Shotgun (7 page)

Lem snorted a laugh. “He got it when he was leg-breakin' agitators for the railroad, just to keep things nice and legal.”

Howard said to Chaney, “See, I'm not just some big, dumb, son of a bitch. I'm the law.”

“You gotta be shittin' me!”

Hector was propping Fat Gut by his shoulders as Bishop pulled the chrome instrument from his med kit. Gut winced when he saw the thing: it was tong-shaped, with a metal clamp mounted between curved scissor blades that opened wide enough to fit around the top of Fat Gut's leg, while the clamp extended to grab hold of the arrow shaft that protruded eight inches out of the calf. The snow was falling heavier now, sticking to the open wound.

Bishop said, “This instrument's designed for removing bullets, but it's adaptable. Unfortunately, I only have this left hand, and can't perform the procedure myself.”

Fat Gut “what the hell” squinted, and then Bishop added, “It won't work without two hands.”

Fat Gut yelped, “Then who in tarnation's gonna do it? And I don't get no painkiller or nothin'? I know you got powders!”

“Your ambush broke everything we had. Maybe one of your buddies has a bottle in his saddle?”

One of the hired guns wiped his nose and said, “Creed don't allow nothing. Thinks it keeps us sharp. Bullshit.”

Creed called out, “Where's the boy? Where's Hector?”

Hector made some noise, his nose buried in Fat Gut's shoulders, propping him up for surgery, as Bishop tightened the metal clamp around the arrow. His moves were left-hand clumsy, but the instrument locked into place. Hector strained against Gut's rolling weight, “I'm here, sir!”

“Front and center.”

Bishop countered, “I need him, Creed, if you want your wounded tended. I'd bet you still have that bottle.”

Creed took a bottle of Evan Williams pre-conflict bourbon, wrapped in oilcloth, from his saddlebag. The hired guns spit and grumbled, as White Fox stood directly in front of Creed, fixed on his amber glasses as they were being dotted with fresh snow. “
Eó'ó'éne vo' êstanéhotame
. Do you know its meaning?”

Creed sniffed the air, then handed her the bottle. “Dr. Bishop wanted this. For medicinal use only.”

Bishop took stripped bandages, antiseptic, and scalpels from his bag; suddenly he was a field medic again, prepping, but with only his left hand. White Fox sat next to him, holding the bottle just out of Fat Gut's reach, as she waited for Bishop to give the nod.

Fat Gut said, “That bottle's for me!”

Creed said, “That's not coffin varnish, it's fine sipping whiskey, with a history.”

“You claim that about everything, 'cuz.”

Dr. Bishop checked the clamp, the tongs on the instrument, the leg's torn muscle and flesh. Fat Gut grabbed for the bourbon again, but got nothing. White Fox fought her smile.

Fat Gut let it out again, “Come on! I'm dyin!”

Bishop said, “Well, you were trying to kill me.”

Fat Gut snorted like White Fox wasn't there. “Just her. We had orders to take you, but you ain't the one who shot me.”

Creed said, “Doctor, I expect you to do your duty.”

Fat Gut wiped his mouth and said, “There's your orders, Doc,“ before nodding toward White Fox. “I've left 'em dead and wishin' they was dead. Had some fun, too. But not this time, huh? Not with you?”

White Fox looked to Bishop, her eyes solid, black pools with blood red around the iris, a circle of fire. This only happened in moments of rage, just before exploding. Just before.

Bishop watched the moment pass, White Fox never looking away from him. Then he said to Fat Gut, “You're damn lucky.”

“Quit stallin'! Fix me up!”

Creed said, “Conduct yourself properly, or I'll order the doctor to let your leg rot.”

Bishop said, “Give me a Winchester shell.”

“Spent. More in my pocket. Can't move my arm.”

“Boy?”

