Shotgun (24 page)
“Come on, boy-o. Doc Bishop's got nothing! All that gold talk was a trick to get you to go after the brother, so Dev could work his own thing.”
Beaudine studied the blade, letting the light from an oil lantern bounce off of it, into his eyes. “You keep saying that, Smythe.”
“Because it's the bloody truth. He's got big plans.”
“I was closer to him than anyone, helped him.”
“But he played you, mate. He didn't want you anywhere near this.”
Beaudine took a few steps with the blade chest-high, as an executioner would hold it before going to the chopping block. “Yet, he trusts a prison guard, and not his own cellmate?”
“So what do you do now? Kill me? Or go after him? You've talked to the station master, you know what's happening with this train.”
“Those men in red who attacked me, they belong to Devlin?”
Smythe threw away, “They're his men, yeah.”
Beaudine lowered the blade. “That can't go unpunished.”
“There's money on that train. Real money, not some kind of trick. I don't give a damn about Dev Bishop, but you can't take it alone.”
“I don't trust you a bit.”
“I'll show you, then you decide. I'm not running, boy-o.”
Beaudine hauled Smythe to his feet with a grunt. “You know this is going to end in his death.”
“And I'm in for shares, Major?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dead Men Kill, Too
The tracks of the Colorado Line ran through a narrow gorge that opened onto flatlands on the other side of a small grouping of mountains, before reaching Paradise River. It was like a natural tunnel, heavily treed, and a beautiful cousin to the Rockies if seen during a new spring.
But the first snows settled and stayed, slicking the mountainside, and weighing the trees until they bent almost to the ground. The gorge was covered with jags of ice, from frozen rain and water coming down from the higher range, only to be captured and paralyzed here.
Dev Bishop and Fuller stood by on their horses, just above the gorge, watching as dynamite was bundled to the trunks of some tall pines just above the tracks.
Fuller said, “That stuff almost killed you and your men once.”
“Well, now you're riding with us, so you best pay attention. What position are you going to take?”
“You want me to hit the engineer?”
“Just take care of what the trees and the boiler don't.”
Someone yelled, “She's goin!” and all broke for their horses, riding quickly away as the first charges exploded, throwing tree trunks in the air, and breaking them into huge pieces, tumbling down onto the tracks, blocking them.
A wave of snow and ice followed, rolling from the hillside, covering the blockade. After a few moments, the air calmed again, as the last bits of wreckage found its place.
Fuller said, “Now, that was a hell of a noise.”
“There's not a train due until the one we want. This bunch will take care of anyone who comes sniffing around. You're too valuable for guard duty, stay with me.”
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Chaney's body was covered with a blanket, one of his hands peeking out from under. Spots of blood had soaked through across his chest. Miles walked around the side of the bed with the help of a cane, lifting the blanket for another look, then dropping it again.
Bishop and Fox stood by the open door, the rabbit deskman with them, his arms folded as tight as his expression.
“I knew I shouldn't have given them the room. I'm not letting this go. She's gonna feel the law!”
Miles said, “This is a killing, and you're going to have to go to trial, miss.”
Bishop said, “Chaney tried to kill her.”
“Miss, you self-defended this one all over the room and I'm sure a judge will see it that way.”
The deskman said, “But you'll be rotting in jail until then!”
Miles stepped to Fox, his voice low. “I understand what this is about for you two, so if you swear you'll appear, I won't arrest you.”
White Fox said, “I swear.”
“I'll do up the papers for a territorial judge.”
The rabbit said, “That's it?”
“For right now. If she don't come for trial, I'll have a warrant sworn out.”
The deskman was still fuming, his forehead changing color, as Bishop and Miles moved into the hallway. Miles hobbled toward the stairs, his voice low. “I should be doing a hell of a lot more.”
“I know. They'll probably take your badge.”
“That's not the worst thing to happen. Doc, I couldn't be more grateful to you and the miss for what you've done, but please, don't test it. You have to come back and face this. I won't be the law anymore, but you don't want this hanging over you.”
Bishop said, “Miles, if we're able to make it back, we will.”
“One last bit of advice? You're a civilian. Let the troops do their job.”
Bishop gave Miles a shake with his left, before turning to Fox. She started down the stairs ahead of him, walking across the street to the livery, her eyes dry and fixed ahead.
Bishop fell in next to her and said, “You don't have to go. Now I'm giving you the out, if you want it.”
