The Circuit Rider

by Dani Amore

  Eighty-Five

  Bird made a swift decision.

  She propped Tower up against a rock, put a loaded pistol in his hand, and snatched up Bunker’s big, heavy .50 Sharps rifle.

  She grabbed one of the horses, thinking of her Appaloosa, and charged down the incline toward where the last two men had emerged.

  Bird knew Toby Raines loved to have other people do his dirty work. Unless the victims were young women totally under his control; then he would decide to take matters into his own hands.

  She knew he was watching, and she intended to end this thing and end it now.

  Bird thundered down the slope, following the trail of the men she had just killed.

  The horse she was on was a big bay, and it galloped with a solid confidence Bird admired. The ground flew beneath her, and she crossed the meadow, ran through a copse of trees, and crested another hill, this one overlooking the river.

  Now she saw that the river was swollen, and there was no place to cross.

  In the distance, she saw a single rider going in the opposite direction.

  Toby Raines.

  She was sure of it.

  Bird knew she couldn’t cross the river, and by the time she did find a place to ford, it would probably be several miles up- or downstream and she would never cover the distance quickly enough. Plus, she had to go back and get Tower, who, now that the fever had broken, was in better shape, but he couldn’t withstand a punishing ride chasing Toby Raines.

  No, she would have to take a shot.

  Literally.

  Bird got down from the big bay and lifted the rifle. She had never personally fired one of the giant cannons before, but she’d known some buffalo hunters who swore by them.

  Bird knew that they fired only one round. A true single-shot rifle. And one round was all she had.

  She sank to one knee and raised the rifle to her shoulder. She pulled back the big hammer and lined the fading image of Toby Raines between the sights.

  Bird let out a soft, gentle breath. She could hear nothing but the sound of the wind, and the colors of the light all seemed to fade to the side. Bird felt she could actually see the fabric of Toby Raines’s shirt.

  She laid the sight on the middle of Toby Raines’s back, then raised it slightly to account for the horse’s gallop.

  The thought entered Bird’s mind of Bunker saying that you don’t choose moments like this; they choose you.

  Her finger had been tightening on the trigger by its own volition. The sight was on the middle of Raines’s back when the rifle thundered, and Bird felt the wallop of the enormous recoil. It spun her slightly, but she kept her head straight.

  And saw Toby Raines blown off of his horse.

  Eighty-Six

  They buried Jonathan Morris Bunker in the meadow that had been his last subject.

  Bird actually buried him, what with Tower still being as weak as a sickly kitten.

  However, she let Tower read from the Bible, and together they built the fire where they placed Bunker’s last painting, the one that still carried his blood on its canvas.

  The rest of the paintings they left in the special case and tied it to the mule, which had refused to run off during all of the gunfire.

  Bird had gone back to the easel, which had been knocked down during the attack on the camp.

  The painting that had sparked Tower’s reaction was still attached to the wooden holder.

  Bird studied the picture. It looked so much like a younger version of herself it was hard to believe. Jonathan Morris Bunker had saved their lives, and now that talent was gone.

  She unhooked the painting from its bindings and carried it to the fire. Is this what he would have wanted? Bird thought. She glanced back at the meadow, where Tower was tying the mule to her horse.

  Bird held the painting over the flames.

  And then, at the last moment, she tucked it back under her arm.

  She walked to the makeshift corral they had created and where they had tied the best of the horses from Toby Raines’s gang. She slipped the painting into her saddlebag, next to the bottle of absinthe. Tower rejoined her and they left the camp, trotting slowly down to the river, then turning south, looking for a place to cross.

  It had taken most of Bird’s energy to keep herself from abandoning Tower and racing off to look down upon the corpse of Toby Raines.

  But she had no idea how long it would take them to find a place to cross, and leaving Tower, as weak as he was, just didn’t make sense. After all, she was still there to protect him. Leaving him barely alive in the middle of a bunch of dead men hadn’t seemed like a great idea.

  Now Bird rode ahead, with the mule behind her. And behind the mule, Tower rode. She knew they couldn’t cover territory very quickly, but she went as fast as she thought Tower could handle.

  It was the afternoon, and dark clouds were rolling over the tops of the mountains in the distance. The level of the river was down. Bird could see where the water had reached, and it was now at least a foot lower. When they had ridden it after their jump from the cliff, it must have been near flood levels.

  Bird wondered about Toby Raines. What she would find when they came upon his dead body. Had the coyotes found him? Vermin discovering vermin, Bird thought. How appropriate.

  By her estimation, it took them nearly two and half miles to find a shallow part of the river, one that would let them cross. There had been some other possible spots, but with a mule carrying supplies and a man who had nearly died from an infected gunshot wound, Bird had wanted to take no chances.

  She led the way, the water mostly sandbar and gravel until they hit a small dip in the riverbed where the water was deep enough to nearly reach her stirrups.

  Bird climbed out of the river and watched Tower cross with no problems.

  She turned back toward the north, knowing that the body would be easy to find.

