are.”
“Why me?”
“I think it’s imperative that we talk to Mr. Parker,” Tower said. “I know he threw us out of the Big River Club, but he’s got to know something about why his wife was murdered. I think I can get him to talk to me. I thought I could do that—he seems the kind of man more likely to talk man-to-man—and you could ride over to Harlan’s Crossing. See if you can track down Jeffire, or the girl, or both.”
“I don’t mind that plan at all,” Bird said. “I’m getting real tired of Big River.”
Tower got to his feet. “I’m going for a walk, sometimes it helps me think. Care to join me?”
“I believe I’ll stay here and see if this whiskey has any ideas.”
Tower tipped his hat to her and left. She watched him leave the saloon, standing tall, with his broad shoulders and easy gait. He was a man very comfortable with himself.
Bird looked at the bottle.
Other people found their comfort outside themselves.
She poured another shot and drank.
Thirty-Six
The next morning, Bird stood before the Big River General Store, trying to forget about the dream she’d had: a woman with a pentagram carved into her chest was following her through the long grass near Killer’s Draw. She hadn’t slept well, and there was a crick in her neck. She rolled her head from side to side, trying to loosen up her neck muscles, and regretted passing on that second cup of coffee at the hotel restaurant.
Bird went inside, bought a few minimal provisions, mostly ammunition, then saddled up for her ride to Harlan’s Crossing.
The morning was dull and gray; a thick sheen of metal spanned the sky, and the air was heavy and still. Bird tried to judge how quickly the layer might burn off, or if the thickness meant heavier weather was on the way.
She was glad for the respite from Big River. New country never meant anything really new to Bird, but at least it was different. In her opinion, people were the same everywhere regardless of location and typically expected the same of her by reputation.
It didn’t matter to Bird.
She’d never encountered any type of situation she couldn’t shoot her way out of.
Martha Jeffire had underestimated the amount of time it took to get from Big River to Harlan’s Crossing. Rather than a half day, Bird arrived in the late afternoon. She hadn’t bothered to stop either, her lunch having been a bite of hardtack washed down with whiskey. A tension remained between her shoulder blades that the whiskey hadn’t eased. But this was different from the morning neck ache she’d had, and even after the liberal application of alcohol, its failure to relax typically meant one thing: she was being followed. Despite pauses on the trail to look back over her route, Bird saw no sign of anyone coming after her—but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
For the time being, she ignored her suspicions and continued on into Harlan’s Crossing.
Three saloons formed the nucleus of the town and Bird chose the one with the most horses in front, which meant the bar was mostly likely being actively tended. Unfortunately, it didn’t mean the establishment served the best merchandise. But Bird would take a cheap, busy saloon over an expensive, unmanned bar any time. Hardworking bartenders were of utmost importance to serious drinkers.
Bird climbed down from her horse, looped the reins over the hitching post, and glanced back again toward the trail into town. She saw no signs of movement, but it wasn’t like the desert where even one man on a horse would raise a small cloud of dust. She saw nothing but grass and mountains in the distance.
Still, the feeling was there, between her shoulders and creeping up toward the back of her neck.
She looked at the saloon, then noticed a general store next door. The whiskey was calling to her, but perhaps more than the sheriff or a popular bartender, the owner of a general store would know what was going on in town, and more important, whether Roger
“Why me?”
“I think it’s imperative that we talk to Mr. Parker,” Tower said. “I know he threw us out of the Big River Club, but he’s got to know something about why his wife was murdered. I think I can get him to talk to me. I thought I could do that—he seems the kind of man more likely to talk man-to-man—and you could ride over to Harlan’s Crossing. See if you can track down Jeffire, or the girl, or both.”
“I don’t mind that plan at all,” Bird said. “I’m getting real tired of Big River.”
Tower got to his feet. “I’m going for a walk, sometimes it helps me think. Care to join me?”
“I believe I’ll stay here and see if this whiskey has any ideas.”
Tower tipped his hat to her and left. She watched him leave the saloon, standing tall, with his broad shoulders and easy gait. He was a man very comfortable with himself.
Bird looked at the bottle.
Other people found their comfort outside themselves.
She poured another shot and drank.
Thirty-Six
The next morning, Bird stood before the Big River General Store, trying to forget about the dream she’d had: a woman with a pentagram carved into her chest was following her through the long grass near Killer’s Draw. She hadn’t slept well, and there was a crick in her neck. She rolled her head from side to side, trying to loosen up her neck muscles, and regretted passing on that second cup of coffee at the hotel restaurant.
Bird went inside, bought a few minimal provisions, mostly ammunition, then saddled up for her ride to Harlan’s Crossing.
The morning was dull and gray; a thick sheen of metal spanned the sky, and the air was heavy and still. Bird tried to judge how quickly the layer might burn off, or if the thickness meant heavier weather was on the way.
She was glad for the respite from Big River. New country never meant anything really new to Bird, but at least it was different. In her opinion, people were the same everywhere regardless of location and typically expected the same of her by reputation.
It didn’t matter to Bird.
She’d never encountered any type of situation she couldn’t shoot her way out of.
Martha Jeffire had underestimated the amount of time it took to get from Big River to Harlan’s Crossing. Rather than a half day, Bird arrived in the late afternoon. She hadn’t bothered to stop either, her lunch having been a bite of hardtack washed down with whiskey. A tension remained between her shoulder blades that the whiskey hadn’t eased. But this was different from the morning neck ache she’d had, and even after the liberal application of alcohol, its failure to relax typically meant one thing: she was being followed. Despite pauses on the trail to look back over her route, Bird saw no sign of anyone coming after her—but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
For the time being, she ignored her suspicions and continued on into Harlan’s Crossing.
Three saloons formed the nucleus of the town and Bird chose the one with the most horses in front, which meant the bar was mostly likely being actively tended. Unfortunately, it didn’t mean the establishment served the best merchandise. But Bird would take a cheap, busy saloon over an expensive, unmanned bar any time. Hardworking bartenders were of utmost importance to serious drinkers.
Bird climbed down from her horse, looped the reins over the hitching post, and glanced back again toward the trail into town. She saw no signs of movement, but it wasn’t like the desert where even one man on a horse would raise a small cloud of dust. She saw nothing but grass and mountains in the distance.
Still, the feeling was there, between her shoulders and creeping up toward the back of her neck.
She looked at the saloon, then noticed a general store next door. The whiskey was calling to her, but perhaps more than the sheriff or a popular bartender, the owner of a general store would know what was going on in town, and more important, whether Roger
Similar Books