Fox said nothing. Light, fresh snow stuck to them both as they moved to their horses, checking for the weapons they'd need. She held out a knife, the same size as the one she'd used on Chaney. Her hand started to shake.
Bishop didn't see it, and said, “Have it ready.”
He filled the bandolier with shells, and more in his pockets, then slipped a small-caliber Smith and Wesson into his jacket, and gave Fox a Colt. She checked the weapon; all their moves were measured, just what he thought they should be. Automatic.
Bishop said, “I'm ready. Are you? Last chance.”
Fox swung onto the painted's back.
They broke from the livery, running the painted and the bay down the road parallel to the tracks, heading for the trail in the hills above them. The snow was coming harder now, blowing heavy, and sideways.
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“It would be unwise to fabricate.”
Smythe was on his horse, riding alongside Beaudine, his hands still tied behind his back. “I'm telling you this is the place that we've chosen. They've already brought down some trees up the tracks, and here's where we'll ride out to take the cars.”
Beaudine maneuvered farther along a ledge high above the tracks, ice patching the rock, before taking a spot next to a sparse blue fir.
Smythe said, “What about me?”
He didn't see the gun in Beaudine's hand, or hear the shot. He saw the muzzle flash, and then it was too late.
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The distant shot echoed, as the Fire Riders gathered at the edge of the woods, some taking their attack positions above the railroad tracks, while others towed more split trunks and giant limbs into place. The wall they'd built was over ten feet high, and beyond the height of the engine's cowcatcher.
Fuller watched as they worked, all wearing their crimson tunics, and a few, their hoods. All the sniper could think about was family, and money, and the worth of the risk.
One of the Riders barked at Fuller, “Hey, how many times you kill for money, son?”
Fuller didn't answer, checked the action on the Spencer.
Dev Bishop called out, “We've got less than ten!”
Down the tracks, the train whistle called out, and echoed back through the hills. The snow was now a thick curtain, whiting everyone's vision.
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John Bishop and Fox rode their horses up from the tracks to a small space in the rocks, looking down on the gorge. Deputy Miles's cigarette makings littered the ground where there was a tin cup solid with ice, and flat stones for a small campfire.
The whistle called again.
Bishop looked to Fox. “We can't stop this happening, but we'll avenge my wife, my son.”
She finally said, “That's what we're here for.”
The train whistle became a pained cry, and the crash that followed was so loud the bay and painted buckled at the knees.
The gold train was five cars long, led by a Baldwin steam engine, powering through the storm. The engineer had pulled the brakes half a mile back, but the downward grade and icy tracks pushed the train faster, with its large power wheels throwing hot, yellow sparks as they skidded, fighting to slow. Failing.
Half the trees and rocks were blasted out of the way on impact, but the rest held fast, jammed beneath the rails and pushing against the boiler until it exploded. Bleeding iron. The rest of the engine crumpling into itself, blowing off the wheels, sending them still-spinning into the frozen mountainside.
Bolts were bullets, blowing off in all directions, while the brass fittings twisted from the engine and ripped back through the cab, killing the engineer and fireman.
It was all screaming metal and steam, as the rest of the train spun wild off the tracks, the cars tumbling, colliding with each other, glass and metal erupting before smashing into the snow driftsâdominoes thrown by God.
Bishop and Fox charged the small cut through the hills, down to the tracks. Metal was still bending, whining, as steam exploded from safety valves and brakes. The falling snow cooled the boiler, which sizzled as the winter fought to put it out.
The soldiers in the passenger and mail cars cried through bloody injuries. Bishop and Fox climbed on top of the mail car, peering into the door that had been ripped open like wet paper. Two young soldiers were huddled in the tipped-over corner, bleeding and wide-eyed, clutching their rifles, but not knowing what or where to shoot.
Bishop called to them, “Boys, we're here to help! Stay down!”
Slugs ripped at Bishop and Fox. They dove off the car, the shots tearing close.
In the trees, Fuller's position was good, as he lay cover fire for the Riders. He drew on Bishop, and fired. Bishop rolled, the slug ricocheting off the rig, and the steel taking it. Bishop grabbed Fox and dove from the wreck, as the shots tore into the train cars around them.
The sniper fire kept Bishop low, behind cover, as a Fire Rider bore down on him. Bishop jostled his arm. The rig was instantly up and loaded, and he sprang, blowing the Rider clean out of the saddle. The Fire Rider spun with the impact, then landed dead, on hot-metal debris.
