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Authors: Courtney Joyner

Tags: #Fiction, #Westerns

Shotgun (11 page)

BOOK: Shotgun
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Bishop turned, the left barrel of the rig protruding from his sleeve and snug against Short Gun's stomach. Short looked to Bishop and said, “But, you doctored me up one time. Saved my life.”
The blast blew out Short Gun's side, and he stumbled back against the blue fir, shooting near Bishop, into the ground, at the air, before collapsing. Bishop stood over him, watching his life soak into the muddy snow.
Short laughed, then blood-choked, “She's still dead. Settling up for that bitch wanting my hair. At least, we did that.”
 
 
Dawn didn't come easy. The heavy clouds of night refused to break apart with the sun, draping everything in dull grey. It was the kind of light that cast no shadows, but you could feel sticking to your skin.
Hector guided his horse, with Creed riding tandem, down a small grade near an orchard that had been beaten by the snow: rows of apple trees stood dead in the blowing drifts.
Creed kept his hands on Hector's shoulders, making sure he had enough pull on the reins. “He was bred from the same stock as President Grant's own Cincinnati. Grant had Cincinnati all through the conflict, and never allowed anyone else on his back. I did the same. No one ever rode, fed, or watered Creed's Pride but me.”
Creed rode on for a few moments. “Until now.”
Hector said, “Pride won't do for anyone else the way he does for you, sir. You'll get him back.”
“I can't see him anymore, but he's still the finest-looking animal there is. That I know.”
“Yes, sir. All sixteen hands.”
“That's right. Sixteen.”
Hector stopped at the edge of the orchard, the thick woods breaking into distant pieces a few acres away, where the trees surrendered to this stretch of flat land. Hector shielded his eyes against the dull white to see any other riders.
Fat Gut galloped from behind, almost colliding with Creed and Hector, before pulling his swayback to a stop. Keeping his hand over his broken mouth, he chose words he thought he could pronounce. “I can't thee—make out—no one.”
Creed said, “You in the right place, boy?”
Hector nodded, even though Creed couldn't see it. “Yes, sir. I think so.”
“Either you are or you're not.”
“No, sir, the other side of the woods. Yes, I'm sure.”
Creed put a hand on Hector's arm. “Fuller said he'd meet us with my Pride. And the prisoners. You understand what that all means, boy.”
“I do, sir. He'll be here.”
Fat Gut spit pink, and tried again. “Did th-u—ever tell about de damn thorse?”
Creed said, “He knows.”
“Ain't d'at your'n Pride?”
“What is it? Boy?”
Hector couldn't answer Creed right away; he was taken by the sight of Pride, running hard from the edge of the woods, the deep snow erupting around his every footfall. Glistening black against the acres and acres of white that met the grey sky.
The rider on his back had the reins clenched in his left hand, the right sleeve of his jacket pinned back.
“It's Pride, sir! And Bishop's on him!”
The bullet fired from the woods ripped through the rider's neck, sending him off the saddle, his foot catching the stirrup, his dead weight finally slowing Pride down. The horse dragged the body to the orchard, cutting a red furrow through the white.
Creed shouted for his horse, as Hector galloped to the orchard. Fat Gut hung back, as he saw Fuller following Pride's tracks out of the woods, his rifle across his chest, and his jacket a soak of dried blood.
Fuller actually nodded to Fat Gut as he rode to where Hector was helping Creed down from the saddle.
Creed said, “Pride?”
Fuller got off his horse with, “I never shot a horse I didn't mean to. He's fine. And I guess I am, too.”
“The prisoners, do you have them? Bishop! Answer me!”
Fuller turned the body over with his foot. The slug had torn through Jed's neck, taking the bottom part of his face with it. Perfect sniping. After swearing under his breath, he had to admit, “No, sir. Just the wrong dead man.”
“Report!”
Hector said, “That's Jed. I'd swore he busted his neck.”
Fuller slipped his rifle bandolier over his head, and handed the weapon to Hector. “He did. Bishop used him as a decoy so they could escape through the woods. Almost worked, too.”
Creed started through the snow, his hands palms out, reaching. “You failed.”
“They outmaneuvered us, sir.”
“But you're reporting that the prisoners are gone.”
“Again, I said almost. The two idgits bought the farm, but I got the woman. Heard her scream after I shot. I took a bullet, and passed out. Not more than five minutes. I came around, and saw your horse running through the trees, with Doc Bishop on him.”
