The Circuit Rider (22 page)

“T
his
is no way to have a conversation,” Tower said.

Bird
was surprised. She’d thought the sneak attack, the ambush, might rattle him
into some kind of admission, but he was clearly calm and under control.

She
had no intention of backing off, however.

“Let’s
start with how Toby Raines knew that I was going to San Francisco,” she said.

“What
are you talking about?” Tower said. Bird studied Tower’s face; his eyes were
clear and unblinking. It didn’t look like he was lying.

“He
left me a message in the room where he killed the Indian girl,” Bird said. She
pictured the room again and wished that her gun were pressed against the head
of Toby Raines instead of Mike Tower.

Bird
felt Tower shift slightly beneath her, and he tilted his head.

“Stop
looking at me like that and answer the damn question,” Bird said.

“I
have no idea how he knew about San Francisco,” Tower finally said.

“That’s
no answer.”

“It’s
the only one I’ve got.”

Bird
studied Tower’s face. She saw no shadows, no twitches, no signs of a liar
trying to sell her a wagon full of cow chips.

“Well,”
Bird said, “the problem is that I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. Not a
damn soul. So he couldn’t have found out from me or from anyone I’ve come into
contact with. So that leaves you and your people.”

“Can
you please put your gun away?” Tower said.

“No.”

Tower
sighed. “Look at this objectively,” he said. “We’ve made no secret of where our
final destination is. Maybe someone from one of the towns rode ahead of us and
shared our travel plans.”

“Or
maybe someone from your church tipped Toby Raines off,” Bird pointed out.

Tower
raised an eyebrow at her. “Does Toby Raines spend a lot of time with
churchgoing folks?” he asked.

Bird
thought about that, then eased the hammer of her gun back. She took another
drink from the whiskey bottle and contemplated Tower beneath her.

“You’re
kind of warm and comfortable,” she said.

“Thank
you.”

Bird
holstered her pistol, went back to her bedroll, pulled out a new, full whiskey
bottle, and took a drink. She picked up a couple small twigs and placed them
onto the ghost of a fire they’d started earlier. She watched the twigs catch,
then pop into flame. Thin tendrils of smoke wafted upward.

“Look,”
Tower said. He was now sitting up, rubbing the spot on his forehead where
Bird’s gun had dug a round burrow. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened?
How this horrible thing that was done to you came about?”

He
grabbed his coffee cup, leaned forward to the fire, and poured the small amount
left in the pot into his cup.

Bird
drank again, straight from the bottle.

“Maybe
one day,” Bird said. “But today isn’t the day.”

“Is
there ever going to be a good day to talk about it?” Tower said. “Now seems
like the perfect time. We’re both wide awake.”

Bird
stretched out on her bedroll and rested her head against her saddle.

“I’m
listening,” Tower said.

Bird
answered by softly snoring.

B
ird
had always felt more at home away from towns and cities. She’d learned to take
comfort in the hills, mountain ranges, and vast stretches of land where there
were little to no signs of human habitation.

As
a young girl, with often a temporary home that proved to be even more temporary
than first imagined, she had spent vast amounts of time in the woods, hunting
game with her old rifle that she had learned how to take apart and put back
together time and time again.

So
when a nagging feeling of tension began to make itself apparent between her
shoulder blades, and when she felt that little tingle of nervousness running
along the back of her neck, Bird took notice.

They
had climbed steadily into the mountains, and the landscape seemed to open up bigger
and wider with each turn in the trail. The blue sky seemed to grow larger, the
air thinner and crisper, the mountain streams wider and running with more force
each time the trail rose.

When
the trail rose and they emerged onto a narrow shelf of land, both she and Tower
stopped abruptly.

The
view took her breath away.

Before
her, the trail simply ended at one of the most spectacular waterfalls she had
ever seen. To her right, Bird saw the trail reemerge higher up, skirting the
rock formation that had been carved by thousands of years of river water.

The
waterfall itself shot out from between two towering stone cliffs, a cloud of
mist and light hanging over the area like its own permanent cloud.

Next
to her, Tower let out a long, low whistle as he watched the water pour from the
mouth of the raised cliff opening.

“Beautiful,”
Tower said. “Absolutely stunning.”

“Thank
you, I’m often told that,” Bird said.

She
glanced at Tower, and the corner of his mouth tugged as he tried to hide a
smile.

She
lifted her eyes and scanned the top of the ridge beyond the waterfall, letting
her eyes analyze the land in sections, searching for any signs of what was
causing that tingle of uncertainty.

Bird
shrugged off the feeling. Maybe it was simply the vastness of this country that
was leaving her with an unsettled feeling.

She
savored the beauty of the water, the power of the water, as it crashed down and
cut through rock. She decided a drink was in order; such an unforgettable image
was the perfect setting to savor some whiskey.

Bird
turned to open the flap of her saddlebag, and as she did, she felt a rush of
air zip past her face and heard the crack of rifles.

Next
to her, Tower tumbled from his horse and fell to the ground.

