"What did it feel like-you know-killing Don?"

Tracker looked at him. "Deputy, there are some things you don't ask another man about. Bring that light closer."

Ben stepped closer. Tracker stood beside Bucko's front leg and lifted his hoof.

"Why can't you ask another man about it?"

"Because not everyone feels the same about killing," Tracker said, sc.r.a.ping the hoof with his pick. "Some men kill and feel nothing. Some men kill and spend the rest of their days tearing their hair out."

"Oh," Ben said. "Which are you?"

Tracker dropped the hoof. "You're as bad as Frosty and Sylvia. All right, I suppose I'm in the middle. I've only shot a handful of men in my life and every time it's been in self-defense-them or me. Still, knowing that doesn't help much." He moved to the next hoof. "When you kill a man, right or wrong, you lose something. And when you lose that something, you never get it back."

Rain pummeled the roof above them. They heard thunder.

"I don't think it's letting up," Ben said.

"I've waited long enough," Tracker said. "The sooner I head out, the sooner I'll return."

After finishing his inspection, he took the reins and led Bucko toward the doors.

"Oh!" Ben said, "I almost forgot."

"No more questions about killing."

"No, not that," he said, and disappeared into a stall. A moment later, he emerged wiping straw off a black rectangular case. Tracker didn't recognize it until he saw the gold lettering. He sighed. "You know about the loose floor board, huh?"

"I stepped on it by accident," Ben said. "Near broke my ankle. I was going to nail it shut when I found your Lightfeather."

"It's not mine," Tracker said. "Well, it is, but I didn't purchase it. It was a gift from my father-in-law. His idea of a joke, I reckon."

"It's a grand firearm," Ben said. "Angry Emma McGee killed a hundred men with one. And it's fashioned in Seaview."

"I have no use for it. Do you want it?"

"Oh, no," Ben said, touching the gold lettering. "It's too fancy for the likes of me."

"Nonsense," Tracker said. "You need a good gun when you're sheriff."

"Yeah," he said reluctantly. "But I already got me a good gun. I think you should keep it."

Tracker took the case from Ben. "Perhaps I can make a trade with Frosty. That is, if I don't shoot him with it first."

He opened the lid. The Lightfeather lay on a molded bed of black felt surrounded by a box of cartridges and a cleaning rod. It was similar to Tracker's revolver, but smaller and silver-plated, with a 5 inch barrel and an ivory grip. Single action, six chambers. The smell of whale oil was strong.

"Sure is fancy," Ben said. "Maybe you should try it on."

Tracker c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "Why are you pushing this gun on me, Ben?"

"Well," Ben said, shifting on his heels. "You know how Don attacked you, and your wrist locked up?"

"I was there. I'm the one who told you about it."

"Well," Ben said, seeming to choose his words carefully. "You and your missus nearly died because of it. I just thought you could, perhaps, give this one a try. You know, see if you like it. Please?"

Tracker looked at the gun. He didn't like it, but his deputy was right. Caroline was missing a chunk of shoulder because of his wrist. The fact that he was able to raise the gun a second time and squeeze off a round was luck. If his wrist had seized again, they would have both died.

Tracker wrapped his fingers around the grip of the Lightfeather and lifted it out of its case. It was light; so light he almost dropped it. A gust of wind might steal it out of his hand. He squeezed the ivory grip. For the first time in a long time, he felt no pain.

"Well I'll be," Tracker said. He removed his revolver and handed it to Ben. The Lightfeather fit perfectly into his holster. He stepped away from Bucko and faced the rear of the livery.

He took a breath. He drew.

"Whoa!" Ben exclaimed. "A fella would need hawk eyes to catch that draw."

Tracker grinned. It had been fast. Faster than he'd drawn in years, faster than in his army days. And it felt good. His arm held the gun steady, his wrists like iron.

Turning, Tracker hefted the gun in his hand. "Will wonders never cease," he said. "My father-in-law was right about something."

After loading the gun and packing the rest of the ammo, Tracker led Bucko out of the livery. The rain rattled against his slicker as he climbed into the saddle. He arched his back and stretched his legs. Despite the miserable weather, he felt an excitement brewing in his gut, an old feeling from his cavalry days. He was heading out onto the plains on a young horse, carrying a new gun.

Then he looked over at the Doc's house and his excitement faltered.

He wouldn't say goodbye. He knew Caroline would be cross about it, but he couldn't bear to see her and the baby again. If he did, he might never leave.

"Good luck, Sheriff," Ben said, raising his hand.

Tracker removed his badge. "No," he said, handing it down. "Good luck to you, Sheriff Tunn."

Ben held the badge in his palm. "Gosh," he said. "This is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me."

"The town is under your wing now. Protect it."

"Yes Sheriff," Ben said. "I will."

Tracker turned Bucko. They worked their way across the muck of Main Street, around Liza's clothesline, and out past Hannigan's Tree. Bucko shook off the livery, tossing his head and stretching his legs. He picked up speed and climbed the slope with ease. At the top, Tracker gazed out over the endless sea of gra.s.s.

"What do you think?" he said, giving Bucko a pat. "Easy enough for the likes of us."

They moved forward. Tracker scanned the gra.s.s, looking for any signs of Andy. It didn't take long. Spotting a flattened patch, he pulled on the reins and dismounted.

