The mob exploded with laughter. Hank's "four" was lost amidst his snorts and squeals.

Jack thrashed about in the mud, trying to get up. For a moment, he thought the creek had snared him. Wiggling each foot, he managed to wrench his boots free. Then he stood and ran.

"Five-gittup!"

The earth rumbled behind him.

He's gonna take his medicine.

The land appeared in the glow of Hank's torchlight.

"I see you, Devlin!"

You wanna play?

The hit was like a cannonball between his shoulders. Pain exploded throughout his body as he left the ground and tumbled into the air. He seemed to linger for a moment, hovering like a dragonfly, and then crashed into a thatch of p.r.i.c.kly weed.

The world pitched like a spinning wheel. Hank appeared above him, his face and torch and horse whirling like spokes. "Pathetic," he said. "You didn't even try, Devlin. You don't deserve thish-this-hone-or ... honor ... this..."

The drunk tumbled from his horse and he fell to the ground. The torch fell into the thick, wet gra.s.s. As it hissed and extinguished itself, he saw Hank get to his feet and hobble toward him.

Then the darkness swallowed them both.

"Please," Jack said, trying to stand. "Please, Hank, I didn't-"

A fist cracked him on the chin. Jack bit his tongue and blood gushed into his mouth.

"Thish is my town," Hank said, his breath of rank whiskey on Jack's face. "My town. You don't come into my town and destroy my prop-ter-tee. Proper-tees. My girls."

Another punch.

Jack tried to roll away, but Hank fell on him. "Take your med-shin!" He gripped Jack's head and slammed it onto the ground. Jack grabbed a handful of thistles and swiped blindly at Hank's face, digging into his skin and sending the fat man rolling off him, howling in agony.

He tried to crawl, but Hank caught his ankle.

"Stop it!" Jack cried, twisting onto his back and kicking with his free leg. He connected with bone. Hank let out a strangled growl and was silent.

"Stop it," Jack screamed at him, the tears hot on his face. "Stop it!"

"Hank!"

The others were coming, their torches bouncing toward him like giant fireflies. Jack scrambled to his feet and dashed up the rise in the land, scratching and clawing like a fox in the scant lead of a hound pack.

He reached the top and the ground leveled out.

He ran.

Chapter Four.

BAM BAM BAM!.

"Tom."

BAM BAM BAM!.

"Tom, someone's at the-"

BAM!.

Tracker's eyes opened. Caroline was shaking him. "Wake up," she groaned. "Someone's trying to break down our door. Please make them stop."

"Devlin," Tracker said, rolling out of bed.

Something had gone horribly wrong. The boy got out of his cell and Don shot him, or Don shot him while he tried to get out of his cell, or someone came for him and Don shot that someone.

"Don?" Tracker said, still trying to shake off the sleep as he stood.

He pulled open the front door.

It was Liza again.

"Sheriff," she said. "Come quick!"

Tracker slipped into his coat as he left the house. He rubbed his hands together and blew into them.

"I didn't know what to do," Liza said. "But all h.e.l.l's come down."

"What happened?"

"They took Jack."

"Took him?" Tracker said. "Took him where?"

"To do a rundown behind Hannigan's Tree."

"He dead?"

"Escaped."

"How?"

"Hank chased after him, they scuffled, Jack won."

"Hank rode a horse?" Tracker asked, b.u.t.toning his coat.

"I hardly believed it myself," Liza said, her voice shivering. "They took Hank to the Doc's. He's hurt bad."

Up ahead, Tracker could see Doc Ansen's house lit up. A shadow moved across one of the windows. Across the street, The Ram was bright but silent. Even the livery looked livelier than The Ram. A small group of men milled around its open gates.

"Where's Don?" Tracker asked.

"I don't know. I came to you first."

Tracker gave his wrists a painful twist as he tried to a.s.sess the situation: One man on the run.

One man injured at the Doc's.

One man possibly dead.

"All right," Tracker said. "I'll head to the Doc's and find out what's going on. You run and fetch Deputy Weld."

They were close enough to the glow of Main Street's gaslights for him to see the quizzical expression on Liza's face. "Sheriff," she said cautiously, "Deputy Weld is dead and gone ... remember?"