“Not Bishop.”
Fuller opened his coat, and pulled at his shirt that was caked with blood that spread from a flesh wound just above his hip. White Fox's shot had passed clean through, and the cold had stopped the wound from opening further while freezing a curled snake of blood around his waist.
Fuller got the words out—“No, sir. That's my report”—before finding the ground. Hector took the rifle as Fuller lay down, eyes closed, the snow offering him comfort.
Creed spoke, with Fuller blind-feet away from the tip of his boots. “My Pride, with the wrong man on him? The only thing that's saving you right now is that horse.”
Creed turned on his heel and started with purpose in the opposite direction, one hand sweeping the air in front of him.
“Captain?”
“Quiet!”
Creed kept walking a few steps, then stopped to listen. “Stay away from me, boy! No help! Mouths shut.”
Creed heard a snort, and started for it. “So you followed the decoy? Damn foolish.” Creed's hands found his horse, and a feeling of relief ran through him as he climbed onto Pride's back.
Humiliation spotted Fuller's words as Hector helped him to his feet. “I lost a hell of a lot of blood, but it got your Pride back. Sir.”
“Not all of it, sniper.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Price of Flesh
The stream was a slash of freezing black through a gentle slope of white-frosted hills, the running water showing up its stony bottom like a magnifying glass. Miles away from the thick woods that had hidden them, surrounded by emptiness, anyone who might be riding after Bishop and White Fox would be an easy target in the morning light.
Bishop crouched, refilling the breathing device with fresh water. Fat Gut's Winchester was within reach.
Bishop dipped the mechanical box into an icy shallow, then attached it to the rubber tubing that was hanging free from the mask covering White Fox's mouth. She was on the ground, lying next to the saddlebag they'd lifted from Creed's horse, with Bishop's medical instruments spilling from it.
The bay and the painted stood by, nosing the cold ground.
Fox rolled onto her back, her head lolling, while she tried to catch her breath. The air caught in her throat in sharp little stabs, as if she'd swallowed broken glass. Blood dotted the snow around her right ankle.
She tugged on the strap holding the mask in place, but Bishop pulled her hand away, attaching the rubber tubing, “I know you hate it, but don't move. Just be still and breathe. That's all you have to do,
háo'omóhtahe
.”
Fox dropped her hand.
Bishop cranked the device, drawing the oxygen from the fresh water into the mask. The small leather bellows expanded, then contracted, forcing the air into Fox's lungs. Fox coughed, her body jerking forward, but she drew deep breaths through the spasms, and then laid back, her air flowing naturally.
He kept a steady motion, turning the handle, watching Fox's cheeks flush and her breathing relax. He said, “You saved me with this instrument, nurse. It's only right that I do it for you.”
White Fox unhooked the strap that held the mask into place. “Not a nurse.”
Bishop put the mask in his med bag. “Sorry, warrior.”
“
Ho'toveotse
.”
“You're not weak.”
“You carry the box because I'm too weak to breathe.
Ho'toveotse
.” White Fox spit the last word, as if she was cursing her own name.
“No, I've told you, it's called asthma. We don't know the cause, but your lungs close up.
He'poná
? Is that right?”
“
He'poná
. In the chest.”
Bishop balanced the small box on his leg, and wrapped the tubing around it with his left hand. “I built this contraption for soldiers in the field, but carry it in case we need it. And we did. We. Not just you.” He put that into his field kit also, and then put all of his gear into a saddlebag pocket. The bay was steady as Bishop buckled everything down tight.
Fox shook her head. “It shames me.”
“You were strong enough to get us out of the woods, to take a bullet from Fuller.”
White Fox rubbed her blood-wet ankle. “That was nothing.”
“You got our horses back.”
The bay lifted his head, snorting his comment, as Bishop pulled a piece of linen from the medical bag. “This should work. You prepped it.” He wrapped the ankle wound. He tied it off. “Just a crease. I heard you scream. I didn't know what happened.”
Fox retied the bandage. “Trying to get the sniper to stand. And I did. You were afraid for me.”
“So, you're not weak.”
When Fox stood, the painted came to her immediately. She swung onto his back without help. “You want Beaudine?”
The question seemed like a challenge to Bishop, but he looked into her eyes for a reason. Without her saying another word, she was giving him a way out, if he wanted it.
He understood and offered, “That's my cause.”
