Tracker just hoped Cole was as dedicated to the notion of bringing Devlin back alive as he was to chasing him.

Steadying his temper, he said, "I apologize for my outburst, Liza."

She nodded and lifted another sheet from her basket. Tracker took the sheet, pulled it over the line, and held his hand out for the clothespin.

"I knew you wouldn't hit me," she said, handing it over. "It's just-you get to know what's coming when a man starts to yell."

"I understand," Tracker said. "No matter where I go, I see a man reach toward his hip and I think he's pulling a gun. One time I nearly shot my father-in-law as he made for his pocket watch."

Liza smiled and handed him another clothespin. "That would've been a shame."

"Would it?"

She giggled.

Tracker set the clothespin on the line. "Do you think Cole will catch him?"

Liza's smile faded. "Maybe he will, maybe he won't. Maybe Jack will kill him."

She reached into the laundry basket and lifted a sheet speckled with rusty blood stains.

"Oh," she said, staring at the sheet. "It didn't come out. Jack and Sally's sheets, I-I gave it a good scrubbing, was hoping..."

She dropped the sheet, covered her mouth, and walked away. She started sobbing.

Tracker hurried after her.

"I tried," she said. "I let it soak and scrubbed my fingers raw and let it soak some more and it's still there." She wiped her cheeks. "It shouldn't be me cleaning up that blood. It should be him. Curse that man for what he done."

They reached Hannigan's Tree.

"How'd you and Jack get on?" Tracker asked.

She touched her wet fingers to the trunk. "He was good to me," she said. "Good to all us girls. He protected me and Sally from the rough ones, the ones that get hard from hitting. Delilah is fat, she can take a hit okay, and Agnes once clawed out a rusher's eyes for laying a finger on her. But me and Sally are tiny."

"How did he protect you?"

"He knew the types same as us," she said, sniffing. "If a fella wanted me or Sally, we'd pretend Jack was our next so he'd choose Delilah or one of the other girls."

Tracker nodded. "He ever touch you?"

"No," she said, picking at the bark. "I don't think he fancied wh.o.r.es. Maybe he was a bit of a nellie, or saving himself for a wife. We ain't the type for marrying." She sighed softly. "Not that Hank would ever allow it. If he ever found out one of us was sweet on a fella, he'd run him out of town."

Her fingernail cracked against the bark. Cursing, she pinched the ragged nail between her thumb and forefinger.

"You okay?" Tracker asked.

"Fine," she said.

Above them, the branches of Hannigan's Tree creaked and groaned. Tracker couldn't spot a single leaf. No nests. It was as if the tree had been shoved out of the ground stillborn.

"How did Jack act around Sally?" he asked.

"Oh, he doted on her like a willow husband."

"Willow husband?"

"Got the spine of a willow branch?" she said, touching the split nail to her palm. "He'd follow her around, ask if she was okay, got red when a rancher would choose her. Strange, to be sure-all on account of she resembled his sister Jeanie."

Tracker thought back to Devlin in the cell. He didn't remember him mentioning anything about a sister. "She here in town?"

"She's dead," Liza said. "Murdered by her pa. Jack saw it happen and ran-that's how he ended up in Gasher Creek."

"He tell you that?"

"He told Sally, Sally told Delilah, and Delilah told me."

Tracker was surprised he hadn't heard about it already-Delilah bought her tobacco from Frosty's mercantile. "That's a curiosity," Tracker said.

"What is, Sheriff?"

Peeling off the strip of bark that Liza had been working on, he said, "If Jack thought of Sally as his sister, then why would he end up with her in one of the rooms upstairs?"

"How should I know," she said. "Maybe he was sweet on his sister. You hear those things, Sheriff." She looked up at him, her blue eyes almost white in the sunlight. "Folks are odd."

"They are," Tracker said, handing her the strip of bark. "Well, you have washing to attend to and I have business at the Doc's. If Devlin's going to be charged with another murder, it may help to know how Hank died."

He started walking away when Liza said, "Choked."

Tracker stopped. He turned. "Pardon?"

Liza touched her throat. "Wore the bruises like Sally. Doc told me himself when he came by this morning to talk to Andy."

Tracker looked out at the field beyond the tree.

So there's Devlin, running scared, expecting any moment to get trampled or shot. Hank catches up on his horse, knocks him over, and then dismounts. They struggle, and Jack escapes using a slow method of murder?

"Well, you saved me a trip then," Tracker said. "Is Hank in the cellar?"

"Was," she said. "They have him lying in the saloon until this afternoon."

Tracker nodded. "I think I'll go pay my respects."

Chapter Seven.

Jack rode a giant horse. He didn't know what breed, but it was big, and fast, and galloped with such speed he thought he'd lift clear off the ground. He sped across a vast expanse of open prairie, alone except for the buffalo gra.s.s. He was sweating. He sat in the saddle as rigid as cordwood. He couldn't look behind him. Something black and menacing was gaining ground. It growled like a storm.

