Killer's Draw: The Circuit Rider (6 page)

Big River, Wyoming, was not a small town. Tower had known
that the minute he and Bird stepped off the train. The cattle yards alone
sprawled for miles outside the city limits and business was booming.

He left the Conway brothers’ law office and now walked along
the street. A town this size was interesting to Mike Tower. Small enough so
that most people knew each other; big enough to merit hierarchies of power
within the community.

Since his arrival in Big River, Tower had seen, and heard
about, a place called the Big River Club. From what little he had gathered,
Tower surmised it was a place where Big River’s rich and powerful congregated
to clue each other in on land deals and political maneuvering.

And now, his stomach was telling him it was time for a good
meal, and although the Big River Club’s prices would probably put a dent in his
meal budget, it might be worth it. He was getting nowhere with regular townsfolk
regarding the Egans murder. Maybe some of the denizens of the club would be
more forthcoming.

Tower had glimpsed the club from afar, but seeing it up
close, he couldn’t help but be impressed. It was a two-story structure that
occupied at least half of the block it sat upon. A huge porch wrapped around
the perimeter of the building, with ornate posts that led up to a shingled
overhang.

He counted at least seven chimneys, a dozen or so gables,
and a half-dozen men lazing on the front porch, smoking cigars and generally
gazing out at Big River with expressions that conveyed a mix of confidence and
proprietorship.

Tower climbed the wide front stairs and went inside. The
lighting was dim, and a thick layer of cigar smoke wafted across the great
room, despite a slight breeze from the open windows on each side.

The inside of the Big River Club was just as impressive as
the outside. Turkish rugs were spread evenly throughout the main space,
covering beautiful mahogany floors with intricate mosaic borders. The space
itself was subdivided into a dining area complete with dozens of tables and
chairs made with a rich, dark wood. Several groups of men were already seated, all
of them at various stages of eating and drinking. Delicate glass vases filled
with fresh wildflowers sat atop each table.

A hallway branched off from the dining room with doors that
Tower figured led to private dining spaces.

A bar ran along the opposite side of the great room with a
large mirror behind it and glass chandeliers spaced every ten feet or so down its
length. Oil paintings and frescoes covered the walls. A few men stood at the
bar—one of them studied Tower with great interest.

Tower made his way toward the dining area. A man emerged through
swinging doors at the rear of the dining room. He wore a stiffly starched black
suit, had tousled, bright red hair, and a fixed smile.

“How may I help you, sir?” the man asked.

“I was hoping to get a bite to eat,” Tower said.

“Have you ever been to the Big River Club?” the man asked.

“First time.”

Tower caught the look of uncertainty on the man’s face, and wondered
if dining was reserved for members only. He preempted any objections by saying,
“Sheriff Chesser recommended I give this place a try.”

It seemed to work. The man gave a little bow and gestured
for Tower to follow him to a table near one of the large windows. It was a
table for two, so Tower took the opposite chair, which afforded him a view of
the club’s front door.

Bird Hitchcock had rubbed off on him.

A waiter appeared with a menu.

Tower glanced at the selections, then played it safe by
ordering roast beef and mashed potatoes. He turned down the suggestion of wine
or brandy.

Bird hadn’t rubbed off on him
that
much.

His food came quickly and he devoured it. The flavors and
quality of the food were exceptional, worth every penny of the substantial
cost.

Tower then accepted an after-dinner cigar from the maître d’.
He got it going and was enjoying the smoke when the man from the bar who had
studied him upon his arrival approached his table. He had on a white shirt, pinstripe
pants, and a matching pinstripe vest. He also wore spectacles and carried a bag
on his shoulder. His youthful, freshly scrubbed face brimmed with enthusiasm,
despite the fact that Tower estimated him to be middle-aged.

“Excuse me, sir, but are you the preacher who brought in the
body of Stanley Verhooven?” the man asked. His voice was precise and crisp.

Tower looked around the room. The diners at the other tables
were focused on their food or each other, and the men at the bar were busy
ordering drinks from the bartender. No one seemed to be paying them any
attention.