It was too wide for a foot. Andy must have fallen. Slipping his hand deep into the gra.s.s, Tracker squeezed the blades between his fingers. They came away muddy. The rain hadn't washed it all away.

Moving forward, he found another flattened patch of ground. Then another, further on.

It could only mean one thing. When Andy fell into the mud, he must have injured his ankle. Judging by the distance between the patches, it didn't look like a break, but he may have twisted it.

The patches moved in a northerly direction.

Tracker hurried back to Bucko and climbed on. He had to move quickly. Between the wind and the rain, the trail wouldn't last.

Snapping the reins, he urged Bucko into a gallop.

Chapter Forty-One.

"I don't believe in luck," Troy Plymouth said. "I built my vast operation out of pluck and determination."

Jack held the cross in place while Troy tapped it into the earth with a shovel. At last, Charlie's pa had his marker. His last wish was to have a rosewood cross, but it took time to make.

"Pluck, not luck," Troy said. "I fear no superst.i.tious nonsense-that's h.e.l.l talk. If I want to see my bride on her wedding day? Well then I'll see her. The devil's demons be d.a.m.ned."

He waved at Emily, who stood on the back porch.

"I made coffee," she said.

"Well that's fine, b.u.t.tercup, I'm parched. Jack, you finish filling in the base and then come join us. Do a good job, now."

Troy dropped the shovel and sauntered down the hill. He and Emily disappeared inside the house.

"Rich folks," Jack said, shaking his head. He flattened the dirt around the base of the new marker.

"But darling."

He stopped and turned to look. Troy and Emily stood just inside the door. They appeared to be arguing. Jack didn't think Emily had the gumption to say anything to Plymouth outside of "yes", "of course", or, if she was feeling particularly rebellious, a firm "all right" to whatever he asked. Every conversation he'd witnessed between the two had left Emily staring at her hands with the quiet, resolute look of a woman who knows that a man's word is stone.

Jack kept pressing dirt, but he strained to listen: "Darling," Troy repeated, "it's all ready at the house. The seats are set in front of the gazebo. It's been re-painted and decorated with the prettiest flowers you've ever-"

"They won't be there," she said.

Troy sighed. "Well no, honey blossom, because they've pa.s.sed-"

"I won't have any family there," she said, her voice thick. "Every seat will be filled by your kin. Please, do this for me."

Troy sighed again. It was a great, exaggerated sigh. "Now, peach pit, Ezzie has put a lot of work into this wedding. And you know how she disapproves of surprises."

"This ain't your sister's wedding day, no matter how far she buries her beak."

"Now that's not fair. She just wants things to be proper."

"Oh?" Emily said. "A shame I can't scrub my face clean."

Troy didn't respond to that, and Jack found himself feeling sorry for the man. If his family disapproved of Emily's skin color, it wasn't his fault.

Jack snuck a peak at them. Troy removed his hat.

"You're right," he said finally. "This is your day. And if you want the ceremony here, then by G.o.d it will be so."

"Thank you," she said, and left him standing there. Troy stepped off the porch and moved back up the hill.

"Service is going to be here," he said.

Jack squinted down at him. "Okay."

"Emily wants to be married in front of her pa and brother." He cringed. "Doesn't fit my liking, but you know how Indians keep the ghost about them." He turned and looked in the direction of his ranch. "I don't know how we'll do it. I have so many relatives we may have to herd and drive them down here like cattle." He chuckled, but the smile didn't touch his eyes. "But, if my Emily wants it, she'll get it." Swatting Jack's shoulder with his hat, he said, "The things we do for our women, huh Devlin?"

Jack blinked.

"Everything's fine," Troy said. "Fine as May wine."

The first to show were the ranch hands, followed by two wagons piled high with folded wooden chairs. They worked quickly, arranging the chairs in a rough, almost bat wing shape. Troy's guests came next-and they just kept coming. There were business a.s.sociates and friends, a hundred cousins, dozens of uncles and aunts, seven brothers, three sisters, and one Grandma Gladys. They came on horseback and in wagons. They flattened the gra.s.s beside the house and churned the earth into mud.

Jack hid inside the house and listened to the crowd chatter and squawk, reminding him of a flock of gulls over freshly plowed land. He'd never seen so many people gather in one place before. It hurt his head. His stomach ached to think about all those eyes. Soon, he and Emily would have to walk out there and everyone would stare. What would they think of him? Hopefully they'd be too busy gawking at the bride to notice.

That helped a little. He liked the idea of being invisible.

As he quietly panicked, a tall, thin woman in a plain blue dress walked in through the back door. Seeing Jack, she stopped. She had limp brown hair, a long, storky neck, and a rather large Adam's apple. She held a pipe in her hand.

"Who are you," she said.

"I'm Jack," Jack said.

She scrutinized his clothes. She sniffed. "Hired help?"

"Friend of the family."

"I'm Ezzie, Troy's sister. How do you do." She saw a box of matches on the supper table. "May I," she said, picking up the box. She removed a match and struck it against the table. She lit her pipe and sucked on the stem. Glancing around the house, she said, "No wonder the girl wants to marry herself off." She sat down. "The girl in her room?"

Jack nodded. "Been there all morning."

"The girl better be ready. Everyone is waiting. I made a cake. You seen my brother?"

"No."

"Late as usual." She blinked against the smoke. "Do you have any whiskey?"

"No."

"Rum?"

"No."

"Honey wine?"