Hector reached into Gut's pocket, pulling out two cartridges. White Fox took the bullets, pulled away the brass and emptied the black powder around the shaft of the arrow, just below the clamp. The arrowhead wasn't barbed, but it had sliced beneath a muscle and had to be cut free from the tissues before removal. Fat Gut grabbed the bottle of bourbon like he was wringing a chicken's neck.

“Drink. Your captain got that bottle from Ulysses S. Grant.”

Hector gulped air. “Is that a true fact?”

Fat Gut took three long pulls, wiping the rest from the scraggle of his beard. “He's told me a hundred times.”

Bishop said, “That's a true fact. Creed knows Grant.”

One of the guns fashioned a cigarette, lit it. Bishop looked up just as he flicked the match away. “Got another light?”

“Sorry.”

“Then come over here.”

Creed said, “Whatever needs doing.”

The gun sauntered over, a Morgan-James longsighted rifle slung on his back. He stood by Fat Gut, snickered, and blew smoke into the light-falling snow.

Bishop looked up at the gun. “What do they call you?”

“My given name's Epiphany. My Christian name's Fuller.”

Bishop said, “Mr. Fuller, when I tell you, put the cigarette to the powder on his leg. It's going to pain.”

Fuller said, “I never cottoned to this son of a bitch anyway.”

Fat Gut screamed with spittle, “I ain't lettin' that darkie do nothing to me!”

White Fox grasped the tongs, Bishop positioned the scalpel and said, “Now!”

It all happened at once. Fuller put his cigarette to the black powder, flaming it around the wound, as Bishop cut the arrowhead free. White Fox threw her weight against the clamp, forcing it to pull the arrow from Fat Gut's leg in a single motion. Blood was a fountain, spraying her, before the powder burned over the wound, sealing it.

There was a meat-sizzling, even as snow cooled the wound, and Bishop swabbed it with iodine. Hector grunted as Fat Gut slumped back, unconscious.

Fuller pulled Hector from under Gut's massive weight. “Come on, tadpole, before he crushes you.”

Fat Gut's head hit the ground, his mouth sagging.

Bishop said, “He'll be out for a while.”

Creed said, “Take care of these other men, then we'll get him on his feet. We're moving before the sun sets.”

“The snow's going to get worse.”

“Then you and the dog-eater better work as fast as you can, because you've got a long walk.”

 

 

The gun known as Fuller rolled the last of his makings and popped it in his pocket before untying Bishop's bay and White Fox's painted stallion. No matter how he moved, his sniper's rifle stayed perfectly slung across his broad shoulders.

The snow was a straight curtain now, still light, but not melting when it reached the ground. The kerosene pools and bloody slush around the mouth of the cave were again pristine white, and the dead were in a neat row beside the tree line. Lariat was face down, to hide his twisted expression.

Fuller led the two horses to where Creed was now sitting atop his chestnut, away from the few men who were still being bandaged by White Fox, as Bishop guided her. The doctor inspected every dressing, and Creed listened for his approval.

Fuller said, “They're almost done. I've got the horses. The snow makes it look like nothing's happened here. It's all brand new again.”

“What about the boy?”

“Helping your doc friend.”

Creed said, “That's a prisoner.”

Fuller reached into Creed's saddlebag, found a match to go with his last cigarette. He struck it against Creed's stirrup. “He's gold to me, Creed.”

“You're forgetting yourself, Fuller.”

“I ain't forgetting nothing. I've been with you since Richmond, and I always appreciated that you saw my blue uniform, instead of my black skin. You were always blind to that, now you're blind for real.”

“But still in command, here.”

“You're not an officer anymore. We're just trash the army threw away, the ones who should've been killed, but weren't. We're the walking dead, and now we got a shot at real money? This ain't about loyalty, Captain—it's about leaving my kids something. Without my uniform, I'm just another runaway slave with a gun, so this better work out.”

The acknowledgment of rank pleased Creed. “You'll always be a soldier; a fine sniper with a good eye. Maybe I can't see it, but I know your skills. Conduct yourself with discretion, and you'll be rewarded.”

