The Circuit Rider (25 page)

A
full day later, dawn broke, and it took Tower’s fever with it. Bird sat with a
cup of coffee in her hand, fortified with the last of the whiskey. She already
knew she would have to go back to the absinthe before the day’s end. She wasn’t
happy about it, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Bird
studied Tower’s face. Maybe it was the shocking lack of color in his skin, or
the way his face seemed even tighter, but he looked like a different man. Or
maybe it was just that he’d lost weight from fighting off the infection and it
made him seem especially different, vulnerable even.

Oh,
who was she trying to fool? She knew why he looked different to her. He had
finally unburdened his secret, even if he had done so unwittingly. Now she knew
why, most likely, Tower had found religion. He’d killed an innocent girl,
unless the fever had indeed caused him to imagine such a thing.

But
somehow Bird had a very strong feeling that what he had described in his
feverish state was very close to what had actually happened.

Bird
stood, walked past the tepid fire that was just barely still smoldering, and
followed a dim path through long grass to a clearing, where Jonathan Morris
Bunker stood before one of his canvases, working with an intensity that
surprised Bird.

She
stood off to the side, watched the way he held the slim wooden palette with his
left hand, the tiny dabs of color arrayed on its surface, and the way he mixed
them together, working quickly and effortlessly.

“You
can come closer if you’d like,” he said without turning around.

Bird
walked up next to him.

“It’s
pretty,” she said, meaning it. He had splashed across canvas an image of the
large meadow with the light-grayish mountains in the background.

“Thank
you,” he said.

“And
just like you told me,” Bird said. “It isn’t supposed to look exactly like what
you’re seeing. It’s just supposed to give you the overall
impression.
”

Bunker
bobbed his head vigorously. “Exactly! Precisely that!”

Bird
watched the way he blended colors, shading the foreground, forcing the eye to
go this way or that.

“What
made you decide you wanted to be a painter?” she asked.

Bunker
didn’t turn to look at her as he answered.

“I
didn’t make the decision. It was made for me. Probably like you and your guns,
right? You never consciously decided you wanted to be a gunfighter, am I
correct?”

“Nope,
never had a choice,” she said.

“It
was the same with me and making pictures,” Bunker said. “It was a calling.”

He
lifted the painting off the easel and slid it into a case that was lined with
wooden slats; each set of slats created a separate compartment. Within the case,
Bird saw at least six more frames stretched with canvas. Bunker selected the
next one in order and put it on the easel.

“The
light changes by the hour,” he explained. “This meadow will look completely
different every hour by the hour. So I’ve got a painting for each corresponding
light pattern. Displayed together, the paintings will create an effect that
will make the viewer feel as if they are watching the light change before their
eyes.”

Bunker
turned back to the painting, and Bird looked at it. It did seem totally
different from the other—

The
canvas was suddenly splashed with bright red and Bird saw tufts of hair on the
back of Bunker’s head float away, and then she was diving to the ground as the
report of the rifle filled the air.

W
hen
Bird had been hunting meat for her adopted family’s children, she always had a
rule: never let emotions get in the way of her steadiness on the trigger. Not even
when she pictured the young children back at the squalid little cabin depending
on her to bring in food, she never let feelings get in the way of her ability
to make an accurate shot.

So
when she ran back to the camp after leaving Bunker dead, half of his head blown
off and splattered onto the canvas, she felt no emotion.

What
she did feel was a dead thing, a cold slab of certainty that she would set
things right.

Bird
rounded the trail into camp, heard the sound of approaching horses, and drew
both guns.

Tower
was no longer near the fire. She spotted him off near a stand of scrub brush, a
trail in the dirt from where he had crawled detailing his path.

He
was on his side, not moving.

Bird
saw three men emerge from the trees less than twenty yards from the clearing. One
of them she recognized from the ambush back at the waterfall.

They
looked lean and haggard, desperate even. Just the kind of violent, worthless
men Toby Raines loved to surround himself with.

The
men did not hesitate. They charged directly at Bird, and she fired both guns, working
the hammer and trigger unconsciously.

Two
of the men were knocked off their horses.

The
third raised his rifle at Bird, but she fired both guns again. One bullet
ripped out his throat, and he veered violently on the horse as the second shot
hit him in the belly. The man’s horse pivoted wildly, and its passenger went
the other way, landing in a heap on the ground.

Two
more men thundered up a low incline from the south end of the clearing. Bird
holstered her left gun and fanned four straight shots, knowing that her gun was
empty with the last shot. One bullet hit the first man in his teeth, and she
saw his jaw explode as he crumpled.

The
last man tried to turn his horse once he saw his comrades splayed out on the
ground. Bird drew her left gun and fired from the hip, shooting him through the
back. He fell off his horse. He tried to get up, but Bird raised her pistol,
took careful aim, and put another bullet into his head.

Silence
returned to the area, only interrupted by the sound of horses running in the
opposite direction of the gunfire.

Bird
went to Tower and found him on his back, staring up at the sky.

“I’m
sorry,” he said.

“For
what?”

“For
not...helping you,” he said.

Bird
looked around at all of the dead men. Saw a vulture circling high overhead.