“You got one man, and there will be many more.”
“I'm ready.
Exanomóhtá
.”
Fox said, “Good. How do we ride?”
The bay pawed the cold ground, waiting, as Bishop tucked the saddlebag into place. “Pardee told me where Beaudine was going to meet his men.”
“You trust this?”
Bishop mounted, slipping the shotgun rig into the specially made sling that hung alongside the saddle's leather fender. It felt good. “He was afraid of dying, and too small a man to try a lie.”
“
Ho'toveotse
?”
“
Ho'toveotse
.”
Fox managed a rare smile. “You talk good. Now.”
The grey light of morning died, as large snowflakes drifted from the dark clouds that had rolled in over the mountains. The wind picked up, carrying distant thunder with it.
Bishop gently urged his bay, and the horse moved with trust and speed. White Fox was instantly, and naturally, next to him. They rode together in understood silence and with purpose, following the stream down a sloping hill, to the snowy valley beyond.
 
 
The dynamite was packed tight, the new, smaller sticks making perfect bundles of three for Howard to lay out on the ground. He pointed to the logo of the Nobel Dynamite Company on the lid of the crate. “This is their new stuff. It's got that nitro-glycer-een.”
“What?”
Howard turned to Chaney. “Think I didn't know words like that?”
“I feel safer that you do.”
“Maybe you better stop making me feel like a fool.”
Beaudine stepped between them. “You're the best at what you do, or you wouldn't be riding with me.” Then, to Chaney: “Better prove you can earn your share, boy.”
Chaney said, “Yes, sir. Major.”
Howard snorted his anger as he continued with the dynamite, setting the bundles next to each other on a blanket. His thick fingers played lightly across the explosives like they were piano keys, as he put them in perfectly even rows.
Chaney grabbed a coil of fuse, bringing his knife to meet it. Beaudine stopped him. “You don't cut 'til he knows where he's going to plant.”
Howard was watching and burst, ripping the empty dynamite crate apart, and hurling the pieces toward one of the buildings, breaking some already broken glass. His chest was heaving, lips drawn over his black gums as he faced Chaney and shouted, “You got that boy? You have to do what I say!”
Chaney stayed still, his hand close to his Colt, and managed a half smile. “I know any one of you could kill me at any time. I know.”
Howard said, “Damn right,” anger rattling his words. Then he scrubbed his face with a pile of dirty snow, letting the cold feeling wrap his head, before shaking like a wet dog, bits of frost flying from his beard.
Beaudine said, “All right? Found your way back to us?”
Howard spit. “Look around. Half the damn mountain could come down on top of us. It's already blasted to hell.”
“That's your professional opinion?”
Howard nodded. “Pro-fessional.”
“Good. Creed's got a lot of men we have to bury.” Beaudine turned to Lem. “Deadeye, dig in. And find the right place for this one.”
Lem Wright nodded to Beaudine before tying his horse to a half an upright piling that stuck out of a massive gravel pile as if it were growing there. The upright was like the other broken pieces of wooden construction that had been left behind by the Goodwill Mining Company, as a sign hitched to a rusty chain so declared.
This nothing.
What was left of Goodwill was a deep pit, a scar blasted into the side of a small mountain. Along the edge of the pit, supported by tar-soaked rail ties, was a narrow, roofless shack that led to the shaft of the silver mine. Twists of steel that had been tracks into the shaft for the mule-drawn carts, curved out of the mine's mouth as fossilized tentacles, another useless reminder of a dead end.
Below the mine entrance, piles of jagged-black slag were pushed up against a few small buildings, their windows shattered and doors busted down by the weight of the mine's waste.
Behind an outhouse, rows of wooden markers made up a weed-choked graveyard for the miners who hadn't made their fortune. The markers, all without names, were bent crooked by the icy winds that tore through the small canyon and were trapped there to beat the final remains of Goodwill silver into nothing.
Everyone in this part of Colorado knew Goodwill had been a false strike, and they'd cleared out as fast as they'd arrived, when the silver rush took the companies to Leadville. The few who'd stayed behind had ended up shooting each other, or freezing to death.
Lem said, “Major, if I can get on top of the old shaft, I'll pick off Creed's last riders as they come in. Howard sets off the dynamite, takes out some more, and the canyon's sealed. Then we'll clean up the ones who're left. I'll put Chaney in one of the outbuildings.”
“He's with us on your say-so.”
