The Circuit Rider Read online

  “Dani Amore writes fast-paced, gripping tales that capture you from Page One and hold you enthralled till the last word. This lady is one hell of a storyteller.”

  –J. D. Rhoades, author of Gallows Pole

  “Dani Amore is a sensation among readers who love fast-paced thrillers.”

  –Mystery Tribune

  THE CIRCUIT RIDER

  ALSO BY DANI AMORE

  The Killing League

  Death by Sarcasm

  Murder With Sarcastic Intent

  Beer Money

  Dead Wood

  To Find a Mountain

  Bullet River (The Garbage Collector #2)

  The Garbage Collector #1

  Hanging Curve

  Scale of Justice

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2013 Dani Amore

  Originally released as a Kindle Serial, November 2012

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN: 9781611092356

  Table of Contents

  Episode One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Episode Two

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Episode Three

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Episode Four

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Episode Five

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Seventy-Seven

  Seventy-Eight

  Seventy-Nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-One

  Eighty-Two

  Eighty-Three

  Eighty-Four

  Eighty-Five

  Eighty-Six

  Eighty-Seven

  Eighty-Eight

  Episode Six

  Eight-Nine

  Ninety

  Ninety-One

  Ninety-Two

  Ninety-Three

  Ninety-Four

  Ninety-Five

  Ninety-Six

  Ninety-Seven

  Ninety-Eight

  Ninety-Nine

  One Hundred

  One Hundred One

  One Hundred Two

  One Hundred Three

  One Hundred Four

  One Hundred Five

  One Hundred Six

  One Hundred Seven

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  "Put your sword back in its place," Jesus said to him, "for all who draw the sword will die by the sword."

  —Matthew 26:25

  "Only the dead have seen the end of war."

  —Plato

  Kansas City, Missouri

  1876

  Episode One

  One

  The church had recently been painted a brilliant white, and it now stood out against the rich blue sky with an austere pride.

  Mike Tower walked his horse past the main doors to a humble entrance at the back of the building.

  He looped the reins over the one-horse hitching post and knocked on the door. The door had been freshly painted, and Tower felt a slight tackiness on his knuckles.

  The door opened and an older man with a craggy face peered at him.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Tower followed him into a modest room, no more than ten feet wide by ten feet long.

  A large table dominated the space. The old man took a seat at the head of the table and gestured for Tower to join him.

  “Please, sit,” he said.

  Tower caught the faint scent of coffee and sawdust. He sat opposite the man, noting the fatigue on his face and the way his shoulders hunched.

  Father Angus Johnstone, head of the church for the western territories, pointed at the map spread out on the table.

  He reached forward and tapped his finger on a small dot on the map, which Tower understood to be Kansas City.

  “We are here,” he said.

  He then ran his finger along a route west.

  “This is the direction I would like you to take.”

  Tower took out a small piece of paper and a pencil and jotted down the main cities along the route.

  “This is not a traditional circuit rider’s route,” Johnstone said. “You are technically being sent to San Francisco, per your request. But as you may or may not know, we do not send circuit riders to a single destination. It is your job to spread the word everywhere you go.”

  “Yes, I understand. Thank you for accommodating my request,” Tower said.

  “However, the church would like you to do what you can along this route,” Johnstone said. “There are a lot of people in need.”

  The names of some of the cities were familiar to Tower; others were not.

  “You will meet your armed guard here,” Johnstone said, tapping a spot on the map a few miles west of their current location.

  “Pardon me?” Tower said.

  “Your armed guard,” Johnstone said, his voice soft but firm. “The church lost two circuit riders in the last six months. From now on, every traveling preacher must have a guard. No exceptions.”

  Tower thought before he spoke.

  He didn’t need a guard, even though he would be without a weapon. But in order to convince Father Johnstone, Tower would have to partially explain what kind of man he’d been before becoming a circuit rider.

  And that was not an option.

