Killer's Draw: The Circuit Rider (3 page)

They rode back to Big River without speaking, each lost in their own thoughts. For Tower, the analysis of where Egans had been killed yielded nothing in terms of information, but the emotion the place had conveyed had been vivid and real.

He felt compassion for the young preacher, tortured and murdered in the middle of nowhere. No one should have to die like that.

Tower and Bird parted ways at the edge of town, she heading for the saloon, he going to the Elk Café for coffee.

He entered the small restaurant and sat at a table by the window. A thick woman with flaming red hair brought over a slip of paper and a coffee pot. Tower turned over his cup; she poured him a coffee and handed him the menu.

“Special today is three eggs and three strips of bacon,” she said. “Don’t ask me why it’s a breakfast special at dinner time, I just work here.” The woman smiled, and Tower immediately liked her.

Even though he had only planned to drink coffee, the smell of frying bacon and fresh bread changed his mind.

“The special sounds good to me,” he said. “No harm in having breakfast for dinner, maybe I’ll fool myself into doing a day’s work tonight.”

“It could happen,” she smiled, walking back toward the kitchen.

From town, whatever storm had appeared at the edge of the mountains was nowhere to be seen. The evening looked to be clear and a little bit cold. The lights from the café illuminated the edge of the walk just a few feet into the street. Inside, there was just enough light for Tower to read.

He had brought along the papers Silas had given him back in San Francisco—the background information on Egans’ murder. Back when he’d been working for the private investigation firm in Missouri after the war, it would have been called the case briefing.

Tower shook his head. He felt like he’d come full circle from that time.

Well, he thought, no one ever really knew what life was going to throw at them. It was part of what made life interesting. Sometimes, a bit too interesting.

Included in the thick sheaf was a separate batch of letters. Judging by one of the return addresses, they appeared to have been written by a woman in Boston named Evelyn Egans. After a quick scan of the first couple of letters, it seemed clear to Tower that she was Bertram’s mother.

The letters were addressed to Silas and frequently referenced Bertram’s application to join the church out West. Tower flipped forward and found the young man’s original application at the bottom of the stack of letters.

Mrs. Egans made a solid case to Silas about why he should accept Bertram into his organization. She wrote at great length about Bertram’s troubles growing up. About how his stepfather had beaten the young boy, terrible acts of violence for which his mother felt guilty. Eventually, it appeared, Mrs. Egans kicked the abusive man out of the household.

But the damage had been done.

According to the longest letter, Bertram had become violent himself. Getting into fights, committing petty crimes, and drinking alcohol. It was the last letter in which Mrs. Egans described how finally it had been the church that had saved her son. Bertram had had a spiritual revelation and his acceptance into the church as a minister was all her son wanted in life.

Tower put the letters down when his food arrived. As he ate and drank from his freshly refilled cup of coffee, he reflected on what he’d read.

It was an old investigator’s technique—get to know the victim, and in doing so, ideas and theories would surface about why they had become the victim of a crime.

But Egans’ story was an all-too-familiar tale. Tower had known plenty of people who sought refuge in the church due to unfortunate circumstances in their lives.

He himself was one of those people.

The stepfather angle intrigued Tower. Could it be that the man who had beaten his stepson for an extended period of time had come all the way out from Boston to finish the job? Tower had known plenty of men like that, controlling personalities who refused to let anyone ever escape their sphere of influence.

Even so, he figured it was a long shot. He made a mental note to send a telegram to Mrs. Egans and find out where Bertram’s stepfather was now. If he was in jail, or dead, Tower could rule him out. But if he could determine that the man had left Boston and possibly come West, that would put him squarely in the territory of being a prime suspect.

Tower finished his meal, pushed the plate away, and declined a third cup of coffee.

While it was always a possibility that something in a victim’s past was a factor in what happened, Tower had a suspicion that the crime perpetrated on young Egans had something to do with what he was doing here in town. After all, Silas had hinted about “rumors” that involved the church. It was this fact that had prompted the older man to send Tower and Bird out to Big River in the first place.

Tower paid for his meal, walked out of the café, put the case papers back into his saddlebag, and rode toward the other end of town.

According to Silas’ papers, Egans had lived in a boardinghouse. Tower hoped he could learn something there, and wondered idly if anyone had cleaned out the young man’s room.

His investigator’s instincts were coming back to him, and Tower felt a strong inclination that Egans’ things were long gone.

Bird sat in the hotel’s dining room, a cozy setting with a dozen tables, a fireplace, and an upright piano stationed in the corner. She imagined on busy nights, say Friday and Saturday, a gentleman could be found providing the kind of music that aids in proper digestion.

