The Circuit Rider by Dani Amore Page A

head.
    “They
say justice,” he said.
    “Justice?
For who?”
    The
young man seemed unable to answer.
    Tower
pointed back outside, toward the temporary gallows.
    “Those
men, why were they hung?”
    “White
men say they guilty.”
    “Guilty
of what?”
    The
young man shuffled his feet. He looked over at an older man, who nodded his head.
    “They
say the Chinese kill a white woman.”

Forty

    O nce
she felt confident there would be no attack on the Chinese and Tower, Bird went
looking for the sheriff.
    She
found the sheriff’s office, but the door was locked, and after taking a look
through the front window, she saw that the place was empty.
    She
walked past the gallows, where the dead men were still hanging, and spotted an
old man sitting on a chair outside the general store.
    She
approached him and said, “Where might I find the sheriff?”
    The
old man looked at Bird with a raised eyebrow, taking in her guns.
    “The
cemetery. He died about a month ago. Keeled over right here on the street. Not
from a bullet but too much bacon and eggs!” The old man guffawed at his own
joke.
    “So
who’s in charge?” Bird said.
    “We
all kind of voted Chuck Adamson to be head of the town until we get it figured
out,” the old man said. He leaned over and spit out a long stream of tobacco
juice. “Chuck is head of the fire department, but we don’t have any fire
equipment just yet, so he’s got time on his hands. They’re all over at the
saloon right now,” he said.
    “The
saloon?” Bird said. “That’s perfect.”
    The
saloon was easy to spot—it was packed with people drinking beer and celebrating
the quenching of their bloodlust. Bird had seen mobs before; she understood how
they worked. In a few days, when the dust had settled, a few might look back
and feel differently about how they had behaved. But right now, they were
literally drunk with power and self-righteousness.
    Bird
made her way to the bar and ordered herself a whiskey.
    “Chuck
Adamson around?” she asked the bartender.
    The
bartender pointed over to a table around which sat at least ten men. The man at
the head of the table was bald, with narrow shoulders and a weak chin.
    Bird
had a hard time imagining him in charge of a penny, let alone an entire town.
    She
approached the table and conversation stopped. Every man turned to face her.
    “You
Adamson?” she said to the weak-chinned man.
    “Yes,
ma’am,” he said. “And who might you be?”
    “Bird
Hitchcock.”
    A
little murmur went through the rest of the saloon.
    “Well,
welcome to Twin Buttes, Miss Hitchcock. What can I do for you?” Adamson said.
    “Stringing
up these Chinamen, is this something you folks do every week? Or was this a
special occasion?”
    A
few people scoffed, and Bird felt the tension in the room kick up a notch.
    Adamson
looked around, and when he realized no one else was going to answer on his
behalf, he said, “No, ma’am, this is what you would call an isolated incident.”
    “Them
damned heathens got what they deserved for what they done to that poor girl!”
one of the men exclaimed.
    Adamson
nodded. “It did get a little out of hand, but we got everything under control.”
    “What
exactly did they do?” Bird said. She set her empty glass on the table and
refilled it from the whiskey bottle sitting in the middle of the table.
    “They
killed a sweet little angel of a girl named Sadie Bell,” a man to Bird’s right
said. “Somehow they got her down into Hop Alley and had their way with her.”
    “Bastards!”
another man shouted out.
    Adamson
shook his head.
    “No,
they didn’t just kill her,” he said. “They carved her up.”

Forty-One

    T he
Sagebrush Boardinghouse was on the outskirts of town, in the shadow of one of
the buttes.
    It
was a three-story structure, unusual in a town that small, with a wide front
porch upon which several rocking chairs were spread out along its length.
    The
boardinghouse was run by a woman named Sally Perkins,