Authors: Dani Amore
The Circuit Rider
“Dani Amore writes fast-paced, gripping tales that
capture you from Page One and hold you enthralled till the last word. This lady
is one hell of a storyteller.”
–J. D. Rhoades,
author of Gallows Pole
“Dani Amore is a sensation
among readers who love fast-paced thrillers.”
–Mystery Tribune
THE CIRCUIT RIDER
ALSO BY DANI AMORE
The
Killing League
Death
by Sarcasm
Murder With Sarcastic Intent
Beer Money
Dead
Wood
To
Find a Mountain
Bullet
River (The Garbage Collector #2)
The
Garbage Collector #1
Hanging
Curve
Scale
of Justice
The
characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text
copyright © 2013 Dani Amore
Originally released as a Kindle Serial, November 2012
All
rights reserved.
No
part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published
by Thomas & Mercer
P.O.
Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN: 9781611092356
Table of Contents
"Put your sword back in its place," Jesus
said to him, "for all who draw the sword will die by the sword."
—Matthew 26:25
"Only the dead have
seen the end of war."
—Plato
Kansas City, Missouri
1876
T
he church had recently been painted a brilliant
white, and it now stood out against the rich blue sky with an austere pride.
Mike Tower walked his horse past the main doors to
a humble entrance at the back of the building.
He looped the reins over the one-horse hitching
post and knocked on the door. The door had been freshly painted, and Tower felt
a slight tackiness on his knuckles.
The door opened and an older man with a craggy face
peered at him.
“Come in,” he said.
Tower followed him into a modest room, no more than ten
feet wide by ten feet long.
A large table dominated the space. The old man took
a seat at the head of the table and gestured for Tower to join him.
“Please, sit,” he said.
Tower caught the faint scent of coffee and sawdust.
He sat opposite the man, noting the fatigue on his face and the way his
shoulders hunched.
Father Angus Johnstone, head of the church for the western
territories, pointed at the map spread out on the table.
He reached forward and tapped his finger on a small
dot on the map, which Tower understood to be Kansas City.
“We are here,” he said.
He then ran his finger along a route west.
“This is the direction I would like you to take.”
Tower took out a small piece of paper and a pencil
and jotted down the main cities along the route.
“This is not a traditional circuit rider’s route,”
Johnstone said. “You are technically being sent to San Francisco, per your
request. But as you may or may not know, we do not send circuit riders to a
single destination. It is your job to spread the word everywhere you go.”
“Yes, I understand. Thank you for accommodating my request,”
Tower said.
“However, the church would like you to do what you
can along this route,” Johnstone said. “There are a lot of people in need.”
The names of some of the cities were familiar to
Tower; others were not.
“You will meet your armed guard here,” Johnstone
said, tapping a spot on the map a few miles west of their current location.
“Pardon me?” Tower said.
“Your armed guard,” Johnstone said, his voice soft
but firm. “The church lost two circuit riders in the last six months. From now
on, every traveling preacher must have a guard. No exceptions.”
Tower thought before he spoke.
He didn’t need a guard, even though he would be
without a weapon. But in order to convince Father Johnstone, Tower would have
to partially explain what kind of man he’d been before becoming a circuit
rider.
And that was not an option.
Tower had buried his own personal history. And
buried it deep.
“That really isn’t necessary . . .,” Tower began,
planning to suggest that the church could put the guard’s salary to use for
some other purpose.
“No exceptions,” Johnstone repeated.
Mike Tower nodded his head in agreement, sensing that
this was a fight he would not win.
He had made a choice to be guided by a code far
different than the one he’d followed most of his life.
And now he would have to live with it.
I
t was close to nightfall by the time Mike Tower
reached the small town where Father Johnstone had arranged for him to pick up
his traveling guard.
Tower shook his head at the thought. He’d never
needed anyone to look out for his welfare and he’d done just fine over the
years. In fact, he’d made it through some rough scrapes that would have killed
most men.
Now, he was anxious to rendezvous with his guard
and get moving. They had a lot of ground to cover.
As Tower slowly trotted down the town’s one street,
he idly wondered if his guard was one of the town’s part-time deputies who had
been hired by the church.
The shops had closed for the night. The only lights
came from the saloons and the lone hotel. Somewhere nearby a dog’s bark was followed
by a raucous laugh from the saloon.
Tower spotted the sheriff’s office and jail, pulled
up out front, tied his horse to the post, and went inside.
A man had his feet up on the desk with a newspaper in
his hand. His potbelly poked out from beneath the publication and hung over his
belt.
Tower glanced around the office. It was neat and
tidy, with a rack of Winchesters behind the sheriff’s desk.
Finally, the lawman peeked over the top of the paper
at Tower.
“People do the damndest things these days, don’t
they?!” he said, then noticed the white collar around Tower’s neck.
“Oh,” he said, swinging his feet down to the
ground. “Sorry ’bout the cussing,” he said.
“That’s quite all right,” Tower said.
“I was just readin’ about a cowboy who spotted a
scorpion on his boot, so he shot it off ,” the man said. “Along with three of
his toes!”
Tower nodded.
“So how can I help you?” the sheriff said, folding
up the paper and setting in on his desk.
“I’m supposed to be meeting someone here, probably
a deputy.” Tower glanced around the office and saw no other desks.
“Doubt it,” the sheriff said. “Only got one deputy
and he’s part-time.”
Tower looked at the slip of paper in his hand. “You
don’t have someone working for you named B. Hitchcock?” he said.
The sheriff failed to stifle a laugh. “You have got
to be kiddin’ me,” he said. “Bird Hitchcock? Is that who you’re here for?”
Tower hadn’t seen a first name on the note, just B.
Hitchcock. But why did that name seem familiar?
“I believe so,” he said. “Is he here?”
The sheriff unsuccessfully disguised another laugh.
He pushed a piece of paper toward Tower. “Sure is, Mr. Tower. Just sign for the
release, put down a five-dollar deposit, and B. Hitchcock is all yours.”
Tower paid the deposit and signed the release,
realizing his security guard wasn’t going to be an officer of the law and that
Father Johnstone had either forgotten to mention this, or had omitted the
information on purpose.
The sheriff walked back to the jail cells. Tower
heard the clank of iron, and then the sheriff reappeared with a figure wearing
boots with spurs, denims, and a buckskin shirt. The face staring back at Tower
looked tired, disheveled, and severely hungover. The sheriff handed over a gun belt
with matching pistols.
“You’re free to go, B. Hitchcock,” he said, laughing.
“Your fine’s been paid.”
B. Hitchcock slung the gun belt around her hips and
tied each gun down, then glanced up at Tower.
“Who the hell are you?” she said.
And then Tower realized why he knew the name.
B. Hitchcock.
Bird Hitchcock.
Oh no
,
Tower thought.