“I can keep my mouth shut, but one way t'other, I'm getting mine.”

Creed finally said, “We all will.”

 

 

The colorless sky and white earth met somewhere, forming an empty void, barely broken by the distant sketch of a mountain or the dot of trees, all obscured by blowing snow. A hanging fog turned any landmarks into grey-blue ghosts, as Creed's prisoners trudged through the building cold.

Behind them, they left hoof prints in furrows of snow that were being filled in from the sky, while ahead there was only blinding white.

Bishop and White Fox led the group, the bay and the painted stepping high out of the snow and coming down through a frozen crust, almost to the knee. White Fox's hands were tied at the wrist behind her back, while Bishop's left was knotted to his saddle horn.

Creed and Fuller rode side by side, the painted and the bay tethered to Fuller's horse so Bishop and White Fox couldn't break away. Fuller's Morgan-James hung in a scabbard by his leg.

The rest of Creed's men followed in line, some bandaged, their weapons casual on their laps, ready to shoot Bishop or White Fox, or anyone, between the shoulders. Hector was the last rider, sharing his horse with Fat Gut. Gut was still dazed from the surgery and heaving into the frosty air. Even when he waved in the saddle, he held onto his Winchester like it was precious treasure.

Everyone kept their faces low, the horses angling slightly to the side, against the beating wind as they trudged. Bishop pulled up, and the other riders stopped behind him, the animals bobbing their heads, snorting. Hot breath hung in the air.

Bishop called out, “Why are we setting the pace? We'll freeze before we get anywhere.”

Creed said, “When I want us to move faster, we will.”

“Then where the hell are we going?”

“You're heading in the right direction, Doctor. That's all you need to know.”

“You can tell?”

“I can tell.”

Bishop said, “Then how about this: are we wanted dead or alive?”

“There's a price to be paid. Now move.”

Bishop looked to White Fox, who kept her gaze straight ahead, seeing something beyond the yawning white. Snow hung on her eyelashes and lips, and she didn't meet Bishop's face when he asked if she was all right. She just gently heeled her painted, starting the trek again. Bishop did the same.

The group followed in line, with the hired guns muttering. Fuller looked back from his saddle and said, “You boys want to see some shares, I'd keep my opinions quieter than that.”

One of the guns said, “The house slave never has to worry about nothin'.”

Fuller cocked the Morgan-James, the metallic click of the hammer hidden by the howling wind, and was drawing it from its scabbard when Creed said, “Rise above it.”

Fuller regarded the blind man who'd heard the weapon, and said, “You've been grinding about the doc for years.”

“But I waited, and now is the time. Be patient, and you'll have your time, too. Should I make that an order, Fuller?”

Fuller glanced over his shoulder at the seven men behind him—bloodied, bandaged, with guns instead of sense. The ones Bishop and White Fox hadn't killed. He'd ridden with some of them for years, knew who they were inside, and usually let their talk pass right over. But now he was going to have to share money with this bunch, maybe a lot. He threw them a strained grin that one of Creed's men returned, full-tooth. Easy target.

Fuller's eyes narrowed, even as his grip relaxed on the Henry, letting it slide back into its place. “No need.”

Bishop said, “Sounds like trouble in the ranks.”

Creed didn't raise his voice. “It's handled.”

“Like the time we crossed into the Ohio Valley? You'd been pushing the men for days, they could barely stand, and that's when the attack came. We lost a lot that day.”

“You lost a lot.”

“Most were passed saving, Creed. And none died by my hand.”

“You mean the one you have left?”

Bishop said, “We've both seen miracles on the battlefield, but there sure weren't any that day.”

“I don't need your voice of conscience. I learned a long time ago that doctors aren't gods.”

“Neither are officers.”

Creed let the words settle before he said, “Even a blind man could hit a target as close as you are to me.”

“Wouldn't that lessen our value? Or is it ‘dead or alive'?”

Creed chose his words. “I haven't decided.”

