The Circuit Rider

by Dani Amore

  Wilson eyed Bird’s two tied-down guns. “Well, the more guns we have, the better. You shoot, too, Preacher?”

  Tower nodded. “If I have to, I will.”

  “He won’t hit anything, though,” Bird said. “I’ve seen him shoot.”

  The man smiled around his tobacco. “That’s okay — it doesn’t look like you miss much, ma’am.”

  “I reckon I don’t,” she said.

  Wilson turned to the people behind him. “Grace, come on out here, say hi to Bird Hitchcock and Mr. Mike Tower.”

  A woman even shorter and stouter than Wilson appeared with three young children behind her.

  “Pleased to meet you folks,” she said.

  Tower tipped his hat and Bird nodded. She always felt a twinge around children, remembering the other foster children she had sometimes cared for, but usually her method of providing had been with a hunting rifle, supplying meat for the table.

  “How far behind you are they?” Wilson asked.

  “Not far enough,” Tower said. “And if she and I can’t outrun them, there’s no way all of us can. I think it’s time to start thinking about a perimeter defense.”

  Wilson nodded.

  “I agree, we are a slow-moving bunch here,” he said. “But we have rifles and a fair amount of ammunition.”

  Bird looked the men over. Farmers, for the most part, not gun hands, that was obvious. Maybe Hopkins had done some shooting, but the rest of them didn’t look the part.

  Bird rested her hands on her guns. It always came down to the same thing for surviving.

  While Mike Tower had turned to God for a savior, Bird had always placed her faith in the same things.

  Herself.

  And her guns.

  Fifty-Seven

  Tower did not like the situation. He recognized the people around him for what they were: Settlers. Greenhorns. Not fighters.

  He had been able to correctly identify the Paiutes for a good reason: he had known one, a scout, who had helped him track down a man many years ago. Tower knew firsthand how tough and violent the Paiute warriors could be.

  It was true that the braves he had seen were part of a war party, but he also knew that times had changed. Indians were not as agreeable to talking, to making at least an attempt at peaceful resolutions. Now they were much quicker to take up arms. They had grown completely distrustful of anything a white man had to say, and Tower knew it was for good reason.

  Still, he glanced at the children now getting ready to hide should fighting break out.

  Their chances weren’t good.

  He hadn’t wanted to take the risk of initiating a discussion with the Paiute back when it had been just him and Bird.

  But now it was different.

  They couldn’t outrun anyone, and Tower had serious doubts about how well they could defend themselves against a war party, no matter how good Bird was with a gun. And she was good, the best he’d ever seen.

  Tower spotted her pouring herself a whiskey near one of the wagons belonging to Wilson.

  “I’m going to go talk to them,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “The Paiute.”

  Bird shook her head.

  “My job is to protect you, so I’m not sure I should let you go out and have a powwow with a Paiute war party,” she said. “For some reason, that just seems like a very bad idea.”

  “They won’t kill me. I’ll go unarmed.”

  “Hate to break it to you, Preacher, but they don’t believe in your god. Which means they won’t think anything special of you. Hell, they might even enjoy killing you more.”

  “It’s a chance I have to take,” Tower said. “I don’t see us outfighting that war party. Not with this bunch.”

  Bird took a long drink of whiskey, then went over to her Appaloosa, slid the bottle into a saddlebag, and stepped into the saddle.

  “Think I’ll go with you for this discussion,” she said. “You know how much I enjoy a good conversation.”

  Tower climbed up on his horse, and they started out of the oasis.

  Fifty-Eight

  A white handkerchief tied to a stick served as Tower’s symbol for a peace talk.

  He and Bird rode straight out of the oasis, through the narrow ledge of trail between the lava rock walls, and emerged back into the wide desert.

  Within minutes, they had raised the attention of a Paiute scout, and soon the near horizon was lined with the war party.

  Tower rode forward, unarmed, with Bird at his side. He glanced over at her, saw her body relaxed and at ease, as always. She looked at him, her eyes showing nothing.

  When they were fifty yards from the Indians, Tower brought his horse to a stop, rose up in the stirrups, and waved the white flag. A small group of Paiutes crowded together, then four of them rode forward.

  As they got closer, Tower could make out the leader of the group, an older man with a row of eagle feathers attached to the shoulder of his leather shirt.

  The Paiute stopped a few feet from Tower.

  “We wish to speak in peace,” Tower said.

  A younger brave to the right of the chief spoke in faltering English.

  “Who do you call yourself?”

  “My name is Tower, and this is Bird. We have women and children who mean you no harm,” Tower said, gesturing back toward the oasis. He knew that the Paiute already knew about the others, but he wanted to show that he was being honest. “We are friends of the Paiute and only wish to travel through your land, harming no one.”

  The brave translated Tower’s message to the leader. The older man spoke, and the young Paiute translated.

  “Chief Wumaga say that all white men say they are friend to Paiute. They do not speak the truth.”

  The chief spoke again to the brave.

  “Why do you wish to speak?”

  “Because you are following us,” Tower said. “And we don’t wish to fight. We would rather talk.”