This night, only half of the tables were occupied.

The restaurant’s sole waiter, a thin man with a bright white shirt and red bow tie, came to her table and popped the cork from a bottle of wine. He poured her first glass, then gave a little bow and swept away from the table.

Bird lifted her glass. Whiskey was her first love, but over the years she had gradually developed a taste for wine, thanks to an old ax thrower from a Wild West show she’d had the misfortune to take part in years back. He’d been a Frenchman and had extolled the benefits of the grape. He was dead now, shot in the head by a midget rodeo clown jealous of the burgeoning sexual relationship between the ax thrower and the show’s bearded lady.

Now, Bird toasted the Frenchman’s memory to the empty space across from her and drank half the wine in two swallows.

Not the best she’d ever had, not the worst, either. Supposedly, wine was good for the blood, the ax thrower had said.
Keeps the pipes clean.
Those were his exact words, as she recalled.

Bird refilled her own glass and held the stem between her fingers. She studied her fingers—long, pale, and slender. They were the only parts of her body she took very good care of, for obvious reasons. Her profession required it. Some other gunfighters she knew always wore gloves but that wasn’t her style. Besides, she felt she had better control of the gun with her bare hands. A better feel.

A pair of men entered the hotel dining room, and she instantly took note of their guns. One pistol each, but the holsters were low and tied down. Not typical rigs for cowboys. They looked like gunfighters and Bird wondered if she knew them. She studied their faces but they didn’t look familiar. They took a table near the fireplace, one of them with his back to the room. Probably not a professional, she figured.

Her mind wandered back to Killer’s Draw. Something about that place gave her pause. Not just the weird voice she’d heard, which she was now sure had just been the wind. The wind often whistled and whined through cracks in rocks, or even through grass, making sounds that seemed distinctly human. She was sure that’s what it had been. The wind.

The wine was kindling a small appetite. Bird never ate much, preferring to fill her stomach with good drink, but now she thought a small meal might do her some good. The waiter came back and she requested a steak.

When the waiter left, Bird leaned back in her chair. As usual, she had requested a table along the wall, so she could sit with her back against it.

So, when a tall man with broad shoulders and a head of thick grey hair approached, she watched him walk toward her. The man had no gun, and his clothes were worn and slightly dirty. Bird pegged him as a ranch hand.

He stopped in front of her table. A few of the other diners glanced over at her table.

The man said, “Bird Hitchcock?”

“In the exquisite flesh,” she said.

He had his right hand near the left side of his body, and he corkscrewed, swinging his arm in a wide, powerful backhand.

Bird leaned back and had just enough room between her chair and the wall so that the blow missed her entirely. She felt a waft of air on her flesh, and then the man’s fingertips just barely scraped her chin on the way by.

Her gun was in her hand, pointed directly at the man’s heart, by the time his arm completed its arc across his body. Before he could even bring it back, he looked directly into the muzzle of Bird’s pistol.

“Inappropriate behavior for the dinner table,” Bird said.

The man’s face flushed red as he glared at her.

“That preacher got what he deserved,” he said, his face red and the words coming out through clenched, yellow teeth. “You’ve got no business nosing around.”

“Now how would you know what that preacher deserved?” Bird said.

“Because,” the man said, and his face lost its anger, instead collapsing into a mask of sadness. “He killed my daughter.”

A herd of cattle had just been brought over from their holding range outside of town, and Tower could hear the whistles and shouts of the cowboys herding them into the yards on the town’s south end. Usually, herds weren’t brought in this late, as the cowboys and men who ran the pens preferred daylight. It was safer that way. But cattle didn’t always cooperate with the schedules of men, preferring to stick to their own chaotic timetables.

Dust from the range had spilled into town and Tower could smell the mélange of animals, sweat, and hard days on the trail.

Mrs. Wolfe’s Boardinghouse was several blocks off the main street but within sight of the beautiful homes on First Street. As Tower walked, he admired the architecture of some of the big houses. He figured they must have cost a pretty penny to build. There was big money in cattle these days and the bigger the spread, the bigger the cattle baron’s house.

Of course, not all of the homes belonged to ranchers. Some housed doctors, lawyers, and bankers—the moneymen who helped facilitate the town’s main industry.

Tower got to the boardinghouse and studied it from the outside. It was three stories high and very wide—a big, square, utilitarian structure that nonetheless appeared well built. A porch ran the length of the building and wrapped around the side, out of sight. Three large dormers sat atop the structure, the only adornments Tower could see.

