Killer's Draw: The Circuit Rider

by Dani Amore

  “Since you already know my name,” Tower said. “I’d like to introduce you to my associate—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, the little man said. “Bird Hitchcock. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Tower looked at Bird, caught the look of annoyance on her face. He turned back to the little man.

  “And you would be …” Tower said.

  “Name’s Benjamin Hackett,” the little man said. “And this is my associate, Carl Weller.”

  “I already mentioned that I’m a preacher. Do you mind me asking what you do for an occupation?”

  The little man chuckled. Tower noted the bright blue eyes, the way they seemed to stare at him with none of the emotion carried by the rest of the man’s face.

  “I am an entrepreneur, Mr. Tower. I create my own opportunities.”

  “What kind of opportunity are you creating now?” Tower asked.

  “Too early to tell.”

  A brief silence hung between them. Hackett continued to trace a pattern on the tabletop with his index finger. Weller continued to glower. Tower decided that nothing important would be gained by continuing the conversation.

  “Well, good luck, gentlemen, I’m sure we’ll be seeing you around town,” Tower said.

  “That is very likely,” Hackett said.

  Tower and Bird left the hotel.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Bird asked.

  Tower explained how the two men had watched his discussion with Roger Jeffire and how he felt they’d staked out the hotel to keep an eye on them.

  “I’ll be damned,” Bird said. “Well, I’ve got some news for you, Mr. Tower. That little man’s name sure as hell isn’t Benjamin Hackett. Or maybe it is, but that’s not what he called himself down in Laredo. There, he was known as Henry Jones. A helluva card cheat and quick with a gun. Carries one up his sleeve and another one in his boot.”

  “I figured he wasn’t being completely honest with me,” Tower said.

  “And that big man, he was known as Mr. Seven. Probably because he’s almost seven feet tall. He likes to beat men to death with his bare hands. I never saw him do it, but I saw the body of one of his sparring partners. Pretty gruesome.”

  They made their way to the newspaper office as Tower thought about the two men.

  “Why would they be so interested in us?” he asked.

  “No clue. But I’m not done yet. Do you remember when Ronald Hale confronted me at the restaurant about Egans and his daughter?”

  “His fictitious daughter, you mean,” Tower said.

  “Right. Well, just before he confronted me, two men had walked into the dining room and sat well away from me. Something about those two rang a bell, though, and I’ve been trying to piece together who they were, but now that I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Seven and Henry Jones again, it hit me.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The two men in the restaurant were part of Henry Jones’ gang back in Texas. They’d been brought in to settle a range war by making one of the warring party’s members disappear. I originally was part of that group, until I realized they wanted us to simply murder everyone in cold blood.”

  “So, now we’re facing four people at least who seem to have a vested interest in what we’re doing.”

  “Yes, four. There were five. “

  Tower looked at her and Bird nodded.

  “Downwind Dave was a part of that group, too.”

  Twenty-Seven

  The Big River Bugle was closed for the day. The door was shut and locked, and Bird saw no lights on inside.

  “You sure he said tonight?” she asked Tower.

  “He was pretty clear.”

  “Let’s check the back.”

  They walked through the alley and found the newspaper office’s back door. Bird tried the handle. It was unlocked.

  “What do you think?” Bird asked. She looked around the rear of the alley. Across the way was a lumberyard and a barn. Both appeared to be locked up for the night.

  She turned and saw Tower peering through a dusty window into the dark interior of the office.

  “He did tell me to meet him here,” he said. “So, if we went in, technically, we have an invitation. We wouldn’t really be breaking the law.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure Chesser would cut us a break,” she said.

  Tower shrugged.

  “Well, I’ve made myself welcome with a lot less of an invitation than that,” Bird said. She pulled the door all the way open and went inside.

  The room smelled of oil and metal. She found a lamp on the desk nearest the door and lit it.

  A faint light was cast throughout the room, enough to see that she and Mike Tower were the only people in the office.

  “Maybe you upset him somehow and he’s not going to show,” Bird said to Tower. “You probably said something that was highly insensitive and you offended him. You have a knack for doing that.”

  “Unlikely,” Tower said. “I think you’re confusing me with you.”

  Bird continued walking through the office. There were four large tables laid out with papers, rulers, pens, and razor blades. Bottles of ink and stacks of books were scattered on every available surface.

  “Sure looks like a newspaper office,” Bird said. “Must not be much news going on after dark.”

  “That’s when most of the news happens,” Tower said. “Maybe everyone’s out covering the shadowy life of Big River.”

  “Maybe,” Bird said. “Or maybe they’re home having dinner.”

  Bird stopped and looked at a desk that was set farthest from the door, away from all of the other tables. “What did this man say to you, again?” Bird asked.

  “He said he knew why Egans was killed. But he didn’t want to tell me right then because your pals back at the hotel were listening.”

  “What do you think—”

  They heard galloping hoofbeats come to a stop behind the office. They walked out to find a young boy sitting astride a big bay horse. Both the horse and the boy were out of breath.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Jeffire,” the boy said.

  “So are we,” Bird answered.

