The Circuit Rider (2 page)

M
ike Tower felt his horse tense and shy away from
the trail. It was nearly dark, and a light wind carried the occasional scent of
wildflowers across the trail from the west.

Tower had not spoken much with his new guard over
the past two days on the trail, and he liked it that way. There was no way he
was going to go to San Francisco with Bird Hitchcock. At the first major city,
he would telegraph his superior and ask for a replacement.

Until then, he would just do his best.

Now, the horse snorted again, and Tower felt the
animal tremble with fear.

“Easy,” he said as he gently pulled the reins until
the big bay stopped.

Tower patted the horse along its neck, swung off
the saddle, and landed on his feet.

Though it was well beyond dusk, the trail was well lit
due to the emerging presence of a bright moon, and Tower caught a faint whiff of
honeysuckle.

From behind him, Bird Hitchcock and her Appaloosa
passed Tower on the trail. He heard her take a drink from the whiskey bottle
she always carried, and then the whisper of leather as she slipped it back into
her saddlebag.

When she slid from the saddle to her feet, a gun
was in her hand. A few small pebbles shifted under her boots.

Tower walked forward. Bird was off to his right.

“Probably just a Sioux looking to lift the scalp of
a heathen such as yourself,” Bird said to Tower.

“Or a brave looking for a docile squaw such as
yourself,” Tower replied.

There was an uneven rise in the trail, and as they reached
the top of the incline, he immediately saw the dark shape stretched across the path.

Tower went forward to the body, which he could
clearly tell was a woman.

A dark pattern of dried blood covered the dirt
around the body. Behind him, he heard Bird holster her gun.

“Shit,” she said.

Tower gently rolled the woman onto her back.

She was young. Even through the spatter of blood, and
the bruises and swelling on her face, Tower could see she was probably in her
teens. The girl’s nose was crooked, most likely broken, and lacerations across
her forehead were still seeping blood.

Tower put his ear to her mouth and detected the
slightest sound of breath.

“She’s still alive,” he said.

He scooped the girl into his arms. He was shocked
at how little she weighed.

Bird beat him back to his horse, which she held
still so he could climb into the saddle still holding the girl.

Tower knew that the town of Green Spring was just a
mile or so away. He adjusted the girl so her back and neck were better
supported.

Bird passed him on the trail without a word.

She would lead the way.

Tower held the reins steady, and moved forward,
following Bird’s Appaloosa.

The girl’s lips were next to Tower’s ear. He could
feel her blood on his skin.

He heard something else, more than just her ragged,
shallow breaths.

A soft voice.

The girl was saying something.

Tower leaned in closer so her lips were brushing up
against his ear.

It was a word.

Somewhat more clear.

The girl’s voice was barely a whisper.

She repeated the word.

This time, Tower thought he understood.

It sounded like a name.

Ike.

B
ird raced ahead, getting to the town well ahead of
Tower and the girl, giving her time to track down the local doctor and the
location of his practice.

She led them to a blue house with a white porch and
matching white picket fence. As they got down from their horses, a young man
stepped out onto the porch. He wore a crisp white shirt, open at the collar,
and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.

“Are you Anderson?” Bird said.

“Dear Jesus,” he said, his eyes wide at the
condition of the young girl in Tower’s arms.

The doctor held the door to the house open and led
Tower inside. He helped place the girl on a long wooden table covered with a
sheet.

“Do you know who she is?” Tower asked.

 “Her name is Nancy. Nancy Hockings. Her family
lives just around the corner.”

Tower studied the layout of the room. The main area
was clearly the doctor’s examining room. There were several shelves with
bottles of medicine, a small table with a variety of surgical knives, and a
large enamel washbasin. Bird stood off to the side, watching the two men, then
Tower saw her slip quietly out of the house.

“I’ve got no formal training, but I’ve patched up a
few people in my life,” Tower said to Anderson. “Let me know what I can do.”

The young doctor placed a jar of alcohol on the
table, as well as shears and some needles.

“Help me cut off this dress,” he said. Tower
observed that the doctor’s voice was high but steady, as were his hands as he cut
away the sleeves of the girl’s blood-soaked dress, and then the bodice.

Tower carefully helped lift the sheared pieces from
the girl’s body, stopping when dried blood threatened to pull the skin away.

Anderson carefully snipped the cloth so as to avoid
restarting the bleeding.

“Where did you find her?” Anderson said. There was
anger in his voice.

“About a mile from town, on the main trail.”

Anderson cut the last main part of the dress, and
Tower lifted it from the girl’s body.

“Holy goddamned hell!” the doctor shouted and
jumped back, knocking the jar of alcohol onto the floor, where it shattered.

Tower felt his heart sink inside his chest as the
dark shadow of violence swept across him.

Because the bloodied and battered girl before him
hadn’t just been beaten.