He climbed the stairs and knocked on the front door. It was stained dark, almost black, and the small brass knocker caught the dim light from the starry night sky.

After a few moments, the door was opened by a woman in a billowing green dress. She leaned the broom in her hand against the wall.

“May I help you?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Tower said, taking off his hat. “Are you Mrs. Wolfe?”

“I am. Good guess.”

Tower smiled. “Thanks. If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Bertram Egans if you wouldn’t mind,” Tower said.

The woman’s face went from open and friendly to closed and hostile.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Mike Tower. I’m a friend of Bertram’s,” he said. Not quite a lie, but not exactly the truth, either.

“What sort of questions?” she asked. Tower noted that the woman made no move to open the door any farther and let him inside.

“He did live here, correct? Before he was murdered?” Tower continued.

The woman folded her arms across her chest. Somewhere behind her, Tower heard the clatter of dishes as someone worked in the kitchen, probably cleaning up after the communal dinner.

“I was taught not to say anything disrespectful about the dead, so I’ve got nothing to say about
him
,” she finally answered.

“If you would let me talk to you for just a minute or two,” Tower said.

“I’ve got nothing to say,” she repeated.

Tower was about to respond when she stepped back and quietly shut the door directly in his face.

Tower stood there, surprised by the woman’s reaction.

Now what?
he wondered.

Bird kept her pistol on the old man and used her boot to push the chair across from her away from the table.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” she asked.

The man looked around the dining room, then sat down.

“Want a glass of wine? Will that help calm you down?” Bird asked.

“I don’t want anything. I just want you to leave this whole thing alone,” he said.

Before Bird could respond, someone else spoke.

“Are you that desperate for a dinner companion, Bird?” Tower asked, walking out from behind the tall old man. He looked down at the gun in Bird’s hand. “I know you have sometimes have trouble finding someone to dine with, but there’s got to be a better way than this.”

Bird holstered her gun. She wasn’t worried about the old man now that she knew why he was here.

“Actually, Mr. Try-To-Slap-A-Woman invited himself. That’s what your name is, right?” she asked.

“This isn’t exactly a social call,” the old man said. “But my name is Hale. Ronald Hale.”

Tower pulled up a third chair and sat down.

Bird grabbed the bottle of wine by the neck, took a long drink, then refilled her empty glass.

“Just so you know, Mr. Tower. Ronald here just told me that our preacher, Bertram Egans, killed his daughter.”

“I’m sorry for trying to strike you,” Hale said. “I just … haven’t been myself since Dorothy disappeared. Dorothy Hale. My daughter.”

Tower glanced at Bird, then back at Hale. “So, is your daughter deceased or is she missing?”

“I know she’s dead. I can feel it.”

The waiter came and placed Bird’s steak in front of her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Will the two gentlemen be joining you for dinner?” the waiter asked.

Tower shook his head, and Hale looked away.

“No, I don’t believe they will be joining me,” Bird said. “They asked me to allow them the opportunity, but I have declined.”

The waiter nodded as if that made perfect sense, then retreated back to the kitchen.

“So, Mr. Hale, why are you so upset with Miss Hitchcock here?” Tower asked. “She usually waits until the evening to offend someone. Is she ahead of schedule today?”

Bird raised her glass.

“A lady always loves a compliment,” she said.

Hale ignored them and said, “I understand you two are trying to clear that preacher’s name, but that’s a fool’s errand. That man was just plain bad. I don’t care if you’ve been hired by the church,” Mr. Hale said.

“Who said we were hired by the church?” Tower asked.

“Word gets around.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Tower answered. “We’re looking into the murder of Bertram Egans. But our only agenda is the truth.”

Hale nodded.

“Well, I’ll tell you the truth. That man claimed to be a preacher, but he was evil. Pure evil. He attacked my daughter, and she was never the same afterward.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tower offered. “Tell me about the attack. How did it happen?”

Bird took a bite of her steak. It was tough and too salty but a few pieces wouldn’t hurt.

“She supposedly started going to see him for advice,” Hale said. “At first, the missus and I didn’t think it would be a problem. It couldn’t hurt, was the way we figured it.”

“So, something was going on with your daughter before she started seeing Preacher Egans?” Tower asked.

“We don’t know,” Hale said. He glanced over toward the fireplace and seemed to see for the first time the two men who had come in earlier.

Hale suddenly got to his feet.

“I’ve got to go,” he said.

“But I want to hear about the attack,” Tower pressed. “What did Egans do to your daughter, sir?”

But by then, Hale had already begun walking away from the table.

“It sure as hell doesn’t matter now,” he said.