Creed felt Fuller's hand on his shoulder for a bit of reassurance, and said nothing. They all rode on for a few minutes, the snow cutting harder, before Bishop said, “In case nobody's told you, the sun's going down.”

The three-story house, with the lattice protecting each floor, looked as if it had been plucked from a tony street in St. Louis and dropped in the middle of nowhere. Years of weather and living in the hard country had left their mark on this beauty, but she still stood tall, the lamps in each window welcoming strangers as they approached.

A soiled dove, with tight, blond curls pulled the Navajo blanket closer to her shoulders as she watched the three riders tie their horses to the hitch rail in front of Widow Kate's. The night was damn cold, with her unmentionables sticking to her skin, but at this moment she liked it better on the porch than being curled up in her warm bed, with nowhere to run.

She seemed to Lem Wright to still be of schooling age when she asked, “Is you the law or customers?”

Howard said, “The law.”

Soiled Dove dropped a pinch of snuff behind her lower lip, sticking it out while she thought, then said, “Good. There's been too much trouble tonight.”

Chaney took out his small-handled Colt, and Howard sniffed, “Borrow that from your granny?”

Howard pushed around the horses and opened his coat so the Dove could see his deputy's badge pinned over his huge belly, “Look at me, little girl. What the hell's the problem?”

She blinked twice at Howard. “That crazy man killed Miss Kate. I had to get out.”

“What crazy man?”

“The one who never pi-roots, just talks. He was a general or somethin.'”

“What room's he in?”

“He was in Miss Kate's office, but I dunno now.”

Lem smiled at the girl. “You forgot your shoes. Your toes'll freeze off.”

The Dove moved the snuff with her tongue, wiggling her grubby feet. “I guess I wasn't thinkin'.”

Lem Wright tucked the blanket around the Dove's feet, then held open the large door with the stained-glass Chinese symbol for “love” in its center, keeping his gun hand ready over his Remington New Model.

Lem's deadeye fixed on Howard and Chaney. “Time for the reunion.”

They went inside, while the Dove rubbed her toes and started a song she didn't know all the words to. Lem drew his pistol, and was careful not to let the door slam behind him.

The blood pooling around Widow Kate soaked the Persian rug, casting it purple where she was lying. Her body was balled together next to her comfortable chair, hands clamped against the side where the blade had slit deep. Kate's eyes were closed, and there was no reaction when Beaudine nudged her with his boot. A few of the line girls peered silently from the office doorway, while the only one saying anything was doing it in shrill Chinese.

Beaudine was unfazed as he wiped the blood from the ivory letter opener before slipping it in his pocket; the staring eyes, the Chinese accusations, weren't reaching him at all. He moved quickly, snatching up carved jade and cast-gold trinkets, then stuffing his coat until it bulged. He gave Kate's pipe a deep sniff, tasting the opium residue in the back of his throat, before noticing Howard, Lem, and Chaney standing just feet away.

Beaudine waited for a sign of respect from his men until Howard offered, “Still crazy as a shit-house rat?”

Beaudine said, “I hear you build coffins for heathens,” as he opened the drawers of the large desk, dumping out letters, paperwork, ledgers, and more onto the floor.

The Chinese girl started yelling again, and Howard thumbed his badge at her face. “Get upstairs. I might even see you later.”

The Chinese girl dry-spit, “Yeah, without paying,” but the line girls all backed their way up the front stairs as Beaudine kept rifling, smashing an abacus against the floor, then tearing through the bottom of a drawer, bloodying his knuckles.

Beaudine's face was washed with sweat, his words strained, “That cow has cash hidden somewhere, and she's not keeping any secrets. Not now.”

Lem Wright said, “Nobody ever gives it up easy, do they?”

“Always a joke, Deadeye.”

Beaudine grabbed a box decorated in filigree and topped with a two-headed dragon with ruby eyes. The ornate heads were locked in battle, and when he pressed down on one of them, the lid sprung open, revealing another stash of opium. Beaudine dumped the pure on the desk, then pocketed the box.