  “How you think we following you?” the brave answered, after translating for the older man.

  “If you’re not following us, then why are you riding this way?” Tower said. “You do not live out here in the lava fields.”

  “We go where we want to go. You white man. You think you say where Paiute can go. And only go there.”

  Tower shook his head, held his hands out wide.

  “We do not wish to tell you where to go or not to go. We only want to go in peace.”

  The young brave spoke to the older man, and a brief conversation occurred between the entire group, with two braves gesturing vehemently at Tower and then at Bird.

  At last, the young brave spoke to Tower.

  “No, we are following someone, but it is not you. We will not make war with you.”

  Tower could sense the tension in the group slowly subside.

  And then Bird spoke.

  “Are the people you are following white men or Indians?” she asked. Tower glanced at Bird, wondering why she was asking this now. But then, just as quickly, he understood.

  “They are white men. Three. They are not far ahead of us.”

  Tower hesitated, but Bird did not.

  “Why are you following them?” she said.

  “They are from the place you call Platteville. We looked for them there, but they would not fight. Instead, they ran. They are what you call cowards.”

  “Why do the Paiute chase them?” Bird said.

  “They steal young Paiute women.” He held up three fingers. “Two they take with them.”

  “What about the other one?” Bird said.

  “They kill her. But first, they take knife and cut her here, like this.”

  The brave used his finger to trace a pattern on his chest.

  A pentagram.

  Fifty-Nine

  The Wilson group was more than happy to move on as quickly as possible. In less than an hour, they had their wagon loaded, horses mounted, and were about to take leave of the oasis.

  “I wan
t to thank you kindly, Mr. Tower and Ms. Hitchcock,” Wilson said to them. “Not sure what would have happened if you hadn’t stepped in and negotiated our release.”

  Tower shook his head. “Don’t thank us. The Paiutes are after someone else.”

  “Unlucky for them, whoever they are,” Wilson said.

  “I wanted to ask you a question, Mr. Wilson,” Bird said.

  Wilson looked back at his group, already in a single-file line, ready to get out with their permission to do so from the Paiute intact.

  “Shoot,” Wilson said.

  “You told us that when you were riding into Platteville, someone was riding out, away from the town, hard. You said they warned you to turn around.”

  “That’s right,” Wilson said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. He looked at Bird with a raised eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Who were they? The people that warned you. What did they look like?” she said.

  “I couldn’t really say too clearly,” Wilson said. “They didn’t stop. They just rode by, hollering.”

  “Do you at least know how many of them there were?”

  Wilson tipped his hat back on his head and glanced at the sky, as if he were about to embark on a complicated arithmetic problem.

  “I’d say there were about five or six of them altogether. Maybe three men and two women. The women were riding on the men’s horses. Looked like they barely made it out of that town alive.”

  “Were they white men or Indians?” Tower said.

  “The men were white, but I think the women were Indians. Which now strikes me as kind of odd.”

  A brief silence followed, until Wilson’s face seemed to light up.

  “Dear God, is that why the Paiute attacked Platteville? Did some white men make off with a couple of squaws?”

  “Something like that,” Tower said.

  Wilson shook his head. “Knew something really bad had happened. I wouldn’t be surprised if the army sends some soldiers out this way to put down the uprising.”

  “And they probably won’t trouble themselves with the actual guilty parties,” Bird said.

  “No, I expect not,” Wilson said. “It don’t pay to be an Indian these days.”

  Bird pulled a whiskey bottle from her saddlebag and took a long drink. She offered a drink to Wilson, who took a long pull from the bottle, thanked Bird, and then circled back, rounded up his people, and led them out of the oasis.

  Bird and Tower followed.

  As the group ventured out onto the lava field, the Paiute war party watched from a distance.

  Bird stopped her horse.

  Tower glanced at her.

  “I don’t suppose you’d want to go back with them?” he said, lifting his chin toward the wagon party heading back toward Platteville. “Let the law handle things.”

  “Hell no,” she answered.

  Tower glanced over at the Paiute war party.

  “Didn’t think so,” Tower said. “A preacher joining a Paiute war party, probably not what the church had in mind for me.”

  Bird swung the Appaloosa away from Wilson’s group and dug her heels into the horse’s side.

  “Life is chock-full of goddamned surprises,” she said.

  Sixty

  The Paiute had moved off as well. Bird and Tower approached them as they descended into a deeper ravine, of even more dangerous and fragile-looking lava rock.

  As they followed, the young brave who had done the translating approached them with one of the older Paiute men, but not the chief.

  They stopped in front of Bird and Tower.

  “Now it is you who are following,” the young brave said.

  “We are looking for the same men,” Bird said. “The men who took your young women also did bad things to other women. We want to help you find them.”

  “How do you know they are the same men?” the brave said.

  Bird shifted in her saddle. “Well, we’ve been following a very bad white man who has done the same thing to other women that he did to yours. And we know he was heading west.”

  The young brave looked at the older Paiute next to him, then spoke to Bird.