“He's with us because he smells the gold you've been touting. He's been having second thoughts, but if the gold's really close, he'll pull a trigger. I've seen it.”
“So you trust him?”
“Not for one minute.”
“Then if he's sacrificed, it's no loss. But we have to make sure to take all of Creed's men, so Bishop'll be ours. Alone.”
Lem turned on his heel, his eyes fixed on the rim of the section of mountain that had been blown away. “We'll be trapped in here, too. Who picked this place?”
“Captain Creed.”
“Perfect for a massacre.”
Beaudine stood with his arms folded, staring at the entrance to the old mine, at something or someone that nobody else could see. Gone.
 
 
The body of the Döbereiner's lamp was jade, with a golden snake circling the base and opening its mouth where the small flame was lit. Soiled Dove held the head of the dragon pipe at an angle, catching the fire in the bowl so that the opium glowed, and then handed it to Widow Kate as the smoke began to curl.
Widow Kate drew the grey in slowly before John Bishop held out his left to inspect the ornate pipe. White Fox stood by, enjoying the waft of smoke as Bishop held it under his nose, nodding approval.
“This should keep the pain away.”
Kate exhaled, “Then you should prescribe a little for yourself. Fine grade, direct from China, and Lord knows you could use it. Push me closer.”
Soiled Dove, her hair now spit-curled and wearing a freshly laundered primrose, pushed the wicker wheelchair, with Kate overflowing, around the desk to where Bishop and White Fox stood.
Kate said, “We don't need nothing between us.”
“Including secrets?”
“That depends on your attitude, Doctor. Lock the door.”
Bishop nodded courteously to Widow Kate, the bloodstained coat draped over his shoulders shifting as he moved to the door, and threw the bolt. He kept the rig against his chest, the double barrel tucked into his shirt like a broken arm in a sling.
Bishop said, “No one in, or out.”
“Privacy's important in matters like this, so we can feel free to speak our minds, come to an understanding. Like this beautiful—is it Cheyenne, and maybe something else? She could be thinking anything.”
Fox, barely covered by her rawhide jacket, her legs and hips bare through torn leathers, met Kate's stare, but not her smile.
“Honey, if you ever decide to go into business, I pray it's for me and not against me, because I'd be broke in a week.” Fox didn't even blink. “You may hate the thought, but the fact is my customers would love to sample something like you. And we could charge 'em a fortune. I'd even make a special deal as long as you could stand it. That's real money.”
Fox kept her face locked, but Soiled Dove frowned at the offer. Kate swatted Dove's hand, saying to Bishop, “She understands every word, right?”
“You can bank on it.”
“No offense meant, honey, but you don't get anywhere without asking. I can't stand, so you sit. This meeting's eye-to-eye.” Bishop settled on a small loveseat, sinking into the satin cushion. Fox held for a purposeful moment, before sitting beside him. Soiled Dove gave them each a snifter, then gifted Bishop's glass with a splash of Napoleon brandy.
Kate said, “To fight back that freezing cold.”
White Fox covered the top of her glass with her palm. Dove looked to Kate, who shook her head.
“My comforts bring me enjoyment, and make my convalescence a little more bearable.” Kate swatted Dove's hand again and was wheeled a little closer. “Doctor, we've got quite a bit in common.”
Bishop sipped. “Beaudine.”
“Look here.”
The bandage was a large patch, wrapped in linen that went completely around Kate's middle, and was tied in the center of the acre of skin that was her back. Folds of flesh bulged beneath the cloth, straining the cotton that covered the wound, shifting the bandage from its place. Kate snickered as she held open her blouse for Bishop to see, her flesh rolling with her.
“It'd take more than some letter opener to get through all that. I played possum and let him do his crazy-ass business.”
Bishop leaned forward to examine her. “Who attended you?”
“A sawbones who likes to have his fanny spanked. Did a nice job, so I gave him two free nights. He'll be back.”
“Soon, I hope. Keep it clean. What sent Beaudine over?”
Kate snapped her fingers for her dragon. “Because I told him I wanted a percentage of your gold, Dr. Bishop. The major would tell anyone who'd listen all about it, and you. You're his favorite subject of conversation when he gets going.”
Kate held the pipe to her mouth as Soiled Dove lit it. “And since you got yourself that fancy rig, well, you're a famous man. One of my old girls works Huckie's, and the word's been spreading. You even made the paper.”
BOOK: Shotgun
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