, he said, "Tate, I'm wondering if you'd keep quiet about this." He tapped the box.

"Well, sure, Sheriff. Why?"