Killer's Draw: The Circuit Rider

by Dani Amore

  “No, old men aren’t my cup of tea. Deadbeats are my taste, which is why I was always kind of sweet on you, Dave.”

  Axelrod chuckled again.

  “The truth is, I’m looking into the murder of a preacher over in Killer’s Draw. Seems this old miner found the body. And now someone killed him. Strange, don’t you think, Downwind?”

  “Coincidences are a helluva lot of fun, aren’t they, Bird?” Axelrod asked. He leaned forward, laughing, as he drew. It was a smooth, fluid motion, unhurried but very fast. Axelrod’s gun was halfway out of its holster when Bird shot him out of his saddle. The two slugs tore into the breast pocket of his shirt and he managed to get his gun all the way out of his holster but then it slipped from his hand as he slid from the saddle, landing near his still-smoldering cigarette in the middle of the trail.

  Axelrod’s horse, now riderless, bolted and ran the other direction.

  Bird held her gun in her hand, smoke rising from the muzzle. She looked at the dead man on the ground.

  “Stupid, smelly bastard,” she said.

  Eighteen

  “Seems a mite suspicious, preacher. I tell you about Verhooven being a witness, and you ride back into town with his body. I got half a mind to put you in jail,” Chesser said.

  Tower allowed himself to be squired directly into the law offices of Thomas and Andrew Conway, per Sheriff Chesser’s suggestion. It was clearly a place Chesser was comfortable with, and Tower was curious. Why was the sheriff so tight with these lawyers? Clearly, they were the big law firm in Big River, with their office in a prime location and in a substantial building. But when Tower had ridden into town with Verhooven’s body, Chesser had emerged from the law office’s front door.

  Tower was impressed with the law firm’s office. The parlor was decked out with a mahogany floor, antler lamps, and a crystal chandelier. Settees lined one wall, on the other were oil paintings depicting the migration out West.

  “I’m Thomas Conway,” the first brother said. He held out his hand and Tower was surprised by the man’s powerful grip.

  “And I’m Andrew Conway,” the other brother said. Tower pegged him as the younger sibling, but not by much. They were both tall and broad shouldered, with blond hair and pale blue eyes.

  “Mike Tower,” he said.

  They were ushered into a room dominated by a long table made of rough-hewn pine.

  They all took seats around the table and Tower felt as if he were going to trial, but he didn’t mind—his goal was to get more information than he would give. It would be easy, especially as he didn’t really have anything to hide. Also, having worked a long time ago in a very different life as an investigator, he was used to attorney’s offices and the kind of conversations that typically occurred in them.

  “So, how did you come to find Stanley Verhooven dead?” Chesser asked, with a quick glance toward the lawyer brothers that did not go unnoticed by Tower. It seemed the brothers were going to let Chesser lead the way and focus on observing.

  Tower considered his response. He had nothing to hide, but he wasn’t about to provide unnecessary detail with two lawyers in the room.

  “If I killed him, why would I bring him back into town so everyone could be a witness?” Tower said, opting to ask a question rather than provide an answer. He enjoyed his own response so much, he added another question. “And exactly why would I kill him?”

  Chesser looked hard at Tower, then turned to the brothers. Clearly, he had reached the limits of his interrogative abilities.

  “So, are you here on official church business?” Thomas Conway asked, stepping into the prosecutor role. “Possibly doing some damage control?”

  “It’s pretty simple, gentlemen, and I don’t know how much more plainly I can put it. I would simply like to know who killed Bertram Egans and why,” Tower said. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “But if you could prove that the crime had nothing to do with the church, well, your supervisors back in San Francisco wouldn’t mind that all, now would they?” the other brother said.

  Chesser nodded enthusiastically. He liked where the brothers were taking this.

  “Everyone loves the truth except those working to obscure it,” Tower said. “I just want to find out the truth.”

  Chesser pulled a small piece of wood out of his pocket, and began rubbing his thumb over it, sizing it up as his next project, Tower figured. He idly wondered if the sheriff set out to carve an image he already had in his mind, or if he let the block of wood provide the suggestion.

