she was younger that she regretted
drinking, and the questionable behavior that sometimes followed. Those days
were long gone. But now, as she did occasionally, Bird thought back to her first
drink.
She was maybe ten years old, living with a family of farmers
who couldn’t grow a plant if they lived in the jungle. The crops were
miserable, the husband was a drunk, the wife bitter, and the kids just trying
to survive.
The husband had taken to chasing after Bird. The last time,
he’d been drunk and Bird had just finished building the fire in the stove. He’d
come up behind her and lifted her dress. Without a moment’s hesitation, she’d
turned around and jabbed him in the face with the hot end of the poker. He was
so drunk, the heated iron made it all the way through his cheek into his mouth
before the pain registered. And then he began to scream.
He swore he was going to kill her, so she barricaded herself
in the pantry where she’d found one of the sonofabitch’s whiskey bottles. Without
hesitation, she uncorked the jug and took a drink. And then another. And
another. Immediately, she’d felt at peace as the warmth enveloped her. From
that day on she knew it was her escape.
Of course, being a little girl, the alcohol immediately caused
her to pass out. When she awoke the next morning, feeling dizzy and
disoriented, one of the other children whispered through the door that the
farmer had gone into town to see the doctor. So, Bird walked out of the pantry,
stole a horse, and rode away, taking the whiskey bottle with her.
Drinking had quickly become second nature to Bird. And now,
sitting in the shade, watching a horse drink with a dead man over his back, she
understood her perspective had matured even more. It was simply a part of life.
Bird recognized and accepted that she and booze would always share the trail.
Bird coughed then, and followed it with another, deeper
cough that tore her lungs and sent a fine spray of blood from her mouth.
She ignored it.
The Appaloosa trotted toward her and Bird got to her feet. A
few clouds had rolled in, momentarily blocking the sun, and the wind felt cool
on her face. Bird grabbed the horse’s reins, freed the animal from the picket
she’d created, and was about to do the same with Axelrod’s horse when a blur of
color and motion appeared in the periphery of her vision. She drew her gun and
looked in the area where something had been. She was sure of it. But
now, she saw nothing. Bird questioned if it had merely been some type of
reflection from the water and the rocks in the stream.
Then she saw another hint of movement just inside the long
grass on the opposite side of Killer’s Draw.
Bird quickly climbed into the saddle and steered the
Appaloosa toward the grass. In the air above her, she could hear something soft
and faint. A high tone too thin to be a voice.
Her horse shifted its feet and flared its nostrils.
The sound died away quickly, but not before Bird was
convinced.
She could be wrong, she told herself. After all, nearly the
entire contents of a bottle of cheap whiskey was now inside her, and the sun
was back out from behind the clouds, bearing down relentlessly.
But for a moment, she knew what she’d heard.
It was a voice.
And it belonged to a little girl.
Twenty-Two
“We’re being watched,” Jeffire said, glancing over Tower’s
shoulder to the Big River Club’s wraparound porch. “Someone is always watching
around here.”
“Where can we talk?” Tower asked.
“Come by the newspaper office after dark, tonight. I’ll tell
you what I know. In the meantime, have you talked to Walter Morrison?”
Tower shook his head. “No. Who is he?”
“He’s the church secretary.”
The papers Silas had given him said nothing about a church
secretary named Walter Morrison. If he’d known there even was an
employee of the church, he would have started there.
“Have him tell you what he knows; it will be good background
for when we chat
drinking, and the questionable behavior that sometimes followed. Those days
were long gone. But now, as she did occasionally, Bird thought back to her first
drink.
She was maybe ten years old, living with a family of farmers
who couldn’t grow a plant if they lived in the jungle. The crops were
miserable, the husband was a drunk, the wife bitter, and the kids just trying
to survive.
The husband had taken to chasing after Bird. The last time,
he’d been drunk and Bird had just finished building the fire in the stove. He’d
come up behind her and lifted her dress. Without a moment’s hesitation, she’d
turned around and jabbed him in the face with the hot end of the poker. He was
so drunk, the heated iron made it all the way through his cheek into his mouth
before the pain registered. And then he began to scream.
He swore he was going to kill her, so she barricaded herself
in the pantry where she’d found one of the sonofabitch’s whiskey bottles. Without
hesitation, she uncorked the jug and took a drink. And then another. And
another. Immediately, she’d felt at peace as the warmth enveloped her. From
that day on she knew it was her escape.
Of course, being a little girl, the alcohol immediately caused
her to pass out. When she awoke the next morning, feeling dizzy and
disoriented, one of the other children whispered through the door that the
farmer had gone into town to see the doctor. So, Bird walked out of the pantry,
stole a horse, and rode away, taking the whiskey bottle with her.
Drinking had quickly become second nature to Bird. And now,
sitting in the shade, watching a horse drink with a dead man over his back, she
understood her perspective had matured even more. It was simply a part of life.
Bird recognized and accepted that she and booze would always share the trail.
Bird coughed then, and followed it with another, deeper
cough that tore her lungs and sent a fine spray of blood from her mouth.
She ignored it.
The Appaloosa trotted toward her and Bird got to her feet. A
few clouds had rolled in, momentarily blocking the sun, and the wind felt cool
on her face. Bird grabbed the horse’s reins, freed the animal from the picket
she’d created, and was about to do the same with Axelrod’s horse when a blur of
color and motion appeared in the periphery of her vision. She drew her gun and
looked in the area where something had been. She was sure of it. But
now, she saw nothing. Bird questioned if it had merely been some type of
reflection from the water and the rocks in the stream.
Then she saw another hint of movement just inside the long
grass on the opposite side of Killer’s Draw.
Bird quickly climbed into the saddle and steered the
Appaloosa toward the grass. In the air above her, she could hear something soft
and faint. A high tone too thin to be a voice.
Her horse shifted its feet and flared its nostrils.
The sound died away quickly, but not before Bird was
convinced.
She could be wrong, she told herself. After all, nearly the
entire contents of a bottle of cheap whiskey was now inside her, and the sun
was back out from behind the clouds, bearing down relentlessly.
But for a moment, she knew what she’d heard.
It was a voice.
And it belonged to a little girl.
Twenty-Two
“We’re being watched,” Jeffire said, glancing over Tower’s
shoulder to the Big River Club’s wraparound porch. “Someone is always watching
around here.”
“Where can we talk?” Tower asked.
“Come by the newspaper office after dark, tonight. I’ll tell
you what I know. In the meantime, have you talked to Walter Morrison?”
Tower shook his head. “No. Who is he?”
“He’s the church secretary.”
The papers Silas had given him said nothing about a church
secretary named Walter Morrison. If he’d known there even was an
employee of the church, he would have started there.
“Have him tell you what he knows; it will be good background
for when we chat
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