Shotgun (22 page)

Dev said to Creed, “Rigged—expecting you, Captain.”

Smythe cut back, “You can't predict him. You should know, all those letters you had him write. What you figured he was going to do.”

Dev said, “He was my voice down here. And I knew as soon as I put it in his mind about me and John and some robbery, he wouldn't be able to let it go.”

“Your brother never had anything to do with anything.”

“Of course not, but he had to be gone if we were going to build this empire.”

Smythe said, “You should've stopped him, boy-o.”

“I couldn't raise a hand against him myself. Never once, even when we was kids. Thought Beaudine would take care of it for me. Or you, Creed.”

Creed said, “Your brother owes me, and I will collect that debt.”

“John survived the conflicts, Beaudine's attack, all of it. One thing you learn in here, some men die easy, and some don't.”

A small voice said, “With that special shotgun of his.”

Dev stepped from his cell. “The boy has something to add?”

Hector coughed, looked to Creed, who put a hand on his shoulder for assurance. Hector finally said, “Just that I've seen him use that gun. I'd be real, extra careful, sir.”

Dev said, “That's the smartest thing I've heard today.”

“All she must do is say the words. She must.”

The Brakeman grinned at Beaudine. “She's a chink. Don't know no English, buddy. Just do your business. She don't care.”

The canvas walls of the tent wafted as the Brakeman stepped outside, leaving his wife alone with Beaudine. She sat on the edge of a tiny, wooden-slat cot, Beaudine before her, suspenders off his shoulders but still dressed, including his boots.

He said, “You can't say you're Nellie Bly? You have no idea, you poor idiot.”

She smiled politely, and shrugged, reaching up to unbutton his trousers. He swatted her hands away.

“I do lose myself, sometimes. You have to help me, and you can't. Or won't. If you're refusing me, that would be an insult, wouldn't it?”

Her smile continued, even as he raised his hand. She did not flinch or turn away.

Outside the tent, Chaney and Howard sat on the empty dynamite wagon, counting the last of their money, all coins. Chaney's shirt was caked with blood, and he had a bandage wrapped around his ribs. Behind them, the muddy trail stretched for miles, and in front of them was more of the same. The bursts of wind from the Colorado north felt like broken glass.

The only thing for miles was the Brakeman's tent, and them sitting beside it.

“Everything we got from old man Kirby wasn't worth salt for peanuts.”

“And you choked him for it.” Chaney shoved the change back in his pants. “This working out the way you thought? You made more hammering coffins. Hell's fire, I'd join you.”

“I was set, and you all came in and turned me upside down.”

“Along for the ride. That was Lem.”

Howard shook his head. “It wasn't Deadeye. Don't be saying that.”

Chaney winced. “Beaudine's holding a bluff hand, and we fell for it. Now we're an ‘Army of Three,' whatever the hell that means. Now what? Gonna keep following that maniac? He's got to get his bell rope pulled, and we're out here freezin' to death. At least the cold makes my side feel tolerable.”

“You said you'd kill Beaudine. Seems like that's your bluff.”

“You'll find out.”

“Maybe I should have let you die back there. You ain't my friend. Lem was.”

“Well, I sure wish he was with us now.”

Howard said, “I never seen who shot him.”

Chaney pulled at his bandage, adjusting it, not missing a beat. “It was that Bishop, but I blew that double barrel to pieces.”

“Looks like he did more to you.”

“The Cheyenne! And just what are we gonna do about all that?”

They looked up as the Brakeman set out a stack of jars of milky-white grain shine, and a few with moldy preserves floating in sugar-clouded juice. He arranged them on an old ammunition crate beside the torn canvas, with a large sign declaring A D
OLLER FOR
A
LL THE
H
APYNESS
Y
OU
C
AN
S
TAND
!

“Thirsty? If you don't have the dollar, you don't have to answer.”

Howard said, “I like store bought.”

“Store bought ain't got this kick, and I don't see no saloons nowhere.”

Chaney took a deck of cards from his jacket. “Would you play for it?”

The Brakeman ran his fingers through a thick blond moustache. “The lady of chance is a whore I don't favor.”

Howard grabbed the last stick of dynamite from one of the crates. “It's gettin' damn cold. You just gonna let us sit here?”

The Brakeman said, “You don't have a primer or a fuse for that, friend.”

“You know your TNT?”

“Work with it all the time on the Colorado Line.”

Chaney said, “This ain't your work?”

The Brakeman laughed, “Her? That's my wife! We travel these teamster trails, set up for a week, then move on when the railroad needs me. You'd be surprised how many she can handle in a day.”

Howard said, “Lotta money. Sounds like you could spare a drink.”

“It does, don't it?”

“So what is your trade, friend, other than your wife?”

“Stand-by brakeman.”

“On the Colorado?”

“That's what I said. I don't repeat.”

The Brakeman took a sip of homemade, while Howard was rubbing his arms to keep warm. Howard said, “Which work do you like better, that or this here?”

“The same. She pays, they pay. And sometimes the Colorado kicks it up a bit.”

“When's that?”

The Brakeman checked his watch. “Your friend has three minutes.”

Chaney said, “Won't let us put anything on the cuff, so what's the harm in talkin'? I'm looking for work. So when does the Colorado kick it up? You ever work a run from that mint?”

The Brakeman took another sip. “Not that they ever told me.”

“Friend, you could be a couple of train cars away from a fortune.”