Before his body tumbled into the snow, another Rider charged, and Bishop let fire with the second barrel. He shucked the shells, pulled down two more, and turned on another, who was coming up over the wood tender. He fired, turned, fired again.
The Riders lay wounded and dying, the snow offering a new shroud as they bled out.
Four Riders rode fast along the tracks, leaping around wreckage, and hurling Ketchum Hand Grenades. One, two, blasts sent ice, mud, and fire into the air.
Two young soldiers dove from the wreck of the passenger car, scrambling to get a good shot, as a grenade landed between them. One panicked a throw, tossing it into the air, where it exploded through the falling snow.
Bishop shot two Riders with a pull of the trigger line, sending them sprawling from their horses and still shooting as they hit the ground. Bishop reloaded from the bandolier, and wounded one more as he rode by.
White Fox got the last one, hurling a knife into his gut.
Bishop called out to the mail car, “Boys, you okay in there?”
A solider yelled back that he'd been hit, but was all right.
Bishop worked his way to the top of the car when the Gatling gun cut loose from the trees. The thousand rounds hit the train wreckage, beating hell out of it, as Bishop and Fox took cover behind the old boiler. A few of the young soldiers shot back from the passenger car, which was riddled with bullets.
The gun stopped as two Fire Riders hurled dynamite, blowing off the back of the mail car. Hot metal and fire sliced the air. They kicked their way inside, grabbed a large strong box, and shouldered it out to a wagon. The Gatling laid cover fire as the horse team bolted, carrying the Riders and the strong box away from the battle.
Bishop signaled Fox.
He ran around to the far side of the locomotive, keeping behind the wheels, bursts of steam still gutting from the engine. The Gatling let loose again. Bishop made for his horse.
Fox worked back to the wood tender, and the fireman's station. A drum of coal oil hadn't burst in the wreck. Its seams bulged as she rolled it into the half-ton of firewood that was spread from the tender. She grabbed a fireman's ax and cut open the lid, soaking the wood with oil.
The snow was falling solid now, frosting the wreckage, and the dead. Wet. Cold.
Fox watched, as Bishop climbed back toward the trail, trying to reach the ledge where the Gatling was protected. Fox ducked as another burst of fire raked the metal and glass.
She grabbed the brakeman's lantern, lit it, and waited. Bishop got to the ledge, dropped silently from the bay. Fox smashed the lantern into the wood tender, lighting the pools of coal oil, and the wood. The flames ate the oil, spewing black.
Thick plumes of smoke instantly choked the sky around the locomotive, then blanketing the train. The Gatling opened up from the hills, shooting blind.
The smoke rolled from the train, as the wood fire grew. Bishop kept low, moving on the Gatling, the grey smoke mixed with the snow his cover. Both barrels were ready, the Fire Rider feeding the ammo into the machine gun, raking the train over and over.
The Rider had no time to react when both barrels of the shotgun lifted him off his feet, and tossed him down the icy side of the mountain, to the wreckage below.
The last sounds of the machine gun died in the distance, and Bishop stood, listening to the final reports. The snow was thicker, a curtain of white beads, as it began dousing the flames around the train. Bishop pulled the firing mechanism and ammo clips from the Gatling when a voice said, “I could have killed you a dozen times.”
Bishop turned to see Fuller step from the trees, with his Spencer rifle in his hands, but not aimed at him.
“Why didn't you?”
“You see all that down there, doc? I guess I've had enough for awhile. How about you?”
Bishop brought the shotgun rig up.
“I never was after you, but you and Creed stopped me from finding the men who killed my family. That's all I wanted.”
Fuller said, “If you'd let me, I want to get back to mine. You'll never see me again.”
Bishop lowered the rig. Fuller turned and walked back to where his horse was tied in the trees. He got on it, his rifle on his back, and gave Bishop a last nod before riding into the deeper woods.
John Bishop took some deep breaths, the rig now weighing him down. He stepped around the bodies of the Riders he'd dropped, and looked at the burning damage below, the field of battle.
Bishop made his way off the ridge and rode toward the mail car, as the soldiers began climbing from the wreckage. He got off his horse, and walked it to the other side of the wood tender. The fire was now smoldering, but the smoke from the coal oil was still thick, and choking the air.
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