The Circuit Rider (3 page)

M
ike Tower was praying.

Behind him, the doctor cleared his throat.

“I couldn’t save her,” he said. “She lost too much
blood.”

Tower hung his head. He couldn’t get the image that
had been carved into the girl’s chest out of his mind. Evil incarnate. The
stillness he had encountered while praying was gone. In its place was a quiet
rage that he knew all too well.

He made the sign of the cross, then got to his
feet. “You tried your best,” Tower said. Anderson’s face was pale and his hands
shook as he tried to clean his glasses. Spots of blood stained the sleeves of
his shirt.

There was a knock at the door, and then it opened
and Bird stepped inside.

Tower could smell the whiskey from across the room.

“Show her,” he said to the doctor.

Anderson walked over to his operating table, where
the girl’s body had been placed. Her lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling.

The doctor pulled back the sheet from the girl’s
chest.

Bird didn’t move.

Tower watched as she took in the elaborate carving
on the girl’s chest.

“At first, I thought it was a brand,” the doctor
said. “But looking at it more closely, I don’t think it is.”

“No, I don’t think so, either,” Bird said. “I think
it’s a message.”

Tower joined them.

“What do you think it is?” the doctor asked Tower.
“I don’t have any idea. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“I know what it is,” Tower said.

He paused, studying it again.

“It’s called a pentagram.”

“What is it?” the doctor said.

 “It’s a symbol that’s been used for hundreds of
years by various groups for various reasons,” Tower explained. “Some good, some
bad.”

“It looks like a religious sign,” the doctor said.

Tower nodded. “That too.  When a single point is at the
top, like a star, it typically stands for good.  When it’s drawn with two
points up and the single point down, so it looks like an upside-down star, it’s
associated with evil.”

There was silence as the three of them stared at
the symbol etched into the girl’s flesh.

Finally, Tower spoke.

“You mentioned her family lives nearby?” he said to
the doctor.

Anderson nodded. “Not far from here.”

Tower let out a long breath.

“I should tell them first, before we go to the
sheriff,” the doctor said.

“I’ll go with you,” Tower said. He looked at Bird. She
shook her head.

“We need to find a hotel, as we’re looking to spend
the night,” she said. “I’ll get a room and stow our gear.”

The doctor went to the sink and began washing up.

Tower again looked at the girl, then glanced up at
Bird.

“We need to find out who did this,” he said.

“Oh, I’m going to find him,” Bird said, and left,
slamming the door behind her.

T
he Hockings house was a small clapboard structure with
one window in front and a large stone chimney on the opposite side. The porch
had been painted at one point, but most of the paint was peeled away, exposing the
original pine boards.

Tower could smell dinner cooking inside.

He and Anderson arrived to find the sheriff already
waiting for them.

 “Sheriff Dundee, this is Mike Tower, a circuit
rider,” Anderson said. “He brought her in.”

Tower shook hands with the sheriff, a tall, lanky
man who moved slowly and seemed distracted.

“So you’re the one who found her?” the sheriff
said. His voice was matter-of-fact.

Tower nodded. “A couple hours ago on the main
trail, about a mile from town.”

Dundee looked as if he was about to ask another
question but was interrupted by the sound of someone inside the house.

The front door opened. A woman stepped out onto the
porch.

Tower was immediately struck by the woman’s beauty.
Raven hair, blue eyes, and a confident demeanor.

“Ma’am,” Tower said, tipping his hat.

Anderson nodded.

“Evenin’ Gretchen,” Sheriff Dundee said. There was
a long pause before he said, “’Fraid we’ve got some bad news.”

“Is it Nancy?” she said, and sagged back against
the door frame, a hand to her chest.

“I did everything I could to save her, but she had
lost too much blood,” Anderson said. “I’m afraid she passed.”

The woman’s eyes widened and her mouth struggled to
form a word. Then she fell forward. Tower got there just in time to catch
her. He laid her down and Anderson joined him.

Footsteps sounded inside and a young girl about
eight years old came out on the porch. She had on a faded white dress, with a
purple ribbon in her hair. Tower couldn’t help but recognize how much she looked
like her sister Nancy.

“What’s wrong Mama?” she said. Tower could hear the
panic in her voice.

“She just needs a little air,” Anderson said to the
girl. “Everything’s fine.”

Dundee, who showed no interest in the woman who had
just collapsed, Tower noticed, now peered through the front window of the
house. He glanced at the girl.

“Honey, do you know where your father is?” he said.

The girl looked down at her mother, then up at the
men.

“He left. About an hour ago.”

J
ust outside the hotel, a rooster crowed. Bird opened
her eyes, felt the butt of the gun in her hand. Sometimes she slept with it
under her pillow. Other times she set it under the sheets next to her and found
herself in the morning holding on to it. Probably like Tower does with a
crucifix, she thought.

On the mornings when she awoke with the gun in her
hand, she always had a sense of foreboding. This time was no different.

But she was close, she knew that. As tragic
as the murder of Nancy Hockings was, it helped Bird. It brought her one step
closer to her mission of revenge.

She got out of bed and felt no ill effects from the
whiskey. Or if she did, she was so used to the condition that it was no longer
worth noticing.

Bird splashed water onto her face. Its slight
chill felt fresh and soothing.

She looked in the mirror, and was not surprised to
see the dark circles under the eyes, the pale skin, the hard lines of her lips.
She supposed the way she looked was a fairly accurate reflection of the way she
lived.

