The Circuit Rider (26 page)

E
very
minute that passed seemed to make Tower more tired yet also seemed to
strengthen him. Each bump in the trail, every time the horse moved suddenly,
something hurt in his body.

But
he was glad to be alive.

Tower
vaguely remembered the painter, but he had been delirious most of the time. He
had a feeling that he had talked during his fever, not because he remembered
saying anything but by the way Bird looked at him.

She
seemed to be regarding him with less skepticism, or maybe she was just trying
to give him time to heal before she had fun at his expense.

He
followed her now as they veered away from the river, toward a lone vulture
circling in the air.

Tower
thought back to when his circuit ride had begun, back to what seemed like so long
ago. He never could have imagined everything that had transpired, but God
worked in mysterious ways, he knew. Every test that came up, every challenge
thrown at him was something that had the potential to make him a better man.

Tower
moved his horse up next to Bird, and they both stopped when they were within
fifty feet of the body.

“Looks
like you didn’t miss,” Tower said.

“I
never do.”

Tower
decided to let Bird go forward alone. She had explained already what she had
done and her hope that the dead man lying on the ground was Toby Raines.

Tower
felt she had earned the right to find out if she was correct in private.

His
horse shifted beneath him, and Tower watched as Bird approached the body. She
walked slowly, then stopped.

The
man was on his stomach, his arms outstretched.

Bird
used a boot to turn him over.

Her
body stiffened.

She
turned to Tower.

I
t
isn’t him.

Bird
didn’t hear herself say the words, but she knew she had said them. She could
tell by the way Tower’s face changed as he looked at her.

It
wasn’t Toby Raines.

Bird
felt hatred, anger, and disappointment blossom inside her chest. When she had
fired the big Sharps rifle from the other side of the river, she had felt so
sure it was Toby Raines she was killing. But it hadn’t been. It had been
another one of his cronies.

Well,
she was glad she had killed the man. She just wished it had been a different
man.

“Justice
will come eventually,” Tower said to her. “We just have to be patient.”

Patient.
Bird shook her head. She had been patient, all right.

“I
suppose you are right, Mr. Tower,” she said. But she didn’t feel it. She had
been waiting years to snuff the life out of the man who had ruined hers. Bird
was done being patient.

And
then she had a thought. A very good thought.

She
was
glad
it wasn’t Toby Raines.

Yes,
she was
happy
.

Bird
climbed onto her horse, brought the mule into line, and started west.

Killing
Toby Raines from a distance was no good. No, it was no good at all. When the
opportunity presented itself, she wanted to do it up close and personal.

She
wanted to put her bare hands around Toby Raines’s neck and squeeze until she
choked the evil sonofabitch to death.

“Do
you want to talk about it?” Tower said to her. “You look like you’re trying to
come to grips with how you’re feeling.”

Bird
pulled the bottle of absinthe from her saddlebag. She took a long drink and
raised the bottle.

“This
one is for you, Jonathan Morris Bunker,” she said, then drank again.

“What
is that?” Tower said.

“It’s
a drink my friend from Paris introduced me to.”

“What
is it called?”

Bird
thought back, tried to remember the name Bunker had used. Then it popped into
her memory.

“The
Green Fairy,” she said. For a brief moment, she smiled at the name. Somehow,
she suddenly felt good about keeping his painting of her. Maybe someday, if she
lived long enough to settle into one place, she’d hang it in her parlor.

Bird
drank again, and the sun peeked out from behind the wall of gray clouds,
sending a shaft of light through the dense green bottle.

Bird
thought of Bunker, about his endless fascination with the quality of light. How
it changed things. Made them totally different entities.

She
put the bottle back into the saddlebag.

It
was an interesting theory.

One
that she didn’t necessarily believe but that she would be happy to reconsider
in another hour or so.

Once
the light had changed.

I
t wasn’t until they were a day from San Francisco that Mike Tower’s color returned. Having been shot, and having undergone an emergency disinfection at the pointy end of Bird’s knife, he was the worse for wear.

“You never did thank me for saving your life,” Bird said.

“Thanks,” Tower said. “But did you have to leave such a big scar?”

She had to concede the point. Sure, the scar had begun with a bullet, but Bird’s emergency incision to lance the infection had done its own damage.

“Ah, it gives you some character, of which you’re in sore need,” Bird said.

“It’s an interesting approach to self-improvement.”

“Look on the bright side,” Bird pointed out. “You can brag about it to your preacher buddies when you’re sitting around drinking all of the church’s wine.”

She glanced over at him, thought she saw the start of a smile. He was a tough nut to crack; she had to give him that.

As they rode on, Bird thought about what would happen in San Francisco. They were nearing the end of Tower’s circuit ride, and her employment as his bodyguard would soon be over. She drank from the bottle of cheap rye she had bought from some down-on-their-luck gold miners a day ago. It tasted like paint thinner.

There was also a tinge of moisture in the air, and Bird knew they were getting closer to the coast. The harshness of the desert was a distant memory, as lush valleys and thick stands of forest greeted them at every turn of the trail.

Bird had been to San Francisco once before, several years ago. But the trip had been in the middle of a monthlong drinking binge, and she remembered little of her time there, other than a lot of trick shooting in alleys to raise money for her bar expenses.

“You been to San Fran before?” she asked Tower.

He shook his head. “No.”

“It’s a lot of fun,” she said. “Oh, I forgot. You’re not
allowed
to have fun.”

