"It made you look guilty."

"I know." Andy's eyes welled up again. "Am I still under arrest?"

"Yes you are. You'll have to stand trial for your involvement in these crimes, but you may not hang for it. Judge O'Donnell is tough as leather, but he may only sentence you to hard labor."

It was a lie and Tracker knew it. O'Donnell didn't believe in prison. He once said that the only sure way to rehabilitate a criminal was to hang him. Still, if one lie kept Andy behaving himself on the ride home, it was worth it.

As Tracker helped Andy to his feet, he couldn't help but feel disappointed. He'd found his man, but it turned out Andy was only a minor player. Don and Delilah were dead, and Cole and Liza were long gone. Dead or alive, who knew. It was a sour ending, but he supposed it would have to do. At least someone would stand trial for the crimes. He didn't get the confession he'd hoped for, but at least it was finally over.

"By the way," Tracker said, "where'd you get that mule?"

"What?" Andy said.

"I found a dead paint mule a ways back Where'd you get it?"

"A friend of my pa's. He raises mules."

"Why'd you shoot it?"

"It would stop to graze, or it would try to buck me off," Andy said. "Animals don't much care for us Dupois, especially horses and any other riding animal. Finally, I got angry and shot it."

"You wasted your only bullets," Tracker said.

"I wasn't in my right mind."

No, Tracker reckoned he wasn't.

As they turned back toward Bucko, Tracker's eye caught something in the distance: Two riders.

"Andy," he said, "get down and don't move." As Andy flattened himself against the ground, Tracker shaded the sunlight with his hands for a better look.

He'd been wrong. It was one rider sitting atop a gigantic horse. The other, most certainly a trick of the light, appeared to be a large, black dog.

What happened next, happened very, very fast.

Chapter Fifty-One.

The black coyote had led them around the Badlands. Jack didn't know why-with a coyote that big, what highwayman would bother them? It was a quicker route, and they could've been in Gasher Creek before nightfall. Instead, they would have to spend an extra half day or more traversing the land. That meant he'd have to wait even longer to kill Andy Dupois. He supposed he could have re-directed Samson to enter the Badlands, but the Clydesdale seemed to know who the leader of the pack was.

The coyote kept looking up at Jack. Ever since he'd awoken from his dream, the creature had acted twitchy as if it knew what he'd dreamt about. But even Jack didn't rightly understand it. He'd been playing poker with the dead. He'd seen Charlie. He'd held a handful of black coyote cards. If it knew something he didn't, Jack wished it would speak up.

As they moved over a slight rise in the land, the black coyote growled. Jack spotted something in the distance: a vague shape, nothing he could clearly make out.

The coyote barked.

Samson whinnied and tossed his head.

"What," Jack managed, before the coyote shot forward, a blur and a shadow. Samson chased after it. The jolt was so sudden that Jack nearly tumbled off. He gripped Samson's mane and dug his face into his neck. He'd never moved this fast before. His body buzzed like a beehive. The wind beat against his face, cold and hard, stealing tears from his eyes.

They closed the ground quickly. The shape, which moments before had appeared vague and nondescript, now morphed into a horse, a man, and a cottonwood tree. The man held something in his hand that glinted like a dagger.

The black coyote charged. The man stiffened, seemed to understand what was about to happen, and attempted to raise his weapon. But the coyote struck first, leaping high into the air and ramming him in the chest. The object flew from the man's hand. He fell, tried to get up, and was pinned by the coyote's four large paws.

"No!" Jack cried, yanking on the reins so hard that Samson nearly tripped over himself trying to stop. Jack slid off and ran toward the coyote, shouting, "Stop! Leave him alone!"

Although the man was pinned to the ground and partially obscured by the gra.s.s, Jack could see that he was tall and broad shouldered. The impact had thrown his hat off, revealing a head of messy brown hair. A moustache stretched past his lower lip.

Jack recognized that moustache. Skidding to a stop, he said, "Sheriff Tracker?"

"Devlin," Tracker said, his voice constricted. "Get your mutt offa me!"

The coyote looked at Jack with its large copper eyes. Its tongue dangled from its long, tapered maw. Beads of saliva dripped from its teeth onto the sheriff's ear.

"What are you doing here?" Jack asked.

"I'd (gasp) like to (gasp) answer you," Tracker said hoa.r.s.ely. "But I can't (gasp) breathe with this mangy (gasp) dog on my back!"

The coyote growled. It wasn't about to move.

"Get off him," Jack commanded.

The coyote looked elsewhere. Following its gaze, Jack spotted another man laying in the gra.s.s. He was dressed in rags. His skin was pale, his face gaunt. A mop of black hair hung over his forehead. His wrists were cuffed. For a moment, Jack forgot the sheriff and approached the stranger.

Then his breath caught. He couldn't believe it.

It was Andy.

Andy sat up. "Jack?"

Jack rushed forward, drew back his leg, and kicked Andy in the face. Andy's head snapped back, his teeth gnashing together in a sickening crunch. He fell over. Dropping to a knee, Jack slammed his fist into Andy's cheek, the bone cracking under his knuckles.

"Devlin, stop it!" Tracker shouted.

Jack could barely hear him. The sheriff's voice seemed m.u.f.fled and distant as if shouted behind a thick pane of gla.s.s.