  Bird could already see the vultures circling.

  Eighty-Seven

  Every minute that passed seemed to make Tower more tired yet also seemed to strengthen him. Each bump in the trail, every time the horse moved suddenly, something hurt in his body.

  But he was glad to be alive.

  Tower vaguely remembered the painter, but he had been delirious most of the time. He had a feeling that he had talked during his fever, not because he remembered saying anything but by the way Bird looked at him.

  She seemed to be regarding him with less skepticism, or maybe she was just trying to give him time to heal before she had fun at his expense.

  He followed her now as they veered away from the river, toward a lone vulture circling in the air.

  Tower thought back to when his circuit ride had begun, back to what seemed like so long ago. He never could have imagined everything that had transpired, but God worked in mysterious ways, he knew. Every test that came up, every challenge thrown at him was something that had the potential to make him a better man.

  Tower moved his horse up next to Bird, and they both stopped when they were within fifty feet of the body.

  “Looks like you didn’t miss,” Tower said.

  “I never do.”

  Tower decided to let Bird go forward alone. She had explained already what she had done and her hope that the dead man lying on the ground was Toby Raines.

  Tower felt she had earned the right to find out if she was correct in private.

  His horse shifted beneath him, and Tower watched as Bird approached the body. She walked slowly, then stopped.

  The man was on his stomach, his arms outstretched.

  Bird used a boot to turn him over.

  Her body stiffened.

  She turned to Tower.

  Eighty-Eight

  It isn’t him.

  Bird didn’t hear herself say the words, but she knew she had said them. She could tell by the way Tower’s face changed as he looked at her.

  It wasn’t Toby Raines.

  Bird felt hatred, anger, and disappointment bl
ossom inside her chest. When she had fired the big Sharps rifle from the other side of the river, she had felt so sure it was Toby Raines she was killing. But it hadn’t been. It had been another one of his cronies.

  Well, she was glad she had killed the man. She just wished it had been a different man.

  “Justice will come eventually,” Tower said to her. “We just have to be patient.”

  Patient. Bird shook her head. She had been patient, all right.

  “I suppose you are right, Mr. Tower,” she said. But she didn’t feel it. She had been waiting years to snuff the life out of the man who had ruined hers. Bird was done being patient.

  And then she had a thought. A very good thought.

  She was glad it wasn’t Toby Raines.

  Yes, she was happy.

  Bird climbed onto her horse, brought the mule into line, and started west.

  Killing Toby Raines from a distance was no good. No, it was no good at all. When the opportunity presented itself, she wanted to do it up close and personal.

  She wanted to put her bare hands around Toby Raines’s neck and squeeze until she choked the evil sonofabitch to death.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Tower said to her. “You look like you’re trying to come to grips with how you’re feeling.”

  Bird pulled the bottle of absinthe from her saddlebag. She took a long drink and raised the bottle.

  “This one is for you, Jonathan Morris Bunker,” she said, then drank again.

  “What is that?” Tower said.

  “It’s a drink my friend from Paris introduced me to.”

  “What is it called?”

  Bird thought back, tried to remember the name Bunker had used. Then it popped into her memory.

  “The Green Fairy,” she said. For a brief moment, she smiled at the name. Somehow, she suddenly felt good about keeping his painting of her. Maybe someday, if she lived long enough to settle into one place, she’d hang it in her parlor.

  Bird drank again, and the sun peeked out from behind the wall of gray clouds, sending a shaft of light through the dense green bottle.

  Bird thought of Bunker, about his endless fascination with the quality of light. How it changed things. Made them totally different entities.

  She put the bottle back into the saddlebag.

  It was an interesting theory.

  One that she didn’t necessarily believe but that she would be happy to reconsider in another hour or so.

  Once the light had changed.

  Episode Six

  Eighty-Nine

  It wasn’t until they were a day from San Francisco that Mike Tower’s color returned. Having been shot, and having undergone an emergency disinfection at the pointy end of Bird’s knife, he was the worse for wear.

  “You never did thank me for saving your life,” Bird said.

  “Thanks,” Tower said. “But did you have to leave such a big scar?”

  She had to concede the point. Sure, the scar had begun with a bullet, but Bird’s emergency incision to lance the infection had done its own damage.

  “Ah, it gives you some character, of which you’re in sore need,” Bird said.

  “It’s an interesting approach to self-improvement.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Bird pointed out. “You can brag about it to your preacher buddies when you’re sitting around drinking all of the church’s wine.”

  She glanced over at him, thought she saw the start of a smile. He was a tough nut to crack; she had to give him that.

  As they rode on, Bird thought about what would happen in San Francisco. They were nearing the end of Tower’s circuit ride, and her employment as his bodyguard would soon be over. She drank from the bottle of cheap rye she had bought from some down-on-their-luck gold miners a day ago. It tasted like paint thinner.

  There was also a tinge of moisture in the air, and Bird knew they were getting closer to the coast. The harshness of the desert was a distant memory, as lush valleys and thick stands of forest greeted them at every turn of the trail.