Bird
ignored the instinct to straighten up and instead continued her move down
toward her saddlebag. She stayed low in the saddle and immediately recognized
that the shooters had to be over on the other side of the river.

She
had now slid halfway off her horse, hiding her body from the riflemen. Bird
reached down and snagged Tower by the back of his collar, kicked the Appaloosa
in the ribs, and dragged Tower behind a ledge of rock a dozen yards from the
clearing.

All
the while she cursed herself.

She’d
felt the presence of someone else and had ignored the warning signs.

She
had walked right into the trap.

Bird
knew the shooters had figured she and Tower would stop at the clearing and look
at the damn waterfall like a couple schoolkids on recess.

She
turned Tower onto his back and took in the sight of so much blood pouring out
of his midsection.

Goddamn
, she thought.

God
damn it to hell.

T
oo
much blood.

No
getting around it. Tower was losing a huge amount of blood, and way too fast.

“Damn
it,” Bird muttered.

Bullets
ricocheted off the rocks. Bird knew the bullet had been intended for her, and
that it had only been her abrupt twist in the saddle reaching for her whiskey
that had caused the shot to miss and hit Tower instead.

She
now grabbed the bottle of whiskey from her saddlebag, along with an extra
kerchief. She poured some whiskey onto the kerchief and used it to wipe away
the blood that covered the side of Tower’s head and face. Bird found a shallow groove
about two inches long on the side of Tower’s head, just above his ear. It wasn’t
the only bullet that had hit him, but it was probably the one that had knocked
him unconscious.

Bird
opened Tower’s shirt where the blood seemed to be bubbling through the
material. She saw the second bullet wound. It had hit him between the ribs and
hip, going in the right side of his belly and coming out the back. Bird lifted
Tower slightly and saw even more blood in the back. She lifted the shirt and
saw that when the bullet had exited Tower’s body, it had taken with it a large
chunk of flesh and muscle. The hole in the back was triple the size of the
entry wound. The one good thing, Bird thought, was that the wound was far enough
away from his insides that she was confident his internal organs hadn’t been
hit.

“Your
Lord was watching over you, I guess,” Bird said as she doused both bullet holes
with whiskey, then took a quick drink herself. “Although he left me untouched,
which must mean he likes me more.”

A
bullet pinged off the rock just above her head, and shards of stone scattered
onto her shoulders.

“Sons
of bitches,” Bird said. She tore the kerchief in half, stuffed one piece into
the bullet hole in the front of Tower’s belly, and jammed the rest into the hole
in the back. Still unconscious, Tower moaned.

“Sorry,
but it’s got to be done,” Bird said.

There
wasn’t really enough material to properly fill the opening in Tower’s back, but
she did her best.

Bird
looked at the side of Tower’s head. The bleeding was slowing, and she needed to
wrap it.

More
bullets ricocheted around her.

She
reached inside Tower’s overcoat, tore out a strip of black lining, and tied it
around his head. Bird took another drink of whiskey, slid her rifle from its scabbard,
fed shells into the magazine, and leaned against the big boulder.

There
was no doubt in her mind what had happened. But she pushed the thought away. There
would be plenty of time to speculate later. She had to survive first.

Bird
glanced over at Tower. He was out cold. The blood had stopped for the most
part, or maybe he’d run out. She gritted her teeth.

It
was not going to end this way.

She
pivoted on her heel, ducked to the right of the rock, and brought the rifle to
her shoulder in one smooth motion. Through the cloud of mist thrown off by the
waterfall, Bird spotted a man running closer to the edge of the ridge, crouched
low. Bird measured his speed, put the sight of the rifle on his chest, and
fired.

The
round stopped him and stood him up straight, which allowed Bird to put a second
bullet into him, this one in the head. The man’s black cowboy hat flipped off
his head and spun in the air before landing a few feet from the dead body of
its owner.

Bird
ducked back behind the rock as bullets crashed all around her, smashing off
chunks of rock, digging up clods of earth. She knew what they would do next. The
sons of bitches would try to circle around, pin her down from all sides.

Bird
glanced down the sloping hill that led toward the river. Not a good way out.

She
watched the ridge opposite the clearing. They would certainly send at least one
man up on that ridge to flank them and probably another man down below,
crossing to the opposite side.

One
thing was clear: they couldn’t stay here. In a matter of minutes they would be
pinned down and cut to shreds. Bird had only killed one of the men, and there
seemed to be plenty more.

Bird
scuttled back to Tower. His eyes were open.

“Can
you hear me?” she said.

He
blinked rapidly. His mouth formed a word, but no sound came out.

“I’ll
take that as a yes,” Bird said.

She
hated to do it, but she had no choice. She lifted Tower to his feet, felt him
wobble unsteadily, then pushed him toward the dim trail that led to the
waterfall, where Bird had spotted a slight overhang. From there, they would be
afforded some protection from one side as well as the advantage of slightly
higher ground. It wasn’t much, but at least they could make an attempt to defend
themselves.

She
unhooked the saddlebag, slung it over her shoulder, and guided Tower up.