She had been marked.

T
he saloons were in the same location as every
other cowshit town Bird had ever been in: sandwiched in between the general
store and the run-down hotel.

By her quick estimation, there were at least four
of them, but only one had loud piano music and drunken, off-key singing filling
the night air.

Voices. Music. They were a relief to Bird’s ears.

She found the sound of a full saloon oddly soothing,
or maybe it was just the knowledge that a bottle of whiskey was in her very
near future.

The image of the girl was still fresh in her mind.
But the doctor and Tower had it handled. It wasn’t a three-person job, and Bird
knew she was better at hurting people than healing them.

She banged through the door of McGarry’s Saloon,
walked to the bar, and ordered a whiskey.

The bartender was a tall bald man with a bright
green vest. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing pale, nearly hairless
forearms.

The man looked twice at Bird.

They always did.

It wasn’t necessarily just because she was a woman.
It was also because of the way she was dressed. Boots, denims, buckskin shirt,
Stetson, and two guns, tied down.

They also stared because of her looks.

While she waited for her whiskey, Bird glanced up
at the mirror behind the bar. Her mother had always been a bright, fragile
woman, which had earned her the nickname Bird from her husband. When their
daughter was born and looked like an exact replica of her mother, the nickname
became a real name.

Bird had indeed inherited her mother’s looks: fine
bones, a sharp nose, and a delicate mouth. As well as her brightness. Bird had
light hair, pale skin, and translucent blue eyes.

“Here you go, ma’am,” the bartender said,
interrupting her recollection. Still, Bird caught the sarcasm in his use of the
word
ma’am
. The only way it could have been more obvious was if he’d called her
m’lady.

“Leave the bottle,” she replied.

She took two stiff shots in quick succession, then
paused after she filled the third.

It felt good to be at a bar again. Traveling with
Mike Tower was like riding herd on a forlorn steer. Christ, the man was the
most boring human being Bird had ever met. She’d figured he might be like most
preachers she’d encountered in her time out West: loud and fiery in the pulpit,
then drunk and lecherous outside the church’s walls.

But she’d discovered Tower was neither. He tended to
speak quietly but with conviction. And after a fair amount of time together on
the trail already, he hadn’t made any advances on her. Most men who’d heard of
her, or her reputation, mistakenly assumed she was always up for a good time. Most
of the time, she wasn’t.

She scooped up the bottle and her glass, and turned
to face the room.

There were roughly ten tables, about half of them
occupied. A piano sat at the back of the room, with one of the whores idly
hitting a key or two.

Of the five occupied tables, one had the most
action, with a group of five men playing poker.

The other four tables mostly consisted of
onlookers, and one table was taken by a solitary drinker, a man with an
expensive-looking suit and slicked-back hair.

Bird walked over to the empty table farthest from
the action, the one in front of the piano. There were no other doors in the
place, so there was no chance of anyone getting behind her.

Bird Hitchcock did not like people behind her.

The man with the slicked-back hair pushed himself away
from the table and made his way to Bird’s table. He was medium height, a little
thick around the middle, but she didn’t peg him as a gambler. He carried no
gun, and Bird saw no telltale sign of a small sleeve pistol of the type cardsharps
had begun to sport.

“Hate to see a lady drinking alone,” he said. He
stuck out his hand. “Name is Carl Van Osdol. Everyone calls me Van.”

His hand remained outstretched as Bird sipped from
her drink, using her left hand. She studied his face, saw that he was handsome,
but she could read weakness in his jawline.

“I’m a woman, not a lady. Which means I don’t mind
drinking alone,” she said. “In fact, I prefer it.”

A smirk briefly appeared on Van Osdol’s face.

“In that case, may I ask for the opportunity to sit
at your table and have a drink with you?”

“You buying?” Bird said.

“Of course.”

She gave the chair across from her a nudge with her
boot. Van Osdol pulled the chair out, sat down, and motioned for the bartender,
who brought a new bottle and took the one on the table away.

“Better whiskey, courtesy of yours truly,” Van
Osdol said.

She tossed off the rest of her drink, poured a
fresh one, and took a sip of whiskey from the new bottle.

“It might be an improvement,” she said.  “But I’ll
need a few more drinks before I can give you my final opinion,”

Bird watched Van Osdol pour himself a drink and
hold up his glass.

“To the legendary Bird Hitchcock,” he said with a
wink.

A couple of the men from the nearby table glanced up
at the sound of the name.

“I’ll drink to her,” Bird said. “Heard she’s a
beauty.”

Van Osdol chuckled.

“I quite agree,” he said. “Beneath the trail dust
and the smoke of a few saloons, you are very, very beautiful.”

Bird set her drink down. “I know you said your name,
but who are you, really?” She gestured toward the bottle. “Free booze always
comes with a price.”