  “I sure don’t know about all these questions you’re asking, Mr. Tower,” Chesser said. “I just have to look at the facts. And the fact is, I told you about ol’ Stanley, you rode out there and came back with him dead. Seems like a pretty obvious case of cause and effect to me.”

  Tower almost laughed at the sheriff’s smug satisfaction with his own line of questioning. Instead, he ignored him.

  “What do you two know about the murder of Egans?” Tower asked the attorneys. The younger brother looked out the window toward the street. The older one, Thomas, looked directly at Tower. Tower could tell he didn’t like being questioned himself.

  “Didn’t surprise me at all someone killed that preacher,” he said. “Some of the nastiest, dirtiest, most women-hating men I’ve ever met in my life have been preachers.”

  The block of wood being turned in Chesser’s hand came to an abrupt halt. The younger brother turned to Tower to see his reaction.

  “Yes sir,” Tower said. “We’re almost as bad as lawyers.”

  Nineteen

  It took Bird nearly a half hour to track down Axelrod’s horse and coax it into letting her grab its reins. The sound of gunfire and the sight of blood were apparently new to the animal, which was mildly surprising to Bird. Her Appaloosa was a seasoned veteran at this point.

  Bird brought the horse, a big roan, back to the rise in the trail where its previous owner had waited for Bird. Axelrod was still face down in the dirt, the pool of blood now black.

  A tree just off the trail made a temporary hitching post as Bird tied the horse to its solid trunk. She then hoisted Axelrod’s body onto the back of the horse, tied his hands and feet to the stirrups, mounted the Appaloosa, and turned back toward Big River.

  As she rode, morning turned into early afternoon, with the sun at its peak and creeping toward the start of its descent. The wind died down and the dust from the trail hung in the air.

  Bird drank from Axelrod’s whiskey bottle as she rode, retracing her steps back toward Verhooven’s place. There was no one else on the trail, and as she rode, she wondered what Mike Tower was doing back in Big River.

  She had to grudgingly admit that they made a good team. Bird was good with guns; Tower was better with people. For the kind of work Silas had outlined for them, hell, maybe they could actually accomplish something. She even figured they just might be able to find out what happened to Bertram Egans.

  It became hotter, and as Bird crested a rise, she realized she was at the edge of Killer’s Draw. The trail sloped off to the west, but Bird guided the horses to the edge of the water and made a picket with a fallen branch and a good length of rope.

  As the horses walked to the water’s edge to drink, Bird slipped Axelrod’s saddlebags from his horse and slung them over her shoulder. She also reached into Axelrod’s pockets.

  “Don’t mean to pick your pockets, Dave, but who knows what I might find?” She dug out some papers and a box of matches, then carried everything over to a tree that was casting a wide shadow on the grass beneath it.

  She sat on the soft grass, leaned her back against the tree trunk, and took a drink from the whiskey bottle. It was quiet here, and the breeze that was nonexistent back on the trail now moved with a cool forcefulness that dried the sweat on Bird’s forehead.

  Bird set the bottle down next to her and opened Axelrod’s saddlebags.

  There was not much there that interested her. Aside from another unopened bottle
of whiskey, which she would put to good use when she moved on. Bird glanced over at the bottle next to her. She’d kill the rest of that with another drink or two.

  The rest of Axelrod’s gear was expected—a bedroll, some food, and ammunition for both a rifle and a pistol.

  Bird set the saddlebags aside and looked at the papers she’d fished from Axelrod’s pockets.

  There were two pieces of paper. The smaller one turned out to be a receipt from the general store in Big River for the food and ammunition. The other slip of paper was a short note, with a hand-drawn map that Bird instantly recognized as the rough directions from Big River to Verhooven’s mine.

  The note was short and sweet:

  This is where you’ll find him. $200 and whatever you can take. Meet back in Big River in a week.

  -P

  Bird folded the note and map, then put both of them into her pocket.

  Who the hell was “P”?