  “Is something wrong?” Tower asked. “Looks like you were riding somewhere in a hurry.”

  “Hell yes something’s wrong!” the boy exclaimed.

  “What is it?” Bird asked.

  “I can only tell Mr. Jeffire,” the boy said, regaining his composure. “He and I have an arrangement. I bring him what I hear, and if it’s worth it, he pays me. This is going to be worth a lot.”

  “How much?” Bird asked. She pulled a wad of bills out of her pocket, peeled off a few, and held them up for the boy to see.

  “That’ll do,” the boy said. He slid off the horse and snatched the money from Bird’s hand.

  “They found Mrs. Parker,” he said. “She’s dead.”

  “Where?” Tower asked.

  “Killer’s Draw.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Bird knew the way by heart at this point. So, despite the dark of the night, only a few stars overhead and a half-moon shedding a thin veil of light on the terrain, she was able to push the Appaloosa as fast as she could.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if the boot print, or shoe print, or whatever the hell kind of print it was, was that of the woman the boy said had been found killed. Bird also wondered about her own tracks, and if she’d left any sign of her stop at Killer’s Draw. It wouldn’t look good if they could tie her to the same spot where a woman had been murdered, especially if only a matter of hours separated them.

  Bird slowed her horse to a canter and covered the ground a bit more carefully as the smooth plain gave way to more loose rocks. Soon they saw the glow of a fire and some makeshift torches that produced enough light to make visible the watery gash that was Killer’s Draw.

  They slowed their horses to a walk as they approached.

  Bird spotted Sheriff Chesser with a handful of men from town. They wer
e all heavily armed with both pistols and rifles, looking as if they would like nothing more than for a target to ride up and present itself.

  On that very thought, Bird and Tower came to a stop and the sheriff approached them.

  “Whoa, hold up, what are you people doing out here?” he asked. “Seems like every time there’s a murder you two are close by.”

  “We heard you had another murder on your hands, sheriff,” Tower said. “Same place as Bertram Egans. Figured the two killings might be related.”

  “I think that’s a pretty big assumption, preacher,” Chesser said. “I’d advise you to stay clear of this area until we’re done.”

  Bird and Tower left their horses east of the draw, and walked toward the crowd of men standing around two dark shapes on the ground.

  “Don’t touch anything, you two,” Chesser said to them, as he retreated back to the group surrounding the bodies. Bird noted that he didn’t go to the front of the group, but assumed a position in the middle, as if he were just another one of the crowd.

  Bird wove her way until she could get to the front of the group.

  The body closest to her was that of a woman killed with an extreme amount of violence. There were deep slashes in her body and great chunks of flesh were ripped from her. Her dress, what was left of it, lay in a heap next to the body. Her legs were spread. And stuffed into the space between her legs was a giant river rock.

  Next to her, Bird heard Tower take a deep breath.

  Bird knelt down and studied the woman’s feet. She had one shoe on and Bird immediately knew it was too big to be the one that left the track she’d seen earlier.

  Tower moved down to examine the next body, and Bird followed.

  This one she recognized.

  Downwind Dave Axelrod.

  There was a knife in his hand. Both the knife and Axelrod’s hand, along with the front of his clothes, were covered in blood. Bird could tell the blood wasn’t from the two gunshot wounds that she’d personally delivered directly to his heart.

  Tower looked at her.

  Bird glanced behind them, saw that no one was listening.

  “Believe me, when I kill a man, he’s killed,” she whispered.

  Tower surveyed the distance between Axelrod and the woman, then looked back at the dark water gushing through Killer’s Draw.

  “If it’s possible to hate a place,” he said, “this is the place.”

  EPISODE THREE

  Twenty-Nine

  It started just after dawn. Tower, always an early riser, was up and had walked the town, going over what he knew so far about the murder of Bertram Egans. Now, he leaned on the top rail of a cattle fence, one of thousands at the Big River cattle yards, watching some of the longhorns being herded into the nearest enclosure. The scene was oddly quiet. It seemed that both the cowboys and the animals were too tired from the long drive to make much noise.

  “Preacher,” a voice behind him said.

  Tower turned and looked into the faces of two men who clearly had been up all night drinking, and most likely, discussing the murder of Mrs. Victoria Parker, whose body had just been found in Killer’s Draw.

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” Tower asked. He stood casually, hands at his side, measuring up the pair that stood before him. They were about the same height, but one was a little thicker in the chest and a couple years older. Neither looked like a cowboy just in from the trail, which told Tower they were probably locals. Their clothes were clean, though, and they wore gun belts. Tower figured they just might be ranch hands working for Mr. Parker.

  He could also tell by the set of the older man’s jaw that he would be the first to act. And Tower knew these boys were here to act, not talk. Maybe he could change that, though.

  The second one just stared at Tower, but there wasn’t as much hostility in his face; he seemed the drunker of the two.

  “You can tell us why you think running around and acting like a damned preacher is going to fool this whole town,” the older man said. “You think we’re stupid or something? Think we don’t know you killed Stanley Verhooven and Mrs. Parker?”

