The Circuit Rider (12 page)

T
o
Mike Tower, it was always interesting to note the difference between a gunshot
fired in celebration and a gunshot meant to inflict great damage on a human
being. Common sense said that you shouldn’t be able to tell the difference, but
Tower felt that he always instinctively could.

They
were within spitting distance of the Bank of Prosperity when the first such
gunshot rang out. The celebration was going on two blocks down the main street,
on a hastily built stage where a band was playing, and no one paid much
attention to the gunfire.

Ectors,
Bird, and Tower fanned out across from the bank’s front entrance.

They
didn’t have to wait long.

The
first man out carried nothing but a shotgun. Tower guessed he would be
gathering the horses for a quick getaway.

The
man stumbled to a stop when he saw the three of them, Bird with her two guns
tied down, Ectors and Tower each with a Winchester.

The
look of confused panic on the man’s face was almost comical, but Tower wasn’t
laughing.

Before
the man could make his decision, two more men sauntered out of the bank, each
with white cloth bags in his hands.

When
they saw the situation, they dropped the bags.

Tower
looked at the man in the middle. He recognized him. It was Luke Dryer. Dryer
looked back at Tower.

“She
was right. That bitch was right — it really is you,” he said. His face became
red with rage. “You sonofabitch.” He went for his gun.

Tower
brought his rifle to bear, but he couldn’t fire.

Instead,
a volley of gunfire sounded to his left, and he knew Bird had unleashed. Dryer
and the man who’d come out for the horses were down.

Ectors
stumbled back, and Tower took aim against the last robber standing, adjusting
the sight of the rifle to the man’s knee. He fired and the man’s leg blew
apart.

He
fell to the ground.

Tower
saw Bird walk toward the men, both pistols in her hands, smoke curling from
their barrels.

Tower
hurried to Ectors, who was holding his right arm. Blood was seeping out through
his fingers.

Tower
helped him to his feet.

Faces
emerged from the bank as Bird took the last man’s gun from him and checked the
other two.

“Those
two are dead,” Bird said, pointing at Dryer and the first man out of the bank.

She
kicked the third man, who was holding his leg where Tower had shot him.

“Unfortunately,
this one will live.”

Ectors
walked forward and looked up at the bank tellers now out on the boardwalk,
picking up the bags of money.

“Is
anyone in there hurt?” he asked.

A
man with bright-green suspenders shook his head. “Just scared,” he said.

Bird
glanced up at the man.

“Hey,
there weren’t any dancers, but you still saw a damned good show.”

T
hey
left Prosperity behind them.

Ectors
had called off the territorial marshal once he’d confirmed that Susan Arliss
was part of Luke Dryer’s gang, as was the man who had attacked Tower in his
cell.

“So
you’re telling me you were a spy during the war and there was a bounty on your
head?”

“I’m
afraid so,” Tower said. “One that quite a few men who fought for the
Confederacy would still like to collect. Men like Luke Dryer. Seems they have a
special hatred, and long memories, for soldiers like me.”

Bird
let out a low whistle.

“Got
any other surprises for me, Mr. Tower?” she said.

He
nudged his horse forward and spoke over his shoulder.

“I
just might.”

T
he
horse stood in a meadow, surrounded by lush grass and wildflowers, eating
without regard to the bloody body strapped to its back.

Bird
Hitchcock and Mike Tower sat atop the crest of a hill, looking down into the wide
valley nestled below.

“Could
be a trap,” Bird said. She’d heard of people lured into thinking someone needed
help only to find themselves surrounded by Indians on the warpath. Their last
mistake.

“Could
be,” Tower said.

They
waited and watched the horse. It occasionally flicked its tail at pesky flies
drawn to its passenger.

The
horse wandered slowly, eating as it went, only occasionally glancing up at the
two riders gazing down upon it from their vantage point on the hill.

“I’ll
circle around, see if we’ve got any watchers,” Bird said. She nudged her
Appaloosa to the south, gave a wide berth to the grazing horse, and scouted the
only areas not visible from her earlier perspective, including a grove of
cottonwood trees.

She
saw no one and nothing. She signaled to Tower, then walked her horse down the
slope.

Across
the meadow, she saw Tower move down from the hill.

As
Bird drew closer, the nervous horse pivoted and raised its head. With nostrils
flared, the horse switched its tail, and Bird could tell the beast was deciding
whether to stand its ground or take off in a panicky run.

She
brought the Appaloosa to a stop and studied the animal. Bird saw blood streaked
all over the horse’s side and neck; it even looked like some had splashed back
onto the horse’s haunches.

Bird
could see that the person strapped to the horse’s back was a man and that he’d
been stripped of most of his clothes. Great ragged gashes had been ripped into
the man’s back. Chunks of flesh caked with dried blood lay in long furrows along
his arms and shoulders.