“Help?”
she said. “It’s one thing I’ve never really ever needed.”

B
ird
made a swift decision.

She
propped Tower up against a rock, put a loaded pistol in his hand, and snatched
up Bunker’s big, heavy .50 Sharps rifle.

She
grabbed one of the horses, thinking of her Appaloosa, and charged down the
incline toward where the last two men had emerged.

Bird
knew Toby Raines loved to have other people do his dirty work. Unless the
victims were young women totally under his control; then he would decide to
take matters into his own hands.

She
knew he was watching, and she intended to end this thing and end it now.

Bird
thundered down the slope, following the trail of the men she had just killed.

The
horse she was on was a big bay, and it galloped with a solid confidence Bird
admired. The ground flew beneath her, and she crossed the meadow, ran through a
copse of trees, and crested another hill, this one overlooking the river.

Now
she saw that the river was swollen, and there was no place to cross.

In
the distance, she saw a single rider going in the opposite direction.

Toby
Raines.

She
was sure of it.

Bird
knew she couldn’t cross the river, and by the time she did find a place to
ford, it would probably be several miles up- or downstream and she would never cover
the distance quickly enough. Plus, she had to go back and get Tower, who, now
that the fever had broken, was in better shape, but he couldn’t withstand a
punishing ride chasing Toby Raines.

No,
she would have to take a shot.

Literally.

Bird
got down from the big bay and lifted the rifle. She had never personally fired
one of the giant cannons before, but she’d known some buffalo hunters who
swore by them.

Bird
knew that they fired only one round. A true single-shot rifle. And one round
was all she had.

She
sank to one knee and raised the rifle to her shoulder. She pulled back the big
hammer and lined the fading image of Toby Raines between the sights.

Bird
let out a soft, gentle breath. She could hear nothing but the sound of the
wind, and the colors of the light all seemed to fade to the side. Bird felt she
could actually see the fabric of Toby Raines’s shirt.

She
laid the sight on the middle of Toby Raines’s back, then raised it slightly to
account for the horse’s gallop.

The
thought entered Bird’s mind of Bunker saying that you don’t choose moments like
this; they choose you.

Her
finger had been tightening on the trigger by its own volition. The sight was on
the middle of Raines’s back when the rifle thundered, and Bird felt the wallop
of the enormous recoil. It spun her slightly, but she kept her head straight.

And
saw Toby Raines blown off of his horse.

T
hey
buried Jonathan Morris Bunker in the meadow that had been his last subject.

Bird actually buried him, what with Tower still being as weak as a sickly
kitten.

However,
she let Tower read from the Bible, and together they built the fire where they
placed Bunker’s last painting, the one that still carried his blood on its
canvas.

The
rest of the paintings they left in the special case and tied it to the mule,
which had refused to run off during all of the gunfire.

Bird
had gone back to the easel, which had been knocked down during the attack on
the camp.

The
painting that had sparked Tower’s reaction was still attached to the wooden holder.

Bird
studied the picture. It looked so much like a younger version of herself it was
hard to believe. Jonathan Morris Bunker had saved their lives, and now that
talent was gone.

She
unhooked the painting from its bindings and carried it to the fire.
Is this
what he would have wanted?
Bird thought. She glanced back at the meadow,
where Tower was tying the mule to her horse.

Bird
held the painting over the flames.

And
then, at the last moment, she tucked it back under her arm.

She
walked to the makeshift corral they had created and where they had tied the
best of the horses from Toby Raines’s gang. She slipped the painting into her
saddlebag, next to the bottle of absinthe. Tower rejoined her and they left the
camp, trotting slowly down to the river, then turning south, looking for a
place to cross.

It
had taken most of Bird’s energy to keep herself from abandoning Tower and
racing off to look down upon the corpse of Toby Raines.

But
she had no idea how long it would take them to find a place to cross, and
leaving Tower, as weak as he was, just didn’t make sense. After all, she was
still there to protect him. Leaving him barely alive in the middle of a bunch
of dead men hadn’t seemed like a great idea.

Now
Bird rode ahead, with the mule behind her. And behind the mule, Tower rode. She
knew they couldn’t cover territory very quickly, but she went as fast as she
thought Tower could handle.

It
was the afternoon, and dark clouds were rolling over the tops of the mountains
in the distance. The level of the river was down. Bird could see where the
water had reached, and it was now at least a foot lower. When they had ridden
it after their jump from the cliff, it must have been near flood levels.

Bird
wondered about Toby Raines. What she would find when they came upon his dead
body. Had the coyotes found him?
Vermin discovering vermin
, Bird
thought.
How appropriate.

By
her estimation, it took them nearly two and half miles to find a shallow part
of the river, one that would let them cross. There had been some other possible
spots, but with a mule carrying supplies and a man who had nearly died from an
infected gunshot wound, Bird had wanted to take no chances.

She
led the way, the water mostly sandbar and gravel until they hit a small dip in the riverbed
where the water was deep enough to nearly reach her stirrups.

Bird
climbed out of the river and watched Tower cross with no problems.

She
turned back toward the north, knowing that the body would be easy to find.

Bird
could already see the vultures circling.