  Twenty

  Big River, Wyoming, was not a small town. Tower had known that the minute he and Bird stepped off the train. The cattle yards alone sprawled for miles outside the city limits and business was booming.

  He left the Conway brothers’ law office and now walked along the street. A town this size was interesting to Mike Tower. Small enough so that most people knew each other; big enough to merit hierarchies of power within the community.

  Since his arrival in Big River, Tower had seen, and heard about, a place called the Big River Club. From what little he had gathered, Tower surmised it was a place where Big River’s rich and powerful congregated to clue each other in on land deals and political maneuvering.

  And now, his stomach was telling him it was time for a good meal, and although the Big River Club’s prices would probably put a dent in his meal budget, it might be worth it. He was getting nowhere with regular townsfolk regarding the Egans murder. Maybe some of the denizens of the club would be more forthcoming.

  Tower had glimpsed the club from afar, but seeing it up close, he couldn’t help but be impressed. It was a two-story structure that occupied at least half of the block it sat upon. A huge porch wrapped around the perimeter of the building, with ornate posts that led up to a shingled overhang.

  He counted at least seven chimneys, a dozen or so gables, and a half-dozen men lazing on the front porch, smoking cigars and generally gazing out at Big River with expressions that conveyed a mix of confidence and proprietorship.

  Tower climbed the wide front stairs and went inside. The lighting was dim, and a thick layer of cigar smoke wafted across the great room, despite a slight breeze from the open windows on each side.

  The inside of the Big River Club was just as impressive as the outside. Turkish rugs were spread evenly throughout the main space, covering beautiful mahogany floors with intricate mosaic borders. The space itself was subdivided into a dining area complete with dozens of tables and chairs made with a rich, dark wood. Several groups of men were already seated, all of them at various stages of eating and drinking. Delicate glass vases filled with fresh wildflowers sat atop each table.

  A hallway branched off from the dining room with doors that Tower figured led to private dining spaces.

  A bar ran along the opposite side of the great room with a large mirror behind it and glass chandeliers spaced every ten feet or so down its length. Oil paintings and frescoes covered the walls. A few men stood at the bar—one of them studied Tower with great interest.

  Tower made his way toward the dining area. A man emerged through swinging doors at the rear of the dining room. He wore a stiffly starched black suit, had tousled, bright red hair, and a fixed smile.

  “How may I help you, sir?” the man asked.

  “I was hoping to get a bite to eat,” Tower said.

  “Have you ever been to the Big River Club?” the man asked.

  “First time.”

  Tower caught the look of uncertainty on the man’s face, and wondered if dining was reserved for members only. He preempted any objections by saying, “Sheriff Chesser recommended I give this place a try.”

  It seemed to work. The man gave a little bow and gestured for Tower to follow him to a table near one of the large windows. It was a table for two, so Tower took the opposite chair, which afforded him a view of the club’s front door.

  Bird Hitchcock had rubbed off on him.

  A waiter appeared with a menu.

  Tower glanced at the selections, then played it safe by ordering roast beef and mashed potatoes. He turned down the suggestion of wine or brandy.

  Bird hadn’t rubbed off on him that much.

  His food came quickly and he devoured it. The flavors and quality of the food were exceptional, worth every penny of the substantial cost.

  Tower then accepted an after-dinner cigar from the maître d’. He got it going and was enjoying the smoke when the man from the bar who had studied him upon his arrival approached his table. He had on a white shirt, pinstripe pants, and a matching pinstripe vest. He also wore spectacles and carried a bag on his shoulder. His youthful, freshly scrubbed face brimmed with enthusiasm, despite the fact that Tower estimated him to be middle-aged.

  “Excuse me, sir, but are you the preacher who brought in the body of Stanley Verhooven?” the man asked. His voice was precise and crisp.

  Tower looked around the room. The diners at the other tables were focused on their food or each other, and the men at the bar were busy ordering drinks from the bartender. No one seemed to be paying them any attention.

  “Who wants to know?” Tower replied.