Bird
also recognized something different about the person. The face was a bloody
mess, puffed and distorted with cuts and bruises. But oddly enough, the head
was completely shaved, save for a patch of hair pulled back and fashioned into
a long braid.

Chinese
, she thought.

Bird
watched as Tower cautiously approached the horse, slid off his own mount, and
talked softly as he walked up and gently grabbed the animal’s reins.

Bird
glanced behind them and scanned the horizon line. Even if it wasn’t an ambush,
whoever had done this couldn’t be too far away, judging by the freshness of the
blood.

Bird
climbed down from her horse and stood next to Tower. They both studied the dead
man on the horse’s back.

The
man’s throat had been slit from ear to ear.

“That
blood is fresh,” Bird said. “He hasn’t been dead long.”

She
noted how the man’s legs had been tied to the stirrups and the hands tied to
the saddle’s pommel so he couldn’t fall off.

“A
couple of hours at the most,” Tower said.

“And
whoever killed him, they sure were thorough,” she said. “Looks like he was
whipped, beaten, and stabbed.”

Tower
looked down the meadow, toward the direction they had been heading ever since
they crossed the Colorado line an hour or so ago.

“Think
he came from Twin Buttes?” Tower said, naming the town toward which they’d been
heading.

Bird
nodded. “Most likely. We’re only a couple of hours away.” She weighed their
options. “It won’t do to try to bring him along, though. Best we bury him here.”

Tower
nodded. Bird held the horse while Tower cut the man’s bindings free. He slid
from the horse and toppled to the ground.

They
looked closely at the man’s body. It had been a gruesome death.

“I
highly doubt this was done by one person,” he said.

“I’d
say this Chinaman was unpopular with a whole group of folks,” Bird said. “The
kind with whips, clubs, and knives.”

They
buried him there, in the meadow, and Tower said the appropriate prayers while
Bird sat on her horse and toasted the dead man. Tower fashioned a rough cross
and pounded it into the ground.

“Hope
you’re in a nice Chinese heaven,” Bird said, hoisting a bottle of whiskey and
drinking deeply.

She
thought about it. “Do the Chinese believe in heaven?” she asked Tower.

He
shrugged his shoulders. “Virtually every culture believes in some sort of
afterlife. They might not call it heaven, though.”

“If
I did believe in heaven, I’d picture it as a saloon with a never-ending supply
of free whiskey,” Bird said. “But I don’t.”

Tower
didn’t respond. Instead, he tied the reins of the Chinaman’s horse to the
pommel of his own saddle, and they set off for Twin Buttes.

T
he
town was on fire.

Twin
Buttes, Colorado, sat in a breathtaking location, built into the crevice
between the two towering, majestic peaks for which the community had been named.

But
now a shadow of smoke hung over the town, with an acrid stench filling the
air. Shouts and gunshots echoed, overlaid with the sounds of screams and glass
breaking.

Mike
Tower and Bird Hitchcock entered the town from the south, leading the third
horse behind them.

“I’m
guessing our victim back in the meadow was involved in whatever we’re going to
find up ahead,” Bird said.

“Sounds
like he might not be the only one,” Tower said.

They
had tracked the horse carrying the dead man back to Twin Buttes, a relatively
simple process as the man had bled out for most of the journey.

They
passed the various storefronts along the street, with faces peeking out and
doors slamming shut, as if the town were under siege.

A
crowd had gathered at the end of the street, and as Bird and Tower drew closer,
she was able to see over the heads of the mob and get a glimpse of what they
were all looking at.

A
makeshift gallows had been constructed, and two Chinese men hung from their
necks. No hoods had been placed over their heads, so Bird was able to see quite
clearly they were dead. The dead men’s necks were stretched and grossly
distorted, the bodies twisting in the wind.

A
second group of men stood nearby holding half-broken pieces of lumber like
clubs, watching as another Chinese man was beaten in the middle of the
street.

Tower
kicked his horse forward and rode quickly to the aid of the man.

“Stop!”
he called out.

Bird
watched as Tower got between the crowd of men and the defenseless man on the
ground, whose face was covered with blood.

A
beefy man with a pistol sporting a long barrel raised the gun toward Tower.

“Mister,
I suggest you mind your own goddamn business,” the man said. “I don’t care if
you’re a preacher or not, these Chinamen deserve what they’re getting.”

“That’s
why we have a court of law,” Tower said. He stood over the beaten man, pushing
the attackers away.

The
beefy man pulled the hammer of his revolver back. Tower didn’t move.

Instead,
Bird rode forward and put herself between Tower and the man.

“If
you die trying to kill a preacher, you’ll be going straight to hell.” She let
go of her horse’s reins and rested her hand on the butt of her gun. “How soon
do you want to get there?”