"Faster," he commanded, leaning into the wind. "Fly!"

The horse tossed its head and snorted.

Jack shook himself awake. The horse and prairie vanished, replaced by the blue darkness of an early morning and the sizzle of the wind in the gra.s.s. A moment of relief washed over him.

And then he remembered the coyote.

Jack sat bolt upright and looked around.

He was alone.

He was alive.

He patted his arms and legs, slapped his stomach, groped his head. No bites. No scratches. The black coyote, that monstrous thing hadn't eaten him. Perhaps it had found him too scrawny of a meal. Perhaps his screams-girlish though they were-had scared it off. If an animal that big could be frightened by anything.

Jack stood and started walking north.

He walked fast.

Chapter Eight.

Tracker entered through the back door of The Ram and moved down a narrow hallway. He listened for signs of movement or voices coming from the saloon but heard nothing. He pa.s.sed a wash room-empty save for the cast iron tub sitting near the window-and emerged into the saloon. A dozen or so tables and chairs sat unoccupied. The bar stools stood alone. Foster's piano sat in the corner, its lid shut.

"h.e.l.lo?" Tracker said. Despite the rattle of the rusher traffic outside, it was curiously silent, almost as if the house itself were mourning. Taking a step forward, he jerked his head to the right, thinking someone was there.

He saw his reflection in the bar mirror.

He kept walking.

Across the room, Hank lay in his coffin on a table next to the window. Someone had tried to cover the stench with a bouquet of flowers, but it was no use. The smell was even more powerful than Sally, and it didn't help that he was reposing in the sunlight. Even the stale smell of cigar smoke and booze couldn't mask the stench.

Breathing through his mouth, Tracker moved closer.

They'd put a black suit on him-a sight Tracker had never seen in his three years as sheriff. Hank had always been a 'one trousers and shirt' kind of man. The fabric for the suit must have cost a fortune. Not many men were Hank's size. Even lying down, his gut was an impressive ma.s.s of blubber. Someone had shaved and powdered his face. His hair (what was left of it) was slicked against his head. His fingernails were trim and his hands looked washed. They held his favorite silver flask against his chest.

Despite being dead, Hank had never looked better.

Tracker held his breath and bent closer. The skull looked intact-no dents or abrasions. A few scratches showed through the powder on his cheeks, but they wouldn't have killed him- "There," he said, and got a mouthful of funk. He twisted away and coughed. Cursing himself, he held his breath and turned back.

There. Although partially hidden under a double chin, he could see the bruises.

Tracker backed off and breathed.

So that was it. Jack Devlin was a murderer. He'd strangled Sally and then used the same method to kill Hank. He'd swing for sure now. No judge in the country would let him free, least of all Judge O'Donnell.

Plink.

Tracker startled at the tap of a piano key. Looking over, he saw Andy sitting on the stool, his finger still on the key.

"Andy," Tracker said. "I didn't think anyone was here."

Andy let his finger fall. "Paying your respects?"

"I am," Tracker said. "Thought I'd get to it before the place fills up."

Andy leaned forward, his hands on his knees. He looked thinner, somehow. Stubble peppered his cheeks. His hair was unkempt.

"I don't know how many folks will show," he said. "It's the smell."

"I noticed," Tracker said. "You might want to move him from the light."

"That was Delilah's idea. She thinks it makes him look angelic."

Tracker removed his hat. "Well, I am sorry for your loss, Andy."

"No you're not."

Tracker stared at him. "I looked for Devlin. It was too dark."

"Cole will catch him."

"He may prove slippery."

Pulling a sleeve cuff over his wrist, Andy said, "You don't know Cole like I do, Sheriff."

Tracker heard someone moving along the upstairs hallway. Looking up, he saw Don at the top of the stairs next to Delilah.

Tall and husky, with a round pudgy face and thick black hair, Delilah held two reputations in Gasher Creek. One, she was tough (Tracker once saw her knock a rusher unconscious with a single slap), and two, she was rough with the men that paid for her. After a visit to The Ram, the rancher Arthur Bowlan had to lie in bed for a week to heal.

It'd long been whispered that Delilah was the real proprietor of The Ram wh.o.r.ehouse. Hank may have run the saloon, but Delilah ran the girls. She didn't call herself a madam, but she didn't shy away from the idea either.

"Tom," Don said, his grin disappearing. "What are you doing here?"

Tracker nodded at the coffin. "Paying my last respects. What about you? I thought you'd be home resting."

"I was," he said as they moved down the stairs. "But then I thought to myself-self? Where are the finest beds in Gasher Creek? And myself said The Ram. So here I am."

Tracker sighed. "Don, if you have energy to fool with the girls, then you have energy to work. I haven't slept in over a day."