  Tower had buried his own personal history. And buried it deep.

  “That really isn’t necessary . . .,” Tower began, planning to suggest that the church could put the guard’s salary to use for some other purpose.

  “No exceptions,�
� Johnstone repeated.

  Mike Tower nodded his head in agreement, sensing that this was a fight he would not win.

  He had made a choice to be guided by a code far different than the one he’d followed most of his life.

  And now he would have to live with it.

  Two

  It was close to nightfall by the time Mike Tower reached the small town where Father Johnstone had arranged for him to pick up his traveling guard.

  Tower shook his head at the thought. He’d never needed anyone to look out for his welfare and he’d done just fine over the years. In fact, he’d made it through some rough scrapes that would have killed most men.

  Now, he was anxious to rendezvous with his guard and get moving. They had a lot of ground to cover.

  As Tower slowly trotted down the town’s one street, he idly wondered if his guard was one of the town’s part-time deputies who had been hired by the church.

  The shops had closed for the night. The only lights came from the saloons and the lone hotel. Somewhere nearby a dog’s bark was followed by a raucous laugh from the saloon.

  Tower spotted the sheriff’s office and jail, pulled up out front, tied his horse to the post, and went inside.

  A man had his feet up on the desk with a newspaper in his hand. His potbelly poked out from beneath the publication and hung over his belt.

  Tower glanced around the office. It was neat and tidy, with a rack of Winchesters behind the sheriff’s desk.

  Finally, the lawman peeked over the top of the paper at Tower.

  “People do the damndest things these days, don’t they?!” he said, then noticed the white collar around Tower’s neck.

  “Oh,” he said, swinging his feet down to the ground. “Sorry ’bout the cussing,” he said.

  “That’s quite all right,” Tower said.

  “I was just readin’ about a cowboy who spotted a scorpion on his boot, so he shot it off ,” the man said. “Along with three of his toes!”

  Tower nodded.

  “So how can I help you?” the sheriff said, folding up the paper and setting in on his desk.

  “I’m supposed to be meeting someone here, probably a deputy.” Tower glanced around the office and saw no other desks.

  “Doubt it,” the sheriff said. “Only got one deputy and he’s part-time.”

  Tower looked at the slip of paper in his hand. “You don’t have someone working for you named B. Hitchcock?” he said.

  The sheriff failed to stifle a laugh. “You have got to be kiddin’ me,” he said. “Bird Hitchcock? Is that who you’re here for?”

  Tower hadn’t seen a first name on the note, just B. Hitchcock. But why did that name seem familiar?

  “I believe so,” he said. “Is he here?”

  The sheriff unsuccessfully disguised another laugh. He pushed a piece of paper toward Tower. “Sure is, Mr. Tower. Just sign for the release, put down a five-dollar deposit, and B. Hitchcock is all yours.”

  Tower paid the deposit and signed the release, realizing his security guard wasn’t going to be an officer of the law and that Father Johnstone had either forgotten to mention this, or had omitted the information on purpose.

  The sheriff walked back to the jail cells. Tower heard the clank of iron, and then the sheriff reappeared with a figure wearing boots with spurs, denims, and a buckskin shirt. The face staring back at Tower looked tired, disheveled, and severely hungover. The sheriff handed over a gun belt with matching pistols.

  “You’re free to go, B. Hitchcock,” he said, laughing. “Your fine’s been paid.”

  B. Hitchcock slung the gun belt around her hips and tied each gun down, then glanced up at Tower.

  “Who the hell are you?” she said.

  And then Tower realized why he knew the name.

  B. Hitchcock.

  Bird Hitchcock.

  Oh no, Tower thought.

  Three

  Mike Tower felt his horse tense and shy away from the trail. It was nearly dark, and a light wind carried the occasional scent of wildflowers across the trail from the west.

