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the route was fine. There was no need to veer off unless the
goal was to lead followers astray.
    Bird forged ahead and moved as quickly as possible, but
studying the ground made the going slow. She wasn’t a natural-born tracker. Bird
had ridden with some genius trackers in her time; men, and one woman, who could
read the ground like an open book and could interpret minute disturbances with
confidence and clarity.
    Bird had learned a few tricks from them, but she went more
with instinct than any definite idea about whom she was following and where he
might be going. It was nearly an additional quarter mile before she found
another track. Just the edge of a hoof, barely noticeable along the crumbling
path.
    She dismounted and studied the edges of the track to decide
how long ago it had been made, when she smelled smoke. At first, she thought it
might be from a campfire. But as she stood and covered the butt of her gun with
her hand, she changed her mind.
    It was cigarette smoke.
    Her horse smelled it, too, and snorted.
    Bird slid the six-gun from its holster and climbed back on the
Appaloosa. There was just the tickle of a breeze coming at them, so the
smoker couldn’t be far ahead. She moved forward slowly, walking her horse ahead
with caution. She had covered a lot of ground in the last hour or so, but now
was not the time to race ahead blindly.
    She crested a small rise in the trail and saw a man sitting
on his horse, facing Bird.
    He was tall and rangy, wearing a long brown duster, with a
hand-rolled cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.
    His black cowboy hat was low over his eyes—two brilliant
blue eyes peered out from underneath the rim at Bird.
    The man exhaled, and a long stream of smoke immediately
caught in the breeze and blew toward her.
    “Took you long enough,” he said.

Sixteen
    Big River was just rousing itself from slumber when Tower
arrived, trailing behind him a horse that carried the dead body of Stanley
Verhooven.
    The morning sun was bright and a shaft of light that cut
across the buildings illuminated the particles of dust and dirt stirred up by
the never-ending motion of cattle in the stockyards. A young boy emerged from a
doorway, glanced at Tower and his unfortunate companion, and ran ahead, calling
out to someone.
    If memory served him correctly, the undertaker was at the
end of the street, just past the courthouse and tucked discreetly around the
corner.
    But Tower didn’t make it that far.
    “Whoa, hold up there!” a voice called out.
    Tower glanced over to the doorway of a law office and
spotted Sheriff Chesser. Two men wearing stiff black suits and dubious
expressions stood behind him. The sign above the building read T HOMAS &
A NDREW C ONWAY , E SQUIRES .
    Tower brought the horses to a stop.
     “What the hell is this, preacher?” Chesser asked, as he
stepped from the building’s porch onto the street and walked toward Tower.
    A few more people began to appear outside the storefronts
and saloons, glancing toward them. Some turned and went on to finish whatever
business they were transacting; others turned and walked toward them, wanting a
closer look at what was appearing to be the morning’s top attraction.
    “I think that’s up to you, ultimately, sheriff,” Tower said.
    “What kind of answer is that?” Chesser responded. “Are you
getting smart with me?”
    “Not at all, sheriff.” Tower tugged on the horse’s reins
behind him and tossed them to Chesser. “I’m simply saying that you’ll need to
figure out what this is. After all, you’re the highest law in this town,
correct?”
    The two men behind Chesser chuckled.
    “Damn right I’ll decide what this is. Murder is the first
thing that comes to mind.” He headed over to Verhooven’s dead body.
    “Yes, it might be murder. Or suicide. Or an accident. Or
something else. But I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it.”
    By now, a small crowd had assembled around the men, forming
a tight circle.