“Who wants to know?” Tower replied.

The man smiled. “My name is Roger Jeffire. I’m the editor of
the
Big River Bugle
, as well as its lead reporter.”

Jeffire pulled out a notebook and thick black pencil.

Tower sighed.

“May I ask what your name is?” Jeffire asked, his pencil poised.

“Look, Mr. Jeffire,” Tower said. “I appreciate your
interest, but nothing I’ve done is newsworthy. I found that dead man and
brought him to the sheriff. End of story.”

“Are you sure that’s all there is?” Jeffire asked, with the
kind of tone that told Tower he knew there was more to it.

“Quite sure,” Tower said. He looked at his cigar.

“And it’s got nothing to do with the young preacher who was
murdered out in Killer’s Draw?”

“I have no idea,” Tower said. “Do you?”

The reporter didn’t answer, just studied Tower with a
strange intensity.

“In any event,” Tower said to fill the silence, “I figure
Sheriff Chesser will get to the bottom of that.”

Jeffire snorted in derision.

The red-haired maître d’ appeared out of nowhere and asked Tower,
“How was everything tonight, sir?” He shot at a glance at the newspaperman.

Jeffire ignored the man.

Tower paid his bill and got to his feet.

“It was excellent. And I think now I will enjoy my cigar out
of doors.”

He nodded to his host and brushed past the reporter, who followed
him.

Tower walked down the stairs and into the street.

“One more thing,” Jeffire said.

Tower turned and stared at the man. Several men were now on
the porch, looking directly at Tower and the reporter.

“What?” Tower asked.

“I know why Bertram Egans was murdered.”

Bird felt at peace, in the shade of the tree near the draw,
and continued to drink the dead man’s whiskey. She felt the gauzy cloud of
drunkenness coalesce into something denser and more blanketing, then let her
shoulders relax as the alcohol’s comfort slowly settled upon her.

There had been times when she was younger that she regretted
drinking, and the questionable behavior that sometimes followed. Those days
were long gone. But now, as she did occasionally, Bird thought back to her first
drink.

She was maybe ten years old, living with a family of farmers
who couldn’t grow a plant if they lived in the jungle. The crops were
miserable, the husband was a drunk, the wife bitter, and the kids just trying
to survive.

The husband had taken to chasing after Bird. The last time,
he’d been drunk and Bird had just finished building the fire in the stove. He’d
come up behind her and lifted her dress. Without a moment’s hesitation, she’d
turned around and jabbed him in the face with the hot end of the poker. He was
so drunk, the heated iron made it all the way through his cheek into his mouth
before the pain registered. And then he began to scream.

He swore he was going to kill her, so she barricaded herself
in the pantry where she’d found one of the sonofabitch’s whiskey bottles. Without
hesitation, she uncorked the jug and took a drink. And then another. And
another. Immediately, she’d felt at peace as the warmth enveloped her. From
that day on she knew it was her escape.

Of course, being a little girl, the alcohol immediately caused
her to pass out. When she awoke the next morning, feeling dizzy and
disoriented, one of the other children whispered through the door that the
farmer had gone into town to see the doctor. So, Bird walked out of the pantry,
stole a horse, and rode away, taking the whiskey bottle with her.

Drinking had quickly become second nature to Bird. And now,
sitting in the shade, watching a horse drink with a dead man over his back, she
understood her perspective had matured even more. It was simply a part of life.
Bird recognized and accepted that she and booze would always share the trail.

Bird coughed then, and followed it with another, deeper
cough that tore her lungs and sent a fine spray of blood from her mouth.

She ignored it.

The Appaloosa trotted toward her and Bird got to her feet. A
few clouds had rolled in, momentarily blocking the sun, and the wind felt cool
on her face. Bird grabbed the horse’s reins, freed the animal from the picket
she’d created, and was about to do the same with Axelrod’s horse when a blur of
color and motion appeared in the periphery of her vision. She drew her gun and
looked in the area where
something
had been. She was sure of it. But
now, she saw nothing. Bird questioned if it had merely been some type of
reflection from the water and the rocks in the stream.