  “Stay. We talk to Wumaga.”

  “We can help,” Bird said. “I’m pretty good with these.” She patted her pistols and the rifle in its scabbard. Then she pointed a thumb at Tower. “He can’t do a whole lot but make coffee.”

  Bird smiled at Tower.

  “We’ll wait here,” Tower said.

  The Paiute rode off.

  “You’re just jealous my coffee is so much better than yours,” Tower said.

  “I just want you to believe that so you keep making it,” Bird replied.

  After a short discussion, the young Paiute rode back alone.

  “My name is Yenata,” he said. “You ride with us. But cause no problems.”

  “Yes, we will cause no problems. I will make sure the preacher here is on his best behavior,” Bird said, nodding toward Tower.

  Yenata turned and rode back toward the group.

  Tower and Bird put their horses at a trot.

  “You have no problem inviting yourself to a party, do you?” Tower pointed out.

  Bird pulled the whiskey bottle from her saddlebag.

  “When are you going to understand?” she said. She took a satisfying drink of whiskey. “I am the party, Mr. Tower.”

  Sixty-One

  The lead tracker for the Paiutes was an older man who wore a U.S. Army jacket and a black railroad worker’s cap. He rode several hundred yards ahead of the main group.

  Tower rode behind him, fascinated by the man’s ability to spot the slightest unnatural scrape on a piece of lava rock, the kind that would most likely have come from a horse’s hoof. The man had an uncanny stillness about him, an ability to focus on many things at once and seemingly always, unerringly, find the next track.

  He glanced over and saw Bird riding next to the Paiute leader. They were passing the whiskey bottle back and forth between them.

  By the late afternoon, they had covered several miles by Tower’s guess, going much faster than Bird and Tower had traveled on their own.

  The Paiute tracker seemed to have a knack for finding the quickest way through the lava fields while simultaneously checking for sign.

  Tower thought about his own history of tracking men. After the war, he had gotten very good at it. Almost too good.

  He thought back to his last case in Saint Louis. He’d been assigned the job of tracking down a con man named Theo McCray, who had bilked a half-dozen investors out of a lot of money. The investment group had hired the detective agency to find McCray and bring back their money.

  The case had been assigned to Tower.

  It had taken him the better part of two months, but he’d found McCray, and about half of the money, holed up in a dive hotel on the outskirts of Saint Louis.

  McCray hadn’t gone quietly. A gunfight had taken place, and McCray was shot —

  Tower stopped himself.

  That was all in the past. He felt the cold chills the memory of that night always gave him. His mind went black, and he shut it down. Turned it off. Focused on the here and now.

  During his reverie, the Paiute tracker pulled up short.

  He was looking at the latest track. It was the edge of a man’s boot, clearly ground into a thick bank of lava dust.

  The Paiute tracker said something unintelligible to Tower, then swung his horse around and rode back to the chief. Eventually, Tower rode back and waited near the meeting of the Paiute leaders.

  Bird rode over to Tower, and he could smell the whiskey from five feet away.

  “What the hell did you do now?” she said.

  Tower watched the Paiutes discussing what the tracker had found, and then Yenata, the translator, approached Bird and Tower.

  “We are stopping here for tonight,” he said. “We will catch up with them tomorrow.”

  Sixty-Two

  A small fire was built a
t the center of the Indians’ small camp. Bird and Tower set up their bedrolls near Yenata, which turned out to be quite a ways from the heat of the fire. It’s going to be a cold night, Bird thought.

  Flames from the small fire reflected in the whiskey bottle Bird brought to her lips. The liquor’s warmth cascaded through her body.

  “Aren’t you done with that yet?” Tower asked. “I thought between you and the chief that thing would be empty by now.”

  Bird glanced over at him. “This isn’t mine. We polished mine off hours ago. This is from the chief’s personal stock.”

  “I see,” Tower said.

  “Whiskey is the universal language of friendship, Mr. Tower. It’s probably why you don’t have any friends,” Bird offered.

  “Could be,” Tower said. “What do you think the odds are that Toby Raines is one of the men who abducted these Indians’ girls?” he asked her.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Tower. What I do know is that whenever you find horrible things being done to women, you usually find Toby Raines.”

  There was a pause as the fire popped.

  At the same time, a wizened Paiute Indian approached them and sat down across from Tower.

  He wore an array of animal skins around his neck, and he had a pipe in his hand, which he puffed on.

  He said something to them and passed the pipe. Tower took it from him, inhaled deeply, then passed it to Bird. She did the same, then handed it back to the Indian.

  The old man got to his feet and began to chant in a low, cracked voice. His feet shuffled, scratching the lava rock with a muted, muffled sound.

  He puffed on the pipe, and soon a small cloud of smoke hovered around him. The chanting increased in speed and rhythm, then began to slow back down. The other Paiute in the war party had formed a circle around them, and, as the old man slowed his dance down, then stopped, they looked for him to speak.

  Tower spotted Yenata and waved him over, and the old man began to speak.

  “He says the spirits have talked to him about you two,” the young Paiute said.