"He must stand trial-"

Jack flattened Andy's nose with his right fist. His left split Andy's lip. He threw punches with wild abandon, not carrying where they landed: Right, Left, Right, Left.

Blood gushed from Andy like water from a smashed fountain. His body twitched like a rabbit full of buckshot. His face was a mash of bone and flesh.

Jack stood and admired his handiwork. His fists dripped blood. Rage surged through him. He felt like a G.o.d.

And like a G.o.d, he wasn't satisfied.

Scanning the ground, he looked for a rock large enough to crush a skull. There had to be something, anything he could- Beside a stinging nettle, that something glinted. It was the thing Jack had seen in the sheriff's hand. He moved over and plunged his hand into the thick of the gra.s.s, expecting to touch the cold blade of a knife. Instead, he found the ivory grip of a gun. He lifted out a silver-plated revolver. It felt incredibly light.

"Devlin," Tracker gasped.

Jack turned to look at him.

"I know you're innocent. Don't destroy your life by-ach!"

The coyote dug its claws into his shoulders.

Jack turned back and stared at the squirming ma.s.s of pulp that used to be Andy Dupois. "I am innocent," he said. "That's been my foolishness." He knelt and touched the barrel to Andy's forehead. "You misused me. You thought you could drown me in your mud."

Andy mumbled something.

"But that don't matter," Jack said. "I reckon I'm used to folks misusing me. What does matter is that you killed Sally. You let Cole hurt her. You let him touch her and she didn't ask for that. Jeanie didn't ask for that!"

"Devlin," Tracker pleaded, "no."

"Sally can't stand," Jack said, slipping his finger over the trigger. "Jeanie can't stand. Charlie can't stand. But I sure as h.e.l.l can stand. Yes, I can."

You're no monster...

Andy stared up at him, his eyes wide and b.l.o.o.d.y. He was such a pathetic creature, a prisoner of that d.a.m.ned wh.o.r.ehouse in Gasher Creek. As far as Jack knew, he'd never even left town before, always at the beck and call of his pa, always- He shook off the thoughts. They didn't help. All it did was buy Andy the precious few moments he didn't deserve. A roach wasn't granted extra moments; a roach was crushed.

Jack applied the slightest amount of pressure to the trigger- I'll never get it back.

The coyote growled- Tracker shouted, "Devlin, don't!"

Jack, you listen to me. You listen real hard. A man shows his goodness not by what he says or thinks, but by what he does. I don't know what you did in Gasher Creek; curses man, even you don't know. But I've seen what you've done since then. I'm not sure who this raping, killing, Jack Devlin is, but he's not sitting across this table from me.

The gun slipped from Jack's grip and fell into the gra.s.s.

Beneath him, Andy gurgled and pa.s.sed out.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't shoot Andy. He wanted to, G.o.d help him he wanted to pull the trigger, but- "Devlin, watch out!"

Jack turned to see the black coyote lunge at him. It struck him in the chest and pinned him to the ground.

"I can't do it!" Jack shouted.

The coyote howled into his face and the world turned black. In the darkness, he saw Jeanie drop to the floor, her neck crushed.

Charlie's head exploded in the blast of the carbine.

Sally rotted in the bed beside him.

Jack could feel the coyote's desire. It needed him to kill Andy. Jeanie and Sally and Charlie were morsels of guilt compared to the feast of a murderer's conscience.

"That's it, isn't it?" Jack said. "All this time, I've been feeding you."

The coyote snarled.

And it wouldn't stop. He was haunted by it. He would always think of Jeanie. He would always dream of Sally and Charlie, unless- Jack reached out and groped in the gra.s.s around him. It had to be close, if he could only find it- He touched the grip of the gun, pulled it out of the gra.s.s, and jammed the barrel against his temple. The coyote yelped as if struck. It slunk away, its head low, its ears back.

Jack sat up and stood, the gun still held to his head.

"Devlin," Tracker said. "What are you doing?"

"I won't feed this beast any more."

"Put the gun down."

"When I die, it dies."

"What are you talking about?"

Slipping his finger over the trigger, Jack said, "It's the only way."

He closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw all his loved ones: His mother, his sister, Charlie...

A bite of peace.

Jack pulled the trigger.

Chapter Fifty-Two.

When a man sees one strange event happen, it tends to stick in his mind for a long time. When he sees two strange events happen simultaneously, it can become a guaranteed cure for sleep.

Even as he witnessed them, Tracker knew the events of that day would return to him in the quiet moments of his later years. And he knew, no matter what the weather, that he'd always feel a chill.

Devlin held the gun to his head, babbling about feeding the coyote. Tracker didn't know what he was on about, but he did look determined to pull the trigger. He tried reasoning with him, but Jack looked like a man about to fall of a horse. It was going to happen, whether he liked it or not.

The hammer was c.o.c.ked.

The finger was on the trigger.

And then Jack Devlin pulled the trigger.

And the Lightfeather revolver, famed gun of Oscar Matthews, the cost of a wagon, dependable firearm for the dainty gentleman and exclusively manufactured in Seaview-misfired. Tracker winced reflexively, but the blast never came.

Devlin stood still, his eyes clenched shut. After a moment, he opened them and looked at Tracker. Then he looked at the coyote.