by Dani Amore
Forty-Six
“You sure know how to have a good time without me,” Bird said.
They stood in front of the remains of the Big River Bugle. The outline of the structure was still there, but everything inside was gone. What hadn’t been destroyed by the blast had been consumed in the ensuing fire. A pile of charred lumber occupied the former site of the newspaper’s office and the air was ripe with the smell that reminded Bird of a freshly doused campfire.
She turned and looked at Tower. He was pale, but standing straight.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Fine. You?”
“Fine,” she said. “Now that we’re both done lying to each other, what the hell are we going to do?”
He didn’t answer and Bird looked at the saloon that was two doors down. She stretched and felt a pain in her ribs. The doctor had told her he didn’t think they were broken, but they still hurt like hell. A few glasses of whiskey would make the pain go away and an entire bottle would make her forget she’d even been hurt in the first place. And forgetting hurts was what whiskey was all about.
“I’m going to—”
Before she could finish what she was about to say, a woman’s voice called out.
“Here, take this.”
Bird looked over Tower’s shoulder as he turned to face Martha Jeffire.
If it was possible, the woman looked even worse than they did. Her hair was in disarray, her dress was dirty, and her eyes were disorganized and unfocused.
Martha Jeffire had a battered envelope in her hand. Behind her, a horse and buckboard were piled high with a couple of suitcases and some furniture, all of it looking as if it had been gathered and loaded with great abandon.
Tower moved to embrace her but she held up her hand.
“I’m leaving,” she said and thrust the papers to Tower.
“My deepest prayers—” he started to say.
“I’m leaving now,” she repeated, cutting him off.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Back home to Kansas,” she said. “There’s no reason for me to stay here. I don’t believe in God so I won’t be staying for the burial. I hate this place and all it stands for.”
Bird saw Tower look down at the papers in his hands.
“I’m sorry about your husband,” Bird said quickly, before the woman could cut her off.
Martha Jeffire shrugged her shoulders. “I always knew there was a chance we wouldn’t grow old together,” she said. “Roger took too many risks, no matter how often I tried to ride herd on him. Mind you, I’m not blaming him, that’s just who he was.”
She didn’t wait for a response, just turned and walked back toward her buckboard.
Tower looked down at the envelope in his hand.
“If you need me, I’ll be getting medical treatment in bottle form,” Bird said. “Doctor’s orders.”
Forty-Seven
Bird sat on the front porch of the hotel with her feet up on the railing and a bottle of whiskey in her lap. The sun was setting, and she figured the best way to watch night fall over Big River was to sit here and drink to the end of the day.
Her body was recovering as the aches and pains of being thrown out of a second-floor window were fading now, aided in no small part by the liquor. Her mind was at ease. Tower was off doing something with Jesus she guessed; probably trying his best to make sure Roger Jeffire was allowed into heaven. Bird wondered if Tower would do the same for her. Probably, but she had a fairly good idea that instead of being surrounded by angels in the afterlife, she would be surrounded by dirt.
Bird drank from the bottle, loving the way the liquor felt as it worked its way through her body. That doctor didn’t know what he was talking about. She felt fine. One day they’d probably recognize her as the medical marvel she knew herself to be.
Bird’s mind drifted and she found herself thinking back to her drink at the Big River Club. There was something about that place; something that kept irritating her and she couldn’t figure out why. All those pompous men sitting in their private club with pictures of themselves on the wall …
Bird sat up straight, dropped her feet onto the hotel’s porch.
The goddamn pictures.
Bird jumped to her feet, got her horse, and shot over to the Big River Club. She hitched the Appaloosa to the rail, then pushed her way through the front door and headed for the bar.
“Whiskey and a beer chaser,” she said to the young bartender. He was a peach-faced young man with corresponding fuzz on his chin.
He looked at her and hesitated, then poured the whiskey and fetched a beer.
“You have to be a member to drink here, but I know who you are,” he said, his voice surprisingly deep and robust. “I figure it would be easier to serve you than to try to throw you out of here, Miss Bird Hitchcock.”
He beamed with pride at his cleverness.
“Smart man,” she said.
She tossed the whiskey back and carried her beer with her to the wall. It was a collage of rough sketches, a few pictures of the important people of the club—Mr. Parker being at the top—and a few others.
Bird had spotted the collage when she and Tower burst in just after Mrs. Parker’s murder, but had merely glanced at the display.
Now she knew what had been bothering her.
It was a picture near the bottom of three men standing near a trophy elk they had shot. Their names were written under each.
The man on the far right was familiar to Bird.
He had called himself Ronald Hale.
But the name under his picture said something else.
Martin Branson.
Forty-Eight
Tower went back to the hotel and debated about opening the envelope from Martha Jeffire. But instead, he collected the papers that Silas had given him regarding Bertram Egans and set out for Mrs. Wolfe’s Boardinghouse. Now that he was done with them, he wanted to return the letters to Evelyn Egans as soon as possible. Maybe they would help bring some sort of closure for the woman until the murderer of her son was brought to justice.
