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Sheriff Chesser leaned down to study the face of the dead man.
    “That’s Stanley Verhooven,” he said.
    “See, you’re making progress on the case already, sheriff,”
Tower said.
    Chesser glanced at him, then turned to the crowd.
    “Burt and Glen. Take ol’ Stanley down to the undertaker. You,”
he said, pointing at Tower. “You need to tell me exactly what happened and why
I shouldn’t arrest you right this very minute.”
    “Lock him up!” someone from the crowd shouted.
    “Get a rope!”
    Tower glanced around. There wasn’t a friendly face to be
found.
    “Wouldn’t you rather question me somewhere private, sheriff?
This seems like a very public forum for me to be answering questions.”
    “What, you have something to hide, preacher?” Chesser asked.
    “Not at all.”
    “So, tell us what happened.”
    “We—”
    “Who’s we?”
    “Bird Hitchcock and I went out to question Mr. Verhooven
regarding his discovery of the body of Bertram Egans.”
    A murmur spread through the crowd.
    “When we got there, Mr. Verhooven was dead.  He’d been
strung up, and a suicide note was pinned to his clothes.”
    “What note?” Chesser asked. “Burt! Bring him back here!”
    The men hauling away Verhooven’s body stopped and led the
horse back to the sheriff. Chesser cut the ropes holding the body in place, and
Verhooven slid to the ground, landing on his back in the street.
    The note was still attached to his shirt.
    “I’ve got a huge problem with this, preacher,” Chesser said.
    “I figured you might think it was suspicious.”
    “It sure is. You see, Stanley Verhooven was illiterate. He
couldn’t write a single word to save his life.”

Seventeen
    “Well if it isn’t Downwind Dave,” Bird said.
    The corner of his mouth not occupied with the cigarette was turned
up in what Bird supposed was meant to be a sardonic smile.
    She knew the man hated his nickname.
    “And I’ll be goddamned if it isn’t Bird Hitchcock.” His
voice was low and harsh, probably from years of what was between the man’s
lips.
    Bird recognized the tall, lanky man as David Axelrod, a
gunfighter from Laredo, Texas. Bird had once worked side by side with him for
the same employer—a rancher determined to bluff the town council into not
enforcing the laws against him. Bird had taken a week’s pay then quit. She
couldn’t remember what had happened between the rancher and the town, but
figured it ended badly. It usually does.
    “What are you doing way up here?” Bird asked. “Thought you
Texas boys liked to stay close to home.”
    “Ah, we’re just like you Bird,” Axelrod said. He took one
last deep drag on the cigarette, then flicked it into the middle of the trail. A
thin tendril of smoke accompanied its landing. “We go where there’s money and
booze.”
    Bird laughed. Axelrod got the nickname “Downwind” when he’d
been caught with a sheep farmer’s wife and was chased through a pasture by the
wronged husband and his four full-grown sons. He’d gotten covered in shit, and
although he’d escaped, he’d been unable to get rid of the stink for months.
    “So what kind of money have you been finding up here, Dave?”
Bird asked. “Are you freelancing, or working for Stanley Verhooven? As I
recall, you weren’t exactly the type to become a miner.”
    Axelrod smirked at Bird and she noticed the relaxed slump of
his shoulders dissipate when her question landed.
    “Oh, there’s always money to be had somewhere,” he said. “But
hell no, I ain’t no miner. Only thing I like to mine is a bottle. Just like
you, Bird.”
    Axelrod’s horse shifted impatiently and Bird noted the way
the gunfighter tried to move to position the sun shining behind him over his
shoulders and into Bird’s eyes. But she wasn’t concerned. She could see him
just fine.
    “You have anything to do with that old man being strung up?”
Bird asked. “I’ve been following the trail of the bastard who did it. Not sure
why I stumbled