“You sound a bit cynical,” he said.

“I believe the adjective you’re looking for is
perceptive
.”

Van Osdol smiled. He had lovely white teeth, and she
was sure the women in town found him quite handsome. To her, Van Osdol carried
the same expression as the hundreds of rattlesnakes she’d used as target
practice over the years, blowing off their heads from fifty feet.

“I’m an attorney,” he said. “Or should I say, the
one and only attorney of Green Spring.”

“No competition, huh?” Bird said.

“I prefer to think of it as a very open market,” he
said.

Bird downed her drink and poured herself another. The
liquor cut through the dust in her throat like nobody’s business. She loved it.

“Tell me, Van,” she said. “You happen to know if
there are two men in town? One goes by the name of Toby Raines. The other one’s
name is Ike.”

Van Osdol looked at her with wry amusement on his
face.

“So I bought you the drink, but I’m doing you the
favor?” he said.

“Take your bottle and go to hell, then.”

Van Osdol raised an eyebrow and a hand,
simultaneously.

“I meant no offense,” he said. “I have not heard of
the first man.”

“Go on,” she said.

“And believe me, I know just about everyone, even
strangers. I spotted you immediately, didn’t I?”

“What about Ike?”

“That one is easy,” the attorney said. “While there
may be more than one Ike in Green Spring, there is only one I know about, and
to be perfectly blunt, the only one that actually matters.”

“You attorneys use a lot of words, yet none of them
resemble an actual answer.”

“You are most likely inquiring about Ike Daniels,”
Van Osdol said. “His father owns the Rockin’ D, the largest ranch in the
territory.”

“I assume he’s one of your clients, then, seeing as
how you’re the only barrister in town.”

“Oh no, his attorneys are all from Chicago. They
come out by train every month or so. I am quite insignificant in the eyes of
Mr. Garrett Daniels.”

He smiled. “The only person in town in the employ
of Daniels is our very own Sheriff Dundee.”

Bird wasn’t surprised, but local gossip held no
interest for her.

“Where can I find this ranch?” she said.

“Pretty much ride due west out of town and you’ll
be on the ranch for hundreds of miles.”

The bartender appeared with two cigars.

“Compliments of the house,” he said.

Van Osdol selected one and Bird took the other. The
attorney put his into his mouth, Bird put hers in her shirt pocket.

“For later,” she said.

Van Osdol nodded and fired up his cigar. He got it
going, blew out a long plume of smoke, and spoke. “Now that I’ve helped you,
I’m wondering if you’ll help me.”

Bird poured herself another drink before he could
take the bottle away after she responded negatively to whatever he might be
proposing.

“You can always ask,” Bird said. “Of course, if you
ask me something that makes me angry, or ask it in a manner that angers me,
there will most likely be consequences.”

Van Osdol dipped his head in understanding.

“There is only one way to ask this question,” he
said.

The thick cigar smoke hung in the air between them
as the prostitute at the piano hit one final note before getting up and joining
the table with the poker game.

“For fifty dollars, would you be willing to kill
someone for me?”

Bird studied the attorney’s face. He wasn’t drunk. And
he wasn’t joking. She sipped her whiskey and waited.

“His name is Corey Flom,” Van Osdol said. “He
killed a five-year-old girl.”

“What about the law?” she said. “Have they already
looked into it? Found the man innocent, so now you want your justice, vigilante
style?”

“They never looked into it because they can’t find
the body,” he said.

She thought for a moment.

“What was this girl to you?”

Van Osdol shook his head. “Not open for
discussion.”

Bird watched as one of the poker players slammed
down his cards and gleefully raked in a pile of chips.

“Tell you what,” Bird said. “The price is a hundred
dollars, with fifty due now. I’ll look into it, and if I don’t like it, I’ll
return the fifty to you, minus five dollars for my research fee.”

“And if you like what you see?” he asked.

“Then you’ll owe me the other fifty for a job well
done.”

Van Osdol studied her for a minute, then counted
out fifty dollars and sketched out a map, showing where he believed Flom was
hiding out.

“He won’t be alone,” Van Osdol promised when he
finished his sketch.

She grabbed the money and the map, along with the
bottle, and walked to the bar. The bartender came over to her.

Bird held up the bottle. “This was a gift from my
friend over there, but I also paid for the other bottle you cleared from my
table. I’d like that now.”

The bartender hesitated. “I thought it was more of
an exchange,” he said. “One bottle for the other.”

Bird laughed. “A whiskey exchange! Never heard of
one of those. However, an exchange is a good idea. How about you and I start a
lead exchange. You want mine first?”

The man’s bald head turned pink as he brought out
the bottle of whiskey and pushed it toward Bird, who plucked it from the bar.

“A whiskey exchange — I believe I will have to
remember that,” she said.

Bird tipped her hat and walked out of the saloon.