He crossed the street, passed the Conway brothers’ law office, when just ahead of him a door opened. Tower stepped aside as Evelyn Egans emerged from the Big River Land Office. She seemed startled by the sight of him.
“Oh!” she said. “Sorry for almost hitting you with the door.”
“Actually, it was a stroke of luck. I was looking for you,” he said.
“I was heading back to my room …”
“This won’t take more than a minute or two,” he said.
They sat down on a bench near the door, and Tower handed the thick bundle of paper to her.
“This is what Silas gave me when he asked me to look into the murder of your son,” Tower said. “It’s a collection of papers that includes letters from you to Silas, as well as some of the original documents Bertram supplied upon his application to the church. I think you should have them.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. Tower watched as she held the papers, running a hand over the surface with reverence and glancing at the first few pages inside.
“They were fairly informative to me,” Tower said, “and helped me get off to a quick start in the investigation. But obviously, I’ve still got a lot of work to do in finding out what happened.”
“Are you sure you don’t need them anymore?” Mrs. Egans asked. “I mean, I’m not sure if they will bring me any comfort. In fact, they might do just the opposite.” Her shoulders sagged and she looked away from Tower.
“No, I’ve gleaned everything I can. And any information that I for certain wanted to remember I copied down. These are yours. I think Bertram would have wanted you to have them.”
She nodded, lifted the papers in her arm, and held them against her chest. She then stood and turned directly to Tower.
“Thank you for these,” she said. “Now I will—”
“Rose Sutton! I’ll be damned!”
Tower and
Evelyn Egans both turned to see a cowboy, older in years but wearing the chaps and spurs of a working drover, standing in the street looking at them with a huge grin on his face.
“Rosie! It’s me! Hank Durfen from Dodge City!”
Tower turned to Mrs. Egans. Her face was rigid.
“I’m sorry but you have me confused with someone else,” she said.
The drover looked at her out of the corner of his eye.
“I don’t think so, ma’am. Your cabaret show last year was the highlight of my life!” he practically guffawed. “Especially, when you personally thanked me for tossing out some unruly fans. I’d recognize that pretty face of yours anywhere!”
“I’m sorry, sir, but you are mistaken,” she said, then turned to Tower.
“I’m afraid I’m very uncomfortable and will be going now.”
She walked away, her heels banging so hard on the wooden boards they sounded like rifle shots.
The old cowboy looked at Tower.
“I’ll be damned! And I haven’t even started drinking yet!”
Forty-Nine
Bird stood in front of the pictures of Big River Club members and shook her head. What was it with men needing to endlessly honor each other? Why couldn’t they just do what had to be done and leave it at that? Deeds done throughout your life earned their own honor, good or bad. Take Bird, for instance. She’d never once sought out fortune or fame but it—or maybe it was infamy—had found her.
Another tintype caught her eye. Among a group of about a dozen men—all armed to the teeth—was Ronald Hale, or as she now knew him to be, Martin Branson. What had they been, a posse? Bird recognized Mr. Parker, and the two attorney brothers Tower had pointed out. She looked for any more information, but it was a display of bravado and weaponry, not much else.
Bird went back to the bar and ordered another whiskey and a beer from the young bartender.
“Did you like our picture gallery?” the bartender asked. “The club is very proud of it. It’s the biggest collection of those newfangled things in the whole state.”
Bird could tell he liked her and was trying to impress her, and not just because of her reputation. She decided to use his obvious interest to her advantage.
“Very impressive,” she said. “What’s the story behind everyone carrying five or six guns apiece, posing like they’d just captured a passel of outlaws?”
“Oh, that one,” the bartender said. Bird noticed a slight change in his demeanor. He suddenly seemed unsure of himself. “They were just having fun in that one. You know, dressing up for the camera, that kind of thing.”
Bird knew a lie when she heard it, but she moved on.
“I had no idea my old friend Martin Branson lived here in Big River,” she said. “We punched cows together one summer back in Texas. He’s as tough as old saddle leather.”
“You know Branson?” the bartender asked. His friendly demeanor was back and he sounded slightly relieved now that she’d steered the conversation away from the picture. “He was one of the founders of this club. Wish he’d stop in more often. He’s always got a few tall tales to tell.”
“I miss those stories,” Bird said. “He always said he wanted to start breeding horses. Did he ever make that dream come true?”
“Horses?” the bartender asked. “No, he never said anything about horses. He had a ranch but he sold it to Mr. Parker for a lot of money. He negotiated a small cabin at the western end of the range where he runs a few head, mostly for beef and spending money. Mr. Parker really made it worth his while to sell. He’s a lucky man, really carved out a nice life for himself.”
Bird drank the whiskey and then chugged the beer.
“Thank you for the conversation,” she said.
“I’ll tell Branson you said hello,” the bartender offered.
“I appreciate it, but I expect he and I will be crossing paths sooner than later.”