Tracker caught a cold breath. "Yes. You're right, Liza, of course he is. Go see if Deputy Kivel is all right. Can you do that for me?"

"I can," she said. Wrapping her shawl tightly about her, she ran ahead.

Tracker felt the fool for saying Ed's name. Of course he was dead, he knew that. He saw the hole in his head, was at his d.a.m.ned funeral. Still, he couldn't fault himself for wanting him at his side.

As Tracker hurried toward the Doc's, he noticed the group of men turn and stroll away from the livery. A lone figure remained crouched against a stall door. Tracker could tell it was Andy Dupois. Even his silhouette looked scrawny.

"Andy!" Tracker shouted, rushing across the street. He reached the livery and stopped short as a pitchfork stabbed the air. "Leave him be!" a man shouted. "Oh, pardon Sheriff."

"Smith," Tracker said.

Cole Smith lowered his pitchfork and propped it against a stall. A childhood friend of Andy's, Cole took over the livery business from his pa, Asa, who died the previous year. He was tall and lean, with thick arms from working with horses and blonde, almost white hair from a Swedish ma he never knew. "He's very handsome," Caroline once said about him. Of course, that made Tracker instantly dislike him, but he was good at keeping his horse, Bucko, fed and watered.

"Hank and a bunch of his boys did a rundown on Devlin," Cole said.

"I know," Tracker said. "He escaped and his pa is injured."

"Is he dead?" Andy asked, looking up at Tracker.

"I don't know yet," Tracker said. "We'll see to him in a moment. First, I need you to talk to me."

"Go on, Andy," Cole said. "Sheriff won't bite."

Andy glanced at Cole. "I didn't want to hurt Jack. I had no choice."

"I'm not going to arrest you, Andy," Tracker said. "I just need you to tell me what happened."

"My pa sought his justice," Andy said, wiping his nose. "He went to the jail and got Jack. We dragged him off to Hannigan's and he did his rundown. But Jack got away. When we found my pa, he was in bad shape, scratched and hit. We brought him to the Doc's. Doc told all of us to get out. The others scattered like cats. I came here."

"How many others?" Tracker asked.

"A dozen or so," Andy said. "We all wore hoods."

Tracker knew he'd never find out who helped Hank. The whole county was in debt to the Dupois family for one thing or another. They were good for loans when the bank didn't budge, they used to keep the longriders out of Gasher and the rustlers off ranch land. If Hank needed help to kill someone, he'd get it. Everyone owed.

"All right," Tracker said. "Let's go see your pa."

Cole closed up the livery and followed Andy and Tracker over to the Doc's. They entered the waiting room just as Doc Ansen emerged from the examination room. He was wiping his hands with a handkerchief. His bifocals sat on the tip of his nose, fogged with sweat.

"Doc?" Andy asked.

"Andy, I was just going to look for you," he said. "Your pa-he's dead."

"Dead?" Andy said, slipping a knuckle over his lips. The floorboards creaked as his body trembled. "How?"

"It's too early to tell," Doc said. "I'll have to examine him further. There's no sign of violence other than the scratches on his face. He may have hit his head. His heart may have quit on him."

"I want to see him," Andy said.

Doc stepped out of the way. Andy crept past him into the examination room. A moment later, they heard a slight sob.

Tracker turned to Cole. "Were you a part of this?"

Cole shook his blonde head. "No, Sheriff, you know how Hank is. He only trusts folks from around these parts."

"You're not from Gasher Creek?" the Doc asked.

"Originally from Seaview," Cole said. "I came here as a boy but that makes no difference to Hank."

Tracker nodded, remembering Hank in hitches over the town's election of a Bear Hunt lawman. "If he asked, would you have helped him?"

"No," Cole said. "I abide the law. Still, I wouldn't shed a tear over the death of a murderer and rapist."

"Alleged," Tracker said.

Cole grunted. "Is there any doubt?"

The side door opened. Liza's cheeks were flushed from running, her blonde hair loose around her ears. Her dress was splattered in mud. "Sheriff," she said, "I-"

Catching sight of Cole, she stopped talking.

"Liza?" Tracker said.

"Go on, girl," Cole said. "You got something to say?"

"I," she said, then hesitated. Still staring at Cole, she said, "I found-"