  Tower had not spoken much with his new guard over the past two days on the trail, and he liked it that way. There was no way he was going to go to San Francisco with Bird Hitchcock. At the first major city, he would telegraph his superior and ask for a replacement.

  Until then, he would just do his best.

  Now, the horse snorted again, and Tower felt the animal tremble with fear.

  “Easy,” he said as he gently pulled the reins until the big bay stopped.

  Tower patted the horse along its neck, swung off the saddle, and landed on his feet.

  Though it was well beyond dusk, the trail was well lit due to the emerging presence of a bright moon, and Tower caught a faint whiff of honeysuckle.

  From behind him, Bird Hitchcock and her Appaloosa passed Tower on the trail. He heard her take a drink from the whiskey bottle she always carried, and then the whisper of leather as she slipped it back into her saddlebag.

  When she slid from the saddle to her feet, a gun was in her hand. A few small pebbles shifted under her boots.

  Tower walked forward. Bird was off to his right.

  “Probably just a Sioux looking to lift the scalp of a heathen such as yourself,” Bird said to Tower.

  “Or a brave looking for a docile squaw such as yourself,” Tower replied.

  There was an uneven rise in the trail, and as they reached the top of the incline, he immediately saw the dark shape stretched across the path.

  Tower went forward to the body, which he could clearly tell was a woman.

  A dark pattern of dried blood covered the dirt around the body. Behind him, he heard Bird holster her gun.

  “Shit,” she said.

  Tower gently rolled the woman onto her back.

  She was young. Even through the spatter of blood, and the bruises and swelling on her face, Tower could see she was probably in her teens. The girl’s nose was crooked, most likely broken, and lacerations across her forehead were still seeping blood.

  Tower put his ear to her mouth and detected the slightest sound of breath.

  “She’s still alive,” he said.

  He scooped the girl into his arms. He was shocked at how little she weighed.

  Bird beat him back to his horse, which she held still so he could climb into the saddle still holding the girl.

  Tower knew that the town of Green Spring was just a mile or so away. He adjusted the girl so her back and neck were better supported.

  Bird passed him on the trail without a word.

  She would lead the way.

  Tower held the reins steady, and moved forward, following Bird’s Appaloosa.

  The girl’s lips were next to Tower’s ear. He could feel her blood on his skin.

  He heard something else, more than just her ragged, shallow breaths.

  A soft voice.

  The girl was saying something.

  Tower leaned in closer so her lips were brushing up against his ear.

  It was a word.

  Somewhat more clear.

  The girl’s voice was barely a whisper.

  She repeated the word.

  This time, Tower thought he understood.

  It sounded like a name.

  Ike.

  Four

  Bird raced ahead, getting to the town well ahead of Tower and the girl, giving her time to track down the local doctor and the location of his practice.

  She led them to a blue house with a white porch and matching white picket fence. As they got down from their horses, a young man stepped out onto the porch. He wore a crisp white shirt, open at the collar, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.

  “Are you Anderson?” Bird said.

  “Dear Jesus,” he said, his eyes wide at the condition of the young girl in Tower’s arms.

  The doctor held the door to the house open and led Tower inside. He helped place the girl on a long wooden table covered with a sheet.

 
; “Do you know who she is?” Tower asked.

  “Her name is Nancy. Nancy Hockings. Her family lives just around the corner.”

  Tower studied the layout of the room. The main area was clearly the doctor’s examining room. There were several shelves with bottles of medicine, a small table with a variety of surgical knives, and a large enamel washbasin. Bird stood off to the side, watching the two men, then Tower saw her slip quietly out of the house.

  “I’ve got no formal training, but I’ve patched up a few people in my life,” Tower said to Anderson. “Let me know what I can do.”

  The young doctor placed a jar of alcohol on the table, as well as shears and some needles.

  “Help me cut off this dress,” he said. Tower observed that the doctor’s voice was high but steady, as were his hands as he cut away the sleeves of the girl’s blood-soaked dress, and then the bodice.