Then she saw another hint of movement just inside the long
grass on the opposite side of Killer’s Draw.

Bird quickly climbed into the saddle and steered the
Appaloosa toward the grass. In the air above her, she could hear something soft
and faint. A high tone too thin to be a voice.

Her horse shifted its feet and flared its nostrils.

The sound died away quickly, but not before Bird was
convinced.

She could be wrong, she told herself. After all, nearly the
entire contents of a bottle of cheap whiskey was now inside her, and the sun
was back out from behind the clouds, bearing down relentlessly.

But for a moment, she knew what she’d heard.

It was a voice.

And it belonged to a little girl.

“We’re being watched,” Jeffire said, glancing over Tower’s
shoulder to the Big River Club’s wraparound porch. “Someone is always watching
around here.”

“Where can we talk?” Tower asked.

“Come by the newspaper office after dark, tonight. I’ll tell
you what I know. In the meantime, have you talked to Walter Morrison?”

Tower shook his head. “No. Who is he?”

“He’s the church secretary.”

The papers Silas had given him said nothing about a church
secretary named Walter Morrison. If he’d known there even
was
an
employee of the church, he would have started there.

“Have him tell you what he knows; it will be good background
for when we chat tonight.” Jeffire tipped his hat. “Until then.”

He began to turn and walk away but Tower stopped him.

“Does it have something to do with the disappearance of Ronald
Hale’s daughter?”

Jeffire gave Tower a curious smile. “No. Probably because Ronald
Hale doesn’t have a daughter. He lives alone.”

Seeing no response coming from Tower, Jeffire departed,
whistling as he went.

What is it with this town?
Tower thought. He hadn’t
seen this many liars since his last card game on a Mississippi riverboat near
New Orleans.

He sighed, felt eyes staring at his back, and at first
stifled an urge to look behind him to see who had an interest in the conversation.
He then turned, as if to relight his cigar, and spotted two men on the club’s
porch. They were opposites. One was small and thin, dressed like an Eastern
dandy, while the other one was huge, easily six inches taller than Tower and
much wider. The little man had a foot raised and resting on the porch’s railing.
The bigger man just stared at Tower.

Tower blew smoke into the air and smiled at them. The little
man nodded. The big man clenched and unclenched his ham-sized hands. Tower
thought he heard a knuckle crack.

He turned his back on the men. He had no idea who they were,
but made a mental note to eventually put names to the faces.

He walked down a side street and made his way to the church.
The structure, although substantial, still somehow conveyed an impression of
humility. Maybe it was the simple flower beds around the front steps or the
unadorned sign telling parishioners the schedule of services.

Tower finished his cigar, dropped it into the dirt and
ground it down with his boot heel, then climbed the stairs and went inside the
church.

Two sets of benches twenty deep ran from the front of the
church to the back. They were made of simple pine, stained dark with use. Off
to one side was a row of candles. The other side held a few tables with stacks
of papers and several dog-eared bibles.

Near the front of the church were two confessional booths—both
doors were open.

The altar was on a slightly raised platform, and was
relatively ornate for such a simple room. It was made of a blond wood, with hand
carving on the legs and front edge of the altar’s top.

The ceiling above the altar was painted a unique grayish-blue
that Tower had never seen before and the borders of the ceiling and the wall
where they met were inlaid with a delicate gold finish.

In Tower’s estimation, it was a beautiful church.

A door at the rear of the altar opened and a man stepped out.
Tower instantly assessed him as one of those people you would never remember;
one who would blend into a crowd completely.

He was of average height and average build, had light hair,
and wore dark clothing.

“I thought I heard someone come in.”

Tower nodded and walked toward him.

“You’re Walter Morrison?” he asked.

The man looked at Tower more closely.

“I am,” he said. “And you’re the preacher I’ve heard about?”

“That would be me.”

Morrison stepped aside, and gestured toward the open door
behind the altar.

“Come in, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”