Lem said, “Is that why we're here? Robbing a whorehouse ?”

“You're here for gold, the letter.” Beaudine nudged Kate again with his toe. “Kate tried to include herself in our plans, and had to be dealt with. The cleaver's tied to my saddle, and she's damn lucky I didn't want to brave the cold to get it. Is that Betsy?”

Howard had his Remington New Model out, the hammer back. “You remember.”

“She doesn't look like you've taken very good care of her, or yourselves.”

“She still shoots.”

Beaudine ripped aside the drapes, revealing bare walls. “But can you?”

“You dragged me into somethin' 'cause we shared a cell one time, and I'm still not one dollar richer, but my soul's poorer.”

“Not much I can do for your soul, but you're closer to that Bishop gold now than you know.”

“By walking into another killing?”

“I was defending what's ours.”

Lem said, “We've been through a hell of a lot, but we made it. You've got one minute to tell us what this is, and then I ride out—clean.”

Beaudine studied him. “You giving me an order, Deadeye?”

Lem's gun was leveled. “A choice.”

Howard kept the Remington New on Beaudine's chest, the grin on his face spreading. “I know I ain't that bright, but I'd say you got less than a minute, by that clock on the wall?”

“Or Betsy screams?”

“Oh, I'll bust your back first. Then, when
you're
screamin', I'll let Betsy do her job.”

Beaudine stepped around the desk. “Bishop survived his punishment.”

Lem said, “I know. He cut down Chester, 'cause he was after you. I missed him by a couple of hours.”

“I'd say that was fortunate for you both.” Beaudine looked beyond the guns to Chaney. “I didn't recruit you.”

Lem said, “He was with Chester and figures to take his place. Probably be of more use, if this ain't another bullshit run.”

“Bishop still has the gold he stole with his brother, and we can get it.”

Howard said, “Jesus save me, I wanna bust you in half.”

Beaudine continued, “An officer of my acquaintance will be taking Bishop prisoner, and will deliver him. To us.”

“Here?” Lem's voice raised.

“A two-day ride into the hills to the old Goodwill strike. We'll need supplies, and some extra guns. Kate should've ponied cash, but she gave us plenty to barter with.”

Lem said, “You still haven't said exactly what we're walking into. I like to know what to carry, what to load.”

Beaudine gave his words mannerly import. “You were always thorough, Deadeye. My co-officer, Captain Creed, thinks he has a right to an equal share for delivering Bishop, but we'll disabuse him of that notion.”

“Bull—!”

The rest of the word was the scream of Howard's giant fist crashing into the top of Kate's desk, splitting the wood nearly in half. He raised Betsy like a club to smash across Beaudine's head, but instead took a deep breath they all could hear, and turned the gun around in his palm, aiming it again at the major.

Howard's hand and voice were shaking, his chest heaving, “I made a promise I wouldn't swear or kill no more, but you're pushin' me with this; this part of a million dollars, that ain't real!”

Beaudine said, “Howard, I know what it is to be out of control, but I'm about myself right now, and you need to be the same. This money is real. You know that.”

“What makes it more real now than that night with the doc and his family?”

Beaudine looked straight down the barrel of Howard's gun to his flicking eyes. “All of these people who want a piece, like Madame Kate on the floor. Doesn't that tell you? I wrote that letter for Dev Bishop, believing every word. Men facing death tend to be truthful.”

“John Bishop wasn't.”

Beaudine corrected Lem with a scolding. “Bishop refused to cooperate. There's a difference. After that night, I never stopped looking. You scattered, but I stayed with it, and every time I turn around, there's someone new who wants a share, because they knew that gold was someplace. And the doctor's the key to the moneybox.”

Lem said, “He didn't give it up before, and now he's got nothing to lose, so why would he tell?”

“Because there's only one thing he cares about now—us. He'll bargain.”