  The man smiled. “My name is Roger Jeffire. I’m the editor of the Big River Bugle, as well as its lead reporter.”

  Jeffire pulled out a notebook and thick black pencil.

  Tower sighed.

  “May I ask what your name is?” Jeffire asked, his pencil poised.

  “Look, Mr. Jeffire,” Tower said. “I appreciate your interest, but nothing I’ve done is newsworthy. I found that dead man and brought him to the sheriff. End of story.”

  “Are you sure that’s all there is?” Jeffire asked, with the kind of tone that told Tower he knew there was more to it.

  “Quite sure,” Tower said. He looked at his cigar.

  “And it’s got nothing to do with the young preacher who was murdered out in Killer’s Draw?”

  “I have no idea,” Tower said. “Do you?”

  The reporter didn’t answer, just studied Tower with a strange intensity.

  “In any event,” Tower said to fill the silence, “I figure Sheriff Chesser will get to the bottom of that.”

  Jeffire snorted in derision.

  The red-haired maître d’ appeared out of nowhere and asked Tower, “How was everything tonight, sir?” He shot at a glance at the newspaperman.

  Jeffire ignored the man.

  Tower paid his bill and got to his feet.

  “It was excellent. And I think now I will enjoy my cigar out of doors.”

  He nodded to his host and brushed past the reporter, who followed him.

  Tower walked down the stairs and into the street.

  “One more thing,” Jeffire said.

  Tower turned and stared at the man. Several men were now on the porch, looking directly at Tower and the reporter.

  “What?” Tower asked.

  “I know why Bertram Egans was murdered.”

  Twenty-One

  Bird felt at peace, in the shade of the tree near the draw, and continued to drink the dead man’s whiskey. She felt the gauzy cloud of drunkenness coalesce into something denser and more blanketing, then let her shoulders relax as the alcohol’s comfort slowly settled upon her.

  There had been times when she was younger that she regretted drinking, and the questionable behavior that sometimes followed. Those days were long gone. But now, as she did occasionally, Bird thought back to her first drink.

  She was maybe ten years old, living with a family of farmers who couldn’t grow a plant if they lived in the jungle.
The crops were miserable, the husband was a drunk, the wife bitter, and the kids just trying to survive.

  The husband had taken to chasing after Bird. The last time, he’d been drunk and Bird had just finished building the fire in the stove. He’d come up behind her and lifted her dress. Without a moment’s hesitation, she’d turned around and jabbed him in the face with the hot end of the poker. He was so drunk, the heated iron made it all the way through his cheek into his mouth before the pain registered. And then he began to scream.

  He swore he was going to kill her, so she barricaded herself in the pantry where she’d found one of the sonofabitch’s whiskey bottles. Without hesitation, she uncorked the jug and took a drink. And then another. And another. Immediately, she’d felt at peace as the warmth enveloped her. From that day on she knew it was her escape.

  Of course, being a little girl, the alcohol immediately caused her to pass out. When she awoke the next morning, feeling dizzy and disoriented, one of the other children whispered through the door that the farmer had gone into town to see the doctor. So, Bird walked out of the pantry, stole a horse, and rode away, taking the whiskey bottle with her.

  Drinking had quickly become second nature to Bird. And now, sitting in the shade, watching a horse drink with a dead man over his back, she understood her perspective had matured even more. It was simply a part of life. Bird recognized and accepted that she and booze would always share the trail.

  Bird coughed then, and followed it with another, deeper cough that tore her lungs and sent a fine spray of blood from her mouth.

  She ignored it.

  The Appaloosa trotted toward her and Bird got to her feet. A few clouds had rolled in, momentarily blocking the sun, and the wind felt cool on her face. Bird grabbed the horse’s reins, freed the animal from the picket she’d created, and was about to do the same with Axelrod’s horse when a blur of color and motion appeared in the periphery of her vision. She drew her gun and looked in the area where something had been. She was sure of it. But now, she saw nothing. Bird questioned if it had merely been some type of reflection from the water and the rocks in the stream.