  “I haven’t killed anyone,” Tower said. “I can tell you boys have been hitting the bottle pretty hard. Why don’t you let me buy you a cup of coffee and we can talk about your suspicions?”

  The younger one turned and looked at his drinking companion.

  Tower took a step closer to the men.

  “I’ll even buy you a nice, hearty breakfast,” Tower said. “You’ll sleep like babies all day.”

  The younger one’s face registered surprise at Tower’s ease. The older man appeared to grow angrier, frustrated with the lack of fear in his quarry’s response.

  “The hell with your cup of coffee, and the hell with your goddamned breakfast you phony damned liar,” the older man said. His face was flushed red from both anger and alcohol. They both closed in on Tower until they were just a few feet apart.

  “Perhaps an early lunch, then?” Tower asked.

  The man’s face went one degree more crimson and then his hand flashed to his gun. Tower covered the distance between them before the pistol could clear leather and he chopped down on the man’s gun hand, then threw a short right hook that landed with bone-jarring accuracy on the drunkard’s jaw.

  The man’s knees buckled and he dropped to the ground as Tower grabbed his gun from the holster and turned to the younger accuser, who jumped back, away from Tower. His hand hovered over the butt of his pistol.

  “Pulling that gun out would be a very bad idea,” Tower said. “Ask your boss here.”

  Tower now had the gun in hand pointed casually, but directly, toward the young man’s chest. “You’ll be dead before your iron even sees the light of day.”

  Tower watched the young man hesitate, then move his hand away from the gun.

  Tower lowered the pistol. “Why don’t you take him back to wherever he belongs, and next time he gets a great idea like this? Let him do it alone. You’ve got no desire, or aptitude, for this kind of thing.”

  The young man nodded.

  Tower emptied the cartridges from the unconscious man’s pistol, pocketed them, and dropped the empty pistol onto the man’s chest. He looked at the younger one, who now had the chance to shoot Tower if he was so inclined.

  Tower walked past him, back into Big River.

  Thirty

  Bird left the hotel, walked over to the livery, and got her Appaloosa and Tower’s horse. She saddled them up, then brought them back to the hotel where she had agreed to meet Tower before they tried to figure out what the hell was going on in this town. Bird would never call herself the most compassionate human being to ever walk the earth, but one thing she believed in with all her heart was vengeance. In fact, sometimes she thought most of her life had been spent avenging herself, and occasionally, someone else. Not that Bird had met him, but the idea of that young preacher executed at Killer’s Draw didn’t sit well with her. Bird had never met Mrs. Parker either, but in the West, women were generally considered off-limits to this type of violence. She herself was the exception. But if the same person who killed Bertram Egans had also killed an innocent woman, Bird would make sure he paid the appropriate price.

  She mounted the Appaloosa, felt some pain in her midsection, and started coughing. Blood spurted from her mouth and landed in the dirt next to her horse. She felt a little light-headed and she steadied herself by holding the pommel of her saddle. After a few moments, the feeling left as quickly as it came.

  “Goddamn,” she said.

  Bird pulled out one pistol, opened the gate, and spun the cylinder, confirming it was fully loaded. She repeated the same procedure with her left gun, holstered it, took out her Winchester and fed shells into the magazine, then slid it back into its scabbard.

  She was fully loaded.

  “Where the hell is that damn preacher?” she said to her horse. The Appaloosa perked her ears and looked at Bird out of the corner of her eye, then shifte
d her feet as if to say she too was ready to go.

  “Probably off trying to help someone, the fool,” Bird said. She looked at the Appaloosa. “I know that’s what you were about to say.”

  Bird got tired of waiting and walked the horse up the street, toward the cattle pens where Tower said he was going.

  Two men were walking back from that direction. More accurately, one was walking while propping up the other. At first, Bird thought the one staggering was probably drunk, but as she passed by them, she saw the man’s swollen face. Maybe he was drunk and ended up on the losing side of a fistfight, she thought.

  “Get some sleep boys,” Bird said as she passed them. “I’m speaking from experience.”

  Bird turned the corner and spotted Tower walking with his horse in the opposite direction.

  She put her fingers in her mouth and let out a long whistle.

  Tower turned and began to walk back to her.

  Her lungs caught after she whistled, and Bird coughed again, twice. A fine mist of blood shot from her mouth and landed on the back of her hands. She wiped them off on her pants and spit another gob of blood into the dirt. Bird nudged her horse forward so Tower wouldn’t see the blood on the ground.

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  All of this blood and coughing was trying to tell her something.

  And she knew what it was.

  For her own good, her own health, she had to make a change.

  She had to stop drinking so much coffee.

  Thirty-One

  “Did you have something to do with that gentleman sporting a freshly busted-up face?” Bird asked.

  Tower glanced up at her. She seemed especially pale this morning, her delicate face looking even more fragile than usual.

  “We had a brief discussion,” he said. “Let’s go see if we can find out what the sheriff may have learned, or more realistically, how much he doesn’t know, about what happened to Mrs. Parker out at Killer’s Draw.”