Lem smiled. “The gold for the chance to wipe us out.” He put his hand on Howard's arm, lowering his gun. “This Creed will deliver?”

“He will, but won't be alone.”

“This half a million is gonna have a lot of blood on it.”

Beaudine pocketed one last jade trinket. “What half a million doesn't?”

Chaney finally said, “Maybe everyone here, if Bishop uses that double-barrel rig. I've seen it, you haven't.”

Beaudine looked down on Chaney. “You're new to me, and not impressive at all.”

Lem cut him off, “He'll be more use than Chester was. At least he's seen Bishop, the way he is now.”

Chaney said, “So did Chester Pardee.”

Beaudine straightened his collar. “Then it's up to you to be properly prepared. You want some kind of a share of this? You're going to earn it.” He walked out of Kate's office tall and straight, ready for a parade.

On the front porch, Soiled Dove was rubbing her feet with both hands, as Howard and Chaney swung onto their horses. Lem took a torch from a barrel by the front door, watching Dove as he lit it.

Dove's lower lip protruded, more snuff filling it. “That's a courtesy for the boys who ride in at night. The good customers.”

Lem got onto his horse with the torch. “I'll come back, and promise to spend a fortune.”

Howard punched the air with a giant fist, and said, “I'm back-slidin'. Five minutes with Beaudine, and I don't have a Christian feeling left. There's lumber 'round back. I could make that dead woman a coffin. It won't take long.”

Lem said, “You're wanting to do it is enough to keep your soul safe.”

Chaney said, “I figured we'd be given a map or something, not drafted into another war.”

Lem turned his eye on Chaney. “Another? I didn't know you served. Thank you for your sacrifice.”

Lem snickered at his own joke, making Chaney feel like a fool, again. Chaney let his fingers dance on the Colt he'd just re-holstered, playing with the idea of ending this game right now.

Lem had been watching Chaney's hand. “Stakes getting too high?”

That's when Soiled Dove piped up. “So, you all arrest that crazy man?”

Lem said, “He's coming with us.”

“The regular sheriff's away 'til tomorrow sometime, and he's gonna be awful touched up about this. He makes a lot of money from Miss Kate.”

Howard said, “You tell the sheriff that we got the killer, and he don't need to bother with nothin'.”

“Somebody'll have to step up, take Kate's place,” Lem said.

Soiled Dove wrinkled her nose at him. “Maybe me?”

“Maybe. Go on inside, and get warm for real.”

Soiled Dove got up, and padded inside as Beaudine rode around the far side of the porch, sporting an officer's hat that had been stripped of its braiding, and his many-grey tunic, newly sewn together. Even made of bits and pieces, Beaudine was again impressive, with the long cleaver tied behind his saddle, the blade wrapped in butcher's paper.

Beaudine said, “How're you fixed?”

Howard was still holding Betsy. “Belly wash and jerky.”

“That's going to change.”

“Words.”

Beaudine looked to Howard. “We've had our wait, but now the Bishop gold is ours for the taking. Are you loyal or not?”

“To you?”

“To the mission. If you have to light out”—Beaudine pulled the cleaver from behind his saddle, and hefted it with both hands—“I'll hold no ill feelings.”

Lem said, “What if we turn our guns on you?”

Chaney sat up alert, his hand on the Colt, but again, he was holding back. Waiting. He looked to Lem's frozen eye, to Howard and his clenched fists, and finally to Beaudine.

Everyone seemed ready to pull when Beaudine spoke, his eyes fixed on something none of them could see. “Delivering death is our mission. It's your choice who we deliver it to: each other, or the bastards who're denying us a better life.”

Beaudine urged his horse, breaking away from the three. “I know where I'm heading.”

Howard, Chaney, and Lem turned their mounts around, guns back in their holsters, or tucked into belts. Lem held the torch for all of them, showing the way.

Howard said, “Shit-house rat crazy.”

Deadeye Lem Wright added, “And we're gonna follow.”

Chaney said, “For now.”