She got dressed, strapped on both guns, and went
down to the hotel restaurant, where there was a pot of coffee and some biscuits.

Bird filled a cup with the strong, black brew and
drank the whole thing down, then did the same with another cup.

The livery was just down the street, and Bird was on
the Appaloosa heading out of town within minutes.

It didn’t take long to find the Daniels ranch. A
few miles west of town she came over a slight rise to see a lush valley
anchored by a big house and several corrals, already the scene of intense
activity.

The corral seemed the most likely spot for the
foreman, so Bird pointed her horse there. Two cowboys perched on the edge of
a lodgepole fence, watching a wiry black man ride a bucking tan horse. The man
stuck to the animal’s back with a seemingly effortless tenacity.

One of the cowboys leaned back and looked at her.

“Help you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Ike Daniels or Toby Raines,” she
said.

The cowboy snickered a little before saying, “Doubt
Ike’s done sleepin’ it off yet, ma’am. But if you’re brave, and you look like
you are, you can head up to the kitchen at the back of the house. Don’t know
anyone by the name of Toby Raines, though.”

Bird touched the brim of her hat and headed to the
main house.

It was a huge place. The front porch wrapped around
the whole thing, and there were various sections jutting out farther than the
others and several big windows. Much of the woodwork, to Bird’s eye, had
clearly been done by a craftsman. She was curious about the location of the
windows, though. A man who was good with a rifle could fire directly into them
from some distance. Obviously, Mr. Daniels had little fear for his own safety.

She could smell the kitchen before she got to it — the
scent of frying bacon was strong.

“Hello the house,” Bird said.

A door opened near the back corner of the house.

A Mexican woman in a white apron with grease stains
on it looked at her.

“Ike Daniels,” Bird said. “He around?”

The woman glanced over her shoulder as a chair leg
scraped against a wooden floor.

A man appeared behind the Mexican woman.

He was tall, with broad shoulders and a jaw that
seemed too big for the rest of his face. Long yellow hair fanned out behind
his neck.

“Who are you?” he questioned with no attempt to
hide his belligerence.

“Name’s Bird Hitchcock.”

He scoffed. “Bullshit,” he said.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Know a girl named
Nancy Hockings?”

“What the hell is this?” he demanded.

“Ike?” a deep male voice boomed from inside. “What
is it?”

The first man, who Bird now figured was Ike
Daniels, didn’t answer, just glared at Bird, sizing her up.

Another man appeared. He was taller than Ike, but
had the same oversize jaw. Instead of long blond hair, though, his was gray
and cut short. Bird guessed he was around sixty years old. He had on denims and
a red flannel shirt that looked brand-new.

“Name’s Garrett Daniels,” the old man said. “What’s
yours?”

“Bird Hitchcock.”

Daniels raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the two
guns she wore.

“Get off that horse and sit down,” he said. “We’ll
discuss this over a cup of coffee, like civilized folks.”

He turned his back on Bird. She walked the Appaloosa
to a hitching rail, tied her up, and walked inside the big kitchen.

There was one long table, with several place
settings, two of which looked like they had just been abandoned. On a platter
next to the table was a loaf of bread, butter, and some dirty dishes.

Bird walked away from the door, and sat sideways on
the bench, so her left gun was free. After years of practice, she was just as
good with her left as her right, so it didn’t matter. What did matter was
having her back to the wall and at least one gun free.

“I could’ve handled this, Pa,” Ike Daniels said.

“Handled what?” he said, looking at Bird, not Ike.

“Just curious if Ike here knows anything about a
Nancy Hockings,” Bird said. “Or Toby Raines.”

“Now, why in the world would you want to know what’s
going on in that son of mine’s head?” Garrett Daniels said. He looked at the
Mexican woman and lifted his chin toward Bird. The woman placed a cup of coffee
in front of her.

“Thank you,” Bird said to the woman.

She took a sip, then drained half of the cup.

“Nancy Hockings was murdered last night and before
she died she might have mentioned Ike by name,” Bird said directly to Garrett
Daniels, ignoring Ike in the same way his father had.

“I . . .” Ike began to say.

“Will not say a word,” the old man growled. He sat
back and looked at her. Bird already figured Ike knew the girl, judging by his
initial reaction. An eagerness to speak is either outrage, or an urgent desire
to lie.

“Bird Hitchcock, huh?” the elder Daniels said. “I
thought you were dead, a drunk, or just dead drunk.”

Ike Daniels burst out laughing.

“Not drunk and pretty sure I’m not dead.” Bird guzzled
the rest of her coffee. It was strong. Better than the stuff at the hotel.

“Heard you were in jail, too,” old man Daniels said.
“Then some kind of half-assed sharpshooting act. Killed someone in the show, I
heard. ’Cuz you were drunk.”

“You sure hear a lot out here in your little corner
of the world, sir,” Bird said. “Too bad what you hear are mostly falsehoods.”

She fixed her gaze on Ike Daniels.

“How about Toby Raines? Ever ride with him?” she
said.

“He’s not going to answer your questions,
understand?” Garrett Daniels said. “I believe my quota for hospitality has been
filled. Now finish your coffee. This conversation is over.”

Bird got to her feet.

“Did Toby Raines kill her himself, or did you help?”
she said, directly to Ike Daniels.

Garrett Daniels shot to his feet. “Get out of my
house you saddle tramp!” he barked.

Bird smiled.

“Thanks for the coffee.”