Fifty
“Absolutely,” Morrison said. “My space is yours.”
Tower stood with the church secretary in the narrowly confined but functional church office. For some reason, his instinct had told him not to study Jeffire’s information in his hotel room. And the only office he knew of where he would be welcomed was Walter Morrison’s.
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” he said.
“Does this have to do with your investigation?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Tower saw no reason in getting anyone’s hopes up, least of all his own.
Morrison provided Tower with paper and writing implements, then showed him where a small coffee pot was located should he need something to help him with his analysis.
He sat down, opened the folder, and pulled out the sheaf of papers.
It was much thinner than he thought it would be. Apparently, some of the thickness had been the envelope, not the contents inside.
The first sheet contained about a page full of neat, tight script that appeared masculine to his eye. Tower figured it was Jeffire’s own hand.
The entire thing was in quotations, with a heading that read “Parker speech.”
Tower read the undated transcript. It had to do with the threat of cattle rustling on the future prosperity of Big River.
The main thrust of Parker’s speech seemed to Tower to be a call for ordinary citizens to share in the responsibility of the town’s future. One sentence in particular had been underlined: “I hereby establish a community protocol; that being the absolute necessity of every individual to do whatever is necessary, to take whatever action the situation calls for, whether it’s peaceful or violent, to protect each other’s lives, businesses, and property.”
Tower finished reading the rest of the speech, which amounted to a long, highly optimistic vision for the future of Big River.
The second paper was a newspaper clipping from the Pennsylvania Inquirer. The brief article described the arrest of a prostitute named Francine Pascal who had been running a house of ill repute. Local authorities were reported to have shut down the business and arrested her.
The third piece was another, shorter article that simply stated Francine Pascal had been released from prison and her whereabouts were unknown.
That was it. Tower picked up the thick envelope and shook it to make sure there was nothing else inside.
There wasn’t.
Tower shook his head.
As had been the case all along, his investigation was raising more questions than it was providing answers.
He hoped that trend would reverse.
And soon.
Fifty-One
The western edge of the Parker ranch would not be a particularly small chunk of real estate, Bird knew. People in town deferred to him as if he owned most of Big River. She wondered how Sheriff Chesser was doing with the investigation into Mrs. Parker’s murder. Not very well, she guessed. Something told her, though, that the entire town was looking for the woman’s killer, while she and Tower were the sole investigators of Bertram Egans’ killing.
The Appaloosa picked her way up a rocky incline and they topped out on a rise overlooking an immense valley. Word was the Parker Ranch comprised some twenty-thousand head of cattle and well more than quintuple that in acreage.
She knew that the south end of his ranch was established by a thin ridgeline called Bison Ridge that funneled down to the western edge where it met Sweetwater Creek. It took her most of the morning to find where the two landforms met, and then she turned north, ranging back and forth as she made her way up the edge of the ranch.
Several hours later, she heard screams.
Bird brought her horse to a stop, and together they waited. She could tell the sounds weren’t human and since they were in the middle of cattle country, she assumed they were cows. But she’d occasionally worked as a ranch hand and knew how everything worked, from branding to castrating to birthing, and she could tell that these weren’t the normal bawling of cattle. This was something much more painful.
She nudged the A
ppaloosa ahead. They climbed a low hill and crossed the summit, from where Bird spotted a weathered log cabin sitting in a lonesome canyon. A few hundred yards from the cabin, a man had a roaring fire going, and Bird could see the branding irons being heated in the center of the flames. Beyond the fire, a holding corral with driftwood logs serving as fence railings penned in a few dozen cattle.
A cow was on the ground, with the man leaning over its haunch, burning a brand into its side.
But the way he was doing it told Bird a different story. As she watched, he got off the cow, undid the rope, and kicked the cow repeatedly until it got to its feet. As the cow stood, its legs shaking, the man kicked it again.
Bird ground her teeth together. The West had never been a place that held humane treatment of animals to a high standard. The fact was, cowboys were some of the cruelest men she’d ever met when it came to animals.
She rode down to the fire, making no pretense as to her intentions. The man turned upon her approach and Bird recognized the man who had called himself Ronald Hale, but whose name was most likely Martin Branson.
Bird saw him glance over to the log cabin where a Winchester leaned near the door.
Too far away now.
“Well hello, Mr. Hale. Or should I say, Mr. Branson?”
“I suggest you leave my property right now if you know what’s good for you,” he said. He looked Bird directly in the eye, then glanced away at the rifle.
“Awfully far away, isn’t it?” Bird asked.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“You can start by telling me why you’re torturing these cattle.”
“It’s called branding, you stupid bitch,” he said.
A coolness filled Bird’s belly. She had clearly underestimated the creature standing before her and she now looked at Martin Branson in a new light.
She swung down from the Appaloosa and approached him. Behind him, the cattle stood nervously, perturbed by the smell of the fire and the screams. Most of them pressed against the opposite side of the fence, as far away as they could get from Branson and the smell of smoke.