Then he was still.

Tracker shook his head. "Ah, Don," he said, grimacing.

So he had been followed.

Perhaps they'd been careless in the graveyard, or perhaps Don had been watching him for days. Either way, the message was clear: he'd learned too much to stay alive.

After setting his revolver on the table, Tracker pulled Don's gun off his hip and then reached for his knife.

It was gone.

He checked Don's shirtsleeves, his boots. It didn't make sense. He didn't go anywhere without that knife. He slept with it. He took it to the jakes.

As Tracker stared at the empty sheath, he recalled a metallic glint in the moonlight, followed by the hiss of something flying past his ear.

Suddenly, a warm liquid trickled into the hollow of his collarbone.

Tracker reached up and touched it. His fingers came away b.l.o.o.d.y.

"Tom?"

Tracker turned and looked.

Caroline was sitting up in bed, drenched in blood. She stared, horrified, at the blade of a bone handle knife buried in her shoulder. "What ... what..." she said.

Tracker rushed to her side.

The knife had sunk deep. If he tried to remove it, she would bleed out. "Don't fret," he said. "I'll get you to the Doc's."

Caroline let out a yelp of pain and shut her eyes. "Oh no," she said. "We have to hurry."

"We will."

"No, it's not just that," she said, touching her belly. "I think it's time."

It took Tracker a moment to understand what his wife was saying. Time? Of course it's time to get you help, you've been stabbed!

And then it dawned on him.

"No," he said, staring at her belly.

"Yes."

"Now?"

"Now."

"Why now?"

"How in h.e.l.l's bells should I know!" she shouted. "It's just-uh..."

Her eyes rolled up, and she fainted.

Careful of the knife, Tracker scooped her into his arms. "Everything's going to be okay," he said. He lifted her up, his wrists screaming. He kicked the door open and moved out into the chilly night. It started to rain. He struggled through the darkness, slipping on the gra.s.s, focusing on the gaslights of Main Street. Another few minutes and he'd be at the Doc's. He'd fix her. She'd be fine.

"Wake up," he said. "Wake up and talk to me, Caroline."

She said nothing for few moments, then: "Tom ... don't."

Her voice was faint.

"Don't what," he said. "You stay awake, you hear me? What don't you want me to do."

"Don't ... let it happen."

"I won't," Tracker said. "I won't let you die."

"No," she whispered. "Don't let ... our baby ... die..."

Her head rolled against his chest, and she was unconscious again.

"No one is dying tonight," Tracker said.

He doubled his efforts, but it felt as if his knees would buckle at any moment. His arms screamed for relief, but he pushed on. Thankfully, the Doc's house was still lit. He was awake, and no wonder. The Ram's celebrations had spilled out into the street. The crowd sang and roared. A shotgun blast tore into the sky.

Looking at the second floor of The Ram, Tracker imagined Andy in there with a big grin on his face, thinking all his problems were over now.

But Don had missed.

And he'd hit Caroline.

Swallowing his anger, Tracker reached the Doc's and yelled, "Doc, it's me, Tom!"

There was no answer from inside. "Doc!" he cried. "Open the G.o.dd.a.m.n door!"

Nothing.

Holding Caroline as tight as he could, Tracker lifted his foot and kicked the door. It didn't budge. Clearly, the Doc took his advice to bolt his doors. Cursing, he tried again. This time he heard a crack, but still the door held.

"Hey," called a voice from the street, "just what do you think you're-Sheriff!"

Ben ran toward him. Seeing Caroline, he gasped and said, "Great gosh almighty, what happened?"

"Don tried to kill me," Tracker said.

"Where is he?"

"Ben, the Doc isn't answering and I need to get Caroline inside. If I don't, she'll die."

"Stand back, Sheriff," Ben said. He backed up, charged, and hit the door with such force that it exploded inward and took him with it. Tracker followed. Inside, Ben lay sprawled on the floor. "I'm all right," he said.

"Doc!" Tracker shouted. He heard the revelers outside. Across the room, rain pattered on the sill of an open window. But he didn't hear the Doc. Moving into the examination room, he said, "Doc, where-"

He stopped. Doc Ansen lay face down in a pool of his own blood. His throat had been cut.

Don, Tracker thought.

He stepped over the body and laid Caroline on the examination table. The blade in her shoulder throbbed as blood spilled out of her wound. She was dying. She needed a doctor, but there were no other doctors in town.

Tracker thought quickly. A myriad of townsfolk flashed through his mind, but only one would do under the circ.u.mstances. He just hoped there was a little more to midwifery than delivering a baby.

"Ben!" he shouted.

His deputy lumbered into the examination room, rubbing his shoulder. He saw the Doc and gasped.

"Ben, look at me," Tracker said.

"Oh, Doc," Ben said.

"Deputy!"

Ben looked at him.

"Fetch Sylvia Platter and tell her the baby is coming."

"Yes." He looked back at the Doc.

"Ben," Tracker said. "The Doc is dead, but my wife is still alive. She needs your help."

"Yes-yes, you're right, Sheriff," Ben said. "I'll get her." He rushed out of the office.

Before turning back, Tracker allowed himself a moment to look at the Doc.

He was a good man. He was a good man who didn't deserve to be slaughtered like a pig.

"I'm sorry, Doc," Tracker said. "I'm so very sorry."

Across the street, Foster banged on his piano.

Tracker stared out the window. He stared hard at The Ram.

Ben must have run faster than he'd ever run before, because he was back in a few minutes with Sylvia. She hurried into the examination room, still in her chemise.

"Sylvia," Tracker said. "Don't look at the Doc, he's been-"

"Your deputy already told me," she said, stepping over the body. "Benjamin? Please drag the body out of this room."

Tracker had expected Sylvia to faint or go into hysterics, but she seemed to dismiss the body as if it were an unfortunate clod of dirt. As far as Tracker knew, she held no hatred for the Doc. Perhaps she blamed him for not saving her son. Or maybe (and Tracker thought this likely), everything else pales in comparison to holding a dead son.

"Come on," she said. "He won't bite."

"Yes ma'am," Ben said, grabbing the Doc's ankles. He dragged the body into the waiting room, leaving a trail of blood behind.

"Now," Sylvia said. "Let's see this wound."

"Don tried to kill me," Tracker said. "He threw his knife but missed."

"I can see that," she said. She pursed her lips and folded her arms.

Do something, Tracker silently pleaded. Do something!

Across the street, someone shattered a gla.s.s. Foster started on Oh Susanna! and a banjo joined in.

Tracker turned and stared at The Ram again.

"I know what to do," Sylvia said.

"Thank G.o.d," he said, turning back to her.

"And I don't need your help to do it. Go get your man."

The sound of a gunshot rattled the windows.

"Tate told you," Tracker said.

"Of course he did," Sylvia said, examining the wound. "My husband is the only honest man I've ever known. That's why I married him."

"It was the only way to be sure. We needed proof."

She looked at him. "And did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes," Tracker said. "We surely did."

"Then get."

After allowing himself a good, long look at his wife, Tracker left the examination and headed for the door.

"Sheriff," Ben said, jumping up from the bench. "Where are you-"

Tracker stepped outside. It was raining harder now, a cold rain that stung his face and drizzled down his back. The revelers had moved inside The Ram, but the storm hadn't stopped the celebration. A cheer rose up as someone yelled Hank's name.

"Sheriff," Ben called, chasing after him.

"Stay there," Tracker said. "Sylvia may need your help."

"What are you doing?"

"Going to have a word with Andy."