  Bird had been to San Francisco once before, several years ago. But the trip had been in the middle of a monthlong drinking binge, and she remembered little of her time there, other than a lot of trick shooting in alleys to raise money for her bar expenses.

  “You been to San Fran before?” she asked Tower.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “It’s a lot of fun,” she said. “Oh, I forgot. You’re not allowed to have fun.”

  Tower didn’t respond.

  “I just don’t understand it,” Bird said. “If your precious Lord is so set against having fun, why did he make me so goddamned entertaining?”

  “You’d have to ask him,” Tower said. “I can arrange for you two to talk.”

  Bird slugged down some more of the cheap-as-hell rye. “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Tower, but I believe I said everything to him I needed to say a long time ago.”

  She savored the burn of the liquor, even as the taste made her grimace. “Now, if he could tell me exactly where to find Toby Raines, then I would be very interested in what he has to say.”

  She knew it always came down to that. Get her revenge on Toby Raines and then figure out the rest of her life. The problem was, she’d been doing that for as long as she could remember.

  They made a dry camp that night and got up early, forgoing any coffee, and rode into the southern end of the city by late morning. As they rode toward the heart of the city, Bird was taken aback.

  It was so much bigger than she had remembered.

  Great collections of buildings and homes, people by the thousands. The railroad hadn’t been completed when she had last been there, and Bird figured that it had dumped a whole lot of people there, especially the workers who had ended up in the city with their final wages.

  Everywhere they turned, new buildings were being constructed; horses, carriages, men in suits smoking cigars, and ladies in dresses carrying umbrellas hurried to and fro looking like serious business was at hand.

  Bird’s trained eye also caught sight of plenty of idlers lurking here and there, at the mouths of alleys, standing in the doorways of saloons, ready for any opportunity they could take advantage of.

  When at least they reached the heart of the city, and looked down on it from the top of a steep hill, Bird turned to Tower.

  “Lead the way, Mr. Tower,” Bird said. “Time to get my prayers answered…with cash.”

  Ninety

  The church was located on a quiet street just a few blocks from Union Square. Mike Tower was glad the din of the bustling neighborhood had dimmed near the church. Back here, the noise was softened, and Tower, as always, felt welcomed and comforted by the quiet reserve of the church.

  It was an impressive structure. Tower was mildly surprised by the church’s size. Although it was not as large as some of the churches back east, it was a beautiful stone building, with massive oak doors and a towering spire that rose high above the surrounding buildings.

  They rode around to the back of the church, where they found the rectory.

  Tower tied his horse to the hitching post, and Bird did the same. He walked up and knocked on the door.

  After a pause, it opened to reveal a short, thick priest with curly gray hair and a pair of the bluest eyes Tower had ever seen.

  “Yes?” the man said, his voice a deep baritone. Tower could imagine how the man would use that voice to lend power to his sermons. It was a voice that commanded attention.

  “My name is Mike Tower,” he said. “I believe you are expecting me.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Tower,” the man said. “I have been eagerly anticipating your arrival. I’m Father Silas.”

  They shook hands, and Tower gestured toward Bird.

  “And this is Bird Hitchcock,” Tower said.

  “Howdy,” Bird said.

  “Please, please, come in,” the priest said.

  The rectory consisted of a main room, where a table and four chairs
occupied the central space. To the right, Tower saw a doorway and a small kitchen. To the left was a short hallway that Tower figured led to a bedroom.

  Silas motioned them toward the table. A crystal decanter filled with red wine sat at the center of the table, along with a tray that held an apple and a wedge of cheese.

  Silas sat on the opposite side of the table; Bird and Tower each took a chair across from him.

  “Care for a glass of wine?” Silas asked.

  “No, thank you,” Tower replied.

  “Yes, please,” Bird answered.

  Tower glanced at Bird, but she was looking around the rectory, like a visitor to a strange country.

  Silas filled Bird’s glass, then pushed the food toward Tower. Tower took a wedge of apple and bit into it. It was juicy and fresh.

  Silas produced a leather notebook and set it on the table.

  “So tell me about your journey,” he said.

  Tower walked him through the highlights of the trip, leaving out most of the violence and focusing instead on his efforts to provide religious comfort to people.

  “Circuit rides are never easy,” Silas said. “Like most things in life, you learn as much about yourself as you do about others.”

  Silas took a wedge of cheese and popped it into his mouth. His blue eyes focused on Tower.

  “You came through it intact,” he said. “Not everyone does.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without her,” Tower said, gesturing toward Bird. “She saved my life more than once.”

  “He’s such a sweet-talker,” Bird said. “Is it allowed for a priest to be so flirtatious?” She held out her empty glass to Silas, who refilled it.

  “Apparently her sense of humor survived the trip, as well,” Tower said to him.

  “I see,” Silas said, clearing his throat. He reached into his leather satchel and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Bird.

  “This is for a job apparently well done,” he said.