“I don't think about that. I do my job.”

Howard said, “When's your next run?”

The Brakeman pulled a folded schedule from his pocket. “Whenever they say. We're packing out of here tomorrow. Either of you want a crack, best speak up.”

Beaudine stepped from the tent, holding a small package, addressed to M
RS
. B
ISHOP
. He shoved it at the Brakeman, who grabbed for it.

“How the hell'd you get that?”

Beaudine kept it out of reach. “It was by the woman's bed. Who is this for?”

“Your time's up!”

Beaudine tossed the small package to Howard. “Look at that name. Where did you get this? Believe me, you don't want to set my blood to boiling, friend.”

The Brakeman screamed, “Lotus! Get your ass out here!”

Chaney tossed Beaudine his long cleaver, and he advanced on the Brakeman, turning the blade. Chaney and Howard both had their guns out.

Beaudine said, “All I need is the truth. Who is this Mrs. Bishop?”

The woman stepped from the tent, but made no move for her husband. She stood, watching.

Beaudine brought the cleaver to his throat. “The truth, or you will spill on this ground.”

“I don't care who it is, goes to general delivery in Paradise River before I take the train out. My old buddy's got a daughter, and she died, and he's sending something to family.”

Chaney said, “Is that daughter a Cheyenne?”

“How'd you know that?”

Beaudine said, “And where is this friend?”

The Brakeman straightened, met Beaudine's stare. “Now information like that's gonna cost. In fact, these last five minutes are going to cost.”

The woman said, “I know him.”

Chaney shot the Brakeman in the chest with the Derringer. He fell back, busting some grain shine jars, then slopped into the side of the tent, ripping part of it to the ground.

He sprawled, gurgling. “Bastards . . . do anything for money . . .”

Beaudine said, “No, that would be you.”

Chaney hopped down from the wagon and went through the dying man's pockets. He found a razor in his belt, a wad of singles, some coin, and a rail worker's schedule. He pocketed the schedule, peeled twenty dollars, and handed the rest to the woman.

Beaudine said, “If you hurry, you can get him to a doctor. But you'll have to tell me what I need.”

The woman said, “No, I won't hurry.”

Chaney fired one more slug between the Brakeman's surprised eyes.

The woman quick-stepped around Beaudine to where her husband was lying in a mess of canvas, ‘shine, and icy slush. She bent down to look at him closely, neatened his moustache with her finger, pausing for a moment to feel his breath. There was none. She stood back up.

Beaudine said, “Miss Lotus?”

“My husband would get lost. We have a map.”

Howard said, “He must've been a lousy railroad man.”

She went back into the tent.

“Howard, take the map, see who this is. Gambler, you're coming with me to Paradise River.”

The woman handed the map to Beaudine. She pulled the paper flower from her hair, dropped it on her husband's chest, bowed to the three men in the dynamite wagon, and said, ever so quietly, “My thanks.”

 

 

Dev Bishop was careful with the last of Allard's whiskey, pouring it into two glasses on the desk, the final drops hanging on the lip of the bottle. The soldier was dead, and Dev corked it. Smythe sat in front of him, raising his glass.

Dev wasn't returning the toast. “Smythe, how bad was it at the Goodwill?”

“You lost a lot of men, most to the dynamite Beaudine planted. And that was all done for the meetup with Creed. Beaudine wanted to make sure nobody walked out of there.”

“You said most, how did we lose the others?”

“Your brother. But you know that, don't you?”

Dev took a drink. “We've got something big coming up in Paradise River in two days, and it can't be thwarted.”

“That train job could really set us up, boy-o. We need it.”

“It's always tough to get started.”

“Or reconstructed.” Smythe laughed as he took another pull, leaving the last bit. “I know my history, Dev. New country can be a great playground, but only if you get in early.”

“That's what this is all for.”

Dev unfurled a map showing sections of the Colorado Line, and its stations, including Paradise River. The railroad was a curving snake of red across miles of green and blue mountains.

“And there's the problem,” Smythe said. “How many miles? What you want to do is already being done in New York and by my old man in London. Villages and cities, mate. You can control that with a few men on every street. There's too much land—how can you keep track?”

“That's why we need an army.”

“The one we almost lost.”

“I kept you on the road. All you got is that scratch.”

Smythe snorted. Dev continued, “You'll heal. That accountant's going to help us get organized. The money from this train will get us men, equipment. Maybe even buy us a sheriff or two. Whatever we need to stay in control, and you're going to be the man in the towns and villages, making sure everything's running right.”

“The Indians might have a thing or two to say about these plans. And the real Army.”

“Wouldn't it be something if the tribes lined up on our side?”

“Oh, big dreams, boy-o.”

“This train is no dream.”

“That's a hell of a job you're handing me.”

“You're important to this.”

Smythe finished his drink. “Because I shot the warden?”

“Because you listened to my ideas.”

“And you're paying me well for it, but it doesn't mean I agree with everything.”

Dev leaned forward, his injured arm resting on the edge of the desk. “One more Goodwill, and we're done.

“John doesn't know I'm alive, and wants Beaudine dead. Let 'em tear each other up, and we'll take care of the man left standing. But nothing comes before these plans.”

The bounce-back of a rifle's report moved Dev to the window, where he looked down into the prison yard. Fuller was drawing down on targets beyond the front gate—loading, shooting, and hitting straight, every single time.