The Circuit Rider by Dani Amore

Buttes.

Thirty-Eight

    T he
town was on fire.
    Twin
Buttes, Colorado, sat in a breathtaking location, built into the crevice
between the two towering, majestic peaks for which the community had been named.
    But
now a shadow of smoke hung over the town, with an acrid stench filling the
air. Shouts and gunshots echoed, overlaid with the sounds of screams and glass
breaking.
    Mike
Tower and Bird Hitchcock entered the town from the south, leading the third
horse behind them.
    “I’m
guessing our victim back in the meadow was involved in whatever we’re going to
find up ahead,” Bird said.
    “Sounds
like he might not be the only one,” Tower said.
    They
had tracked the horse carrying the dead man back to Twin Buttes, a relatively
simple process as the man had bled out for most of the journey.
    They
passed the various storefronts along the street, with faces peeking out and
doors slamming shut, as if the town were under siege.
    A
crowd had gathered at the end of the street, and as Bird and Tower drew closer,
she was able to see over the heads of the mob and get a glimpse of what they
were all looking at.
    A
makeshift gallows had been constructed, and two Chinese men hung from their
necks. No hoods had been placed over their heads, so Bird was able to see quite
clearly they were dead. The dead men’s necks were stretched and grossly
distorted, the bodies twisting in the wind.
    A
second group of men stood nearby holding half-broken pieces of lumber like
clubs, watching as another Chinese man was beaten in the middle of the
street.
    Tower
kicked his horse forward and rode quickly to the aid of the man.
    “Stop!”
he called out.
    Bird
watched as Tower got between the crowd of men and the defenseless man on the
ground, whose face was covered with blood.
    A
beefy man with a pistol sporting a long barrel raised the gun toward Tower.
    “Mister,
I suggest you mind your own goddamn business,” the man said. “I don’t care if
you’re a preacher or not, these Chinamen deserve what they’re getting.”
    “That’s
why we have a court of law,” Tower said. He stood over the beaten man, pushing
the attackers away.
    The
beefy man pulled the hammer of his revolver back. Tower didn’t move.
    Instead,
Bird rode forward and put herself between Tower and the man.
    “If
you die trying to kill a preacher, you’ll be going straight to hell.” She let
go of her horse’s reins and rested her hand on the butt of her gun. “How soon
do you want to get there?”

Thirty-Nine

    T ower
looked at the people surrounding him. After he had chased away the attackers,
Tower and Bird had spotted a friendly face waving them toward an open doorway. They
had dragged the man inside, and now he was being tended to by an elderly
Chinese woman.
    The
room was dimly lit, and Tower was initially overwhelmed by the strange scents. It
was the odor of many people living close together, but also of exotic scents
and something both sweet smelling and darkly pungent.
    Tower
had heard of opium dens and that they were favored by the Chinese. In fact,
opium was known as hop, and in nearly every western town with a Chinese
population Tower had been to, the section where they lived was known as
Hop Alley.
    But
the structure he was in appeared to be more for daily living, with perhaps as
many as three families sharing the building.
    Tower
looked at Bird.
    “Are
they still out there?” he said.
    Bird
opened the door a crack and peeked outside.
    “There
are still a few milling about, but I think they’ve had their fun,” she said.
    Tower
turned to the terrified people in the room. Some of them sat on cots lined up
against the wall, but most stood. A pot was boiling on a woodstove.
    “Does
anyone here speak English?” Tower said.
    The
group put their heads together and spoke to each other in their peculiar,
singsongy language.
    Finally,
one young man stepped forward.
    “I
speak, sir,” he said, his voice halting.
    “What
happened?”
    He
bowed his