Tower didn’t respond.

“I just don’t understand it,” Bird said. “If your precious Lord is so set against having fun, why did he make me so goddamned entertaining?”

“You’d have to ask him,” Tower said. “I can arrange for you two to talk.”

Bird slugged down some more of the cheap-as-hell rye. “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Tower, but I believe I said everything to him I needed to say a long time ago.”

She savored the burn of the liquor, even as the taste made her grimace. “Now, if he could tell me exactly where to find Toby Raines, then I would be very interested in what he has to say.”

She knew it always came down to that. Get her revenge on Toby Raines and then figure out the rest of her life. The problem was, she’d been doing that for as long as she could remember.

They made a dry camp that night and got up early, forgoing any coffee, and rode into the southern end of the city by late morning. As they rode toward the heart of the city, Bird was taken aback.

It was so much bigger than she had remembered.

Great collections of buildings and homes, people by the thousands. The railroad hadn’t been completed when she had last been there, and Bird figured that it had dumped a whole lot of people there, especially the workers who had ended up in the city with their final wages.

Everywhere they turned, new buildings were being constructed; horses, carriages, men in suits smoking cigars, and ladies in dresses carrying umbrellas hurried to and fro looking like serious business was at hand.

Bird’s trained eye also caught sight of plenty of idlers lurking here and there, at the mouths of alleys, standing in the doorways of saloons, ready for any opportunity they could take advantage of.

When at least they reached the heart of the city, and looked down on it from the top of a steep hill, Bird turned to Tower.

“Lead the way, Mr. Tower,” Bird said. “Time to get my prayers answered…with cash.”

T
he church was located on a quiet street just a few blocks from Union Square. Mike Tower was glad the din of the bustling neighborhood had dimmed near the church. Back here, the noise was softened, and Tower, as always, felt welcomed and comforted by the quiet reserve of the church.

It was an impressive structure. Tower was mildly surprised by the church’s size. Although it was not as large as some of the churches back east, it was a beautiful stone building, with massive oak doors and a towering spire that rose high above the surrounding buildings.

They rode around to the back of the church, where they found the rectory.

Tower tied his horse to the hitching post, and Bird did the same. He walked up and knocked on the door.

After a pause, it opened to reveal a short, thick priest with curly gray hair and a pair of the bluest eyes Tower had ever seen.

“Yes?” the man said, his voice a deep baritone. Tower could imagine how the man would use that voice to lend power to his sermons. It was a voice that commanded attention.

“My name is Mike Tower,” he said. “I believe you are expecting me.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Tower,” the man said. “I have been eagerly anticipating your arrival. I’m Father Silas.”

They shook hands, and Tower gestured toward Bird.

“And this is Bird Hitchcock,” Tower said.

“Howdy,” Bird said.

“Please, please, come in,” the priest said.

The rectory consisted of a main room, where a table and four chairs occupied the central space. To the right, Tower saw a doorway and a small kitchen. To the left was a short hallway that Tower figured led to a bedroom.

Silas motioned them toward the table. A crystal decanter filled with red wine sat at the center of the table, along with a tray that held an apple and a wedge of cheese.

Silas sat on the opposite side of the table; Bird and Tower each took a chair across from him.

“Care for a glass of wine?” Silas asked.

“No, thank you,” Tower replied.

“Yes, please,” Bird answered.

Tower glanced at Bird, but she was looking around the rectory, like a visitor to a strange country.

Silas filled Bird’s glass, then pushed the food toward Tower. Tower took a wedge of apple and bit into it. It was juicy and fresh.

Silas produced a leather notebook and set it on the table.

“So tell me about your journey,” he said.

Tower walked him through the highlights of the trip, leaving out most of the violence and focusing instead on his efforts to provide religious comfort to people.

“Circuit rides are never easy,” Silas said. “Like most things in life, you learn as much about yourself as you do about others.”

Silas took a wedge of cheese and popped it into his mouth. His blue eyes focused on Tower.

“You came through it intact,” he said. “Not everyone does.”

“I couldn’t have done it without her,” Tower said, gesturing toward Bird. “She saved my life more than once.”

“He’s such a sweet-talker,” Bird said. “Is it allowed for a priest to be so flirtatious?” She held out her empty glass to Silas, who refilled it.

“Apparently her sense of humor survived the trip, as well,” Tower said to him.

“I see,” Silas said, clearing his throat. He reached into his leather satchel and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Bird.

“This is for a job apparently well done,” he said.

Bird glanced inside.

“Thank you,” she said. “Your Mr. Tower is a full-time job,” she said. “If I’d known how difficult it was going to be, I would have asked for more money.”

She drank her wine in one long gulp and got to her feet.

“I’ll be in the saloon if you want me to buy you a farewell drink,” she said to Tower. Bird tipped her hat to Silas, who nodded back.

Bird left, closing the rectory door behind her.

Silas put away the satchel and looked at Tower. He drummed his fingers on the table.

Tower was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to be given a room, a hot bath, and a bed. But he was curious what plans the church, and Silas, had for him.

“I know you’re probably wondering where your next position within the church will be,” Silas said.

“I am.”

The older man took a sip of wine from his glass. He looked up at Tower.

“Before we can get to that, however, I’m afraid I have a very serious issue I must speak with you about,” he said.

Tower tried not to look surprised.

Silas drank the rest of his wine and set the glass aside.

“Something very, very bad has happened.”