Shotgun (23 page)

Captain Creed sat his Pride near Fuller, with Hector by the stirrups describing the shots. Dev watched for a few more moments, then turned to Smythe. “Creed's got that buffalo soldier. Good sniper. We can use him.”

“What about the blind man himself ?”

“This is going to be done right. Cut him loose.” Dev drank the final drops of the warden's fine mash. “We're taking this train.”

“Never thought any different, mate.”

“I've been shot before, and can't say it ever gets any better.”

Miles Duffin tried a smile, but failed, as Bishop and Fox swabbed the bullet wound just above his hip. He was lying on a stack of blankets in the back of a buckboard, surrounded by suitcases and packed boxes, the bay and the painted tethered to the side.

His young wife was driving, and not looking back at her husband as he tried again, “I wish I could say the other fellow looks worse.”

Bishop said, “He does.”

“You get him with that Shuler double?”

Fox took cotton from the medical kit, combed it out, before pressing it onto the bullet wound. Miles screamed, and his wife looked back. Her face was streaked, but didn't give up a word. Fox bound the cotton tight; the wife kept her jaw clenched.

“You two are the doggonedest doctors I ever seen. But dying men can't be choosers. I'm truly obliged.”

Bishop smiled. “You talk too much, Deputy.”

“Not my only failure. I was serving papers when this happened, wish I could say it was a shoot-out.”

Miles's wife looked at him again. Furious.

Bishop said, “Be glad it wasn't, and you really talk too much. You've lost a lot of blood, and half the slug's in there. You know the doc in Paradise River?”

Miles's wife spoke from the driver's seat. “Yes, we know him. He's worked on Miles. A lot.”

“He's going to be working on him again. It's not deep, but it's got to come out.”

Miles whispered, “Okay. If you tell me how you got that all fixed up.”

“I lost the arm a year ago, and her father made it.”

Miles turned to Fox. “Real good job. Don't make you look like a doc, but I sure as hell wouldn't mess with you!”

“We're tying to find other men like the one who shot you. The Fire Riders.”

Miles's wife said, voice rising, “That should be easy enough. They've raided the town half a dozen times, and I don't know how many they've killed.”

“Rachel, it wasn't that many times, or that many people. And I took down a lot of 'em. Give me a little credit, honey.”

She said, “Fine. And they kept coming back, with more men. And now look at you.”

Miles said to Bishop, “We best drop it,” while scribbling a note on a piece of a wanted poster, with a pencil he had in his pocket. He pressed the note into Bishop's left.

Rachel guided the buckboard into Paradise River, following the one road that turned into a main street that met three more streets in the center of town. Paradise had a worn look, with shingles missing from roofs, split glass in store windows, or railings broken on hotel balconies. Yet, it was all freshly painted, as if the entire town had been dressed up for some quick influx of people or money that hadn't happened.

Paradise was a spinster, still waiting for a beau.

The one building that was newly built was the rail station, with a full loading area for cattle, and a water tower. There were no cattle. A few people lounged on the platform.

Fox and Bishop climbed from the buckboard, and grabbed their horses, as Rachel drove on to the doctor's down the street. Miles waved his best and shouted his thanks, which only made Rachel snap the team to drive faster.

She had given Bishop a look of gratitude, but nothing else, and he understood. She hated that her husband was lying with a bullet in him, and wanted no part of this kind of life. Not anymore. He'd seen that look in a woman's eyes before and, following Fox into the shabby hotel, wondered about seeing it again.

“We don't usually accept . . . unusual guests.”

Bishop looked from the deskman, trying to focus on his small, pink rabbit eyes, then to Fox, and then to himself, before saying, “So who's unusual?”

“I don't know how comfortable you'll be here.”

“The ground's frozen, and there's a storm heading in. You've got a lot of keys on that pegboard. You want to ask me about my arm? Ask.”

Bishop dropped the double-barrels in front of the deskman with a loud thud. Rabbit eyes jumped back.

“Believe it or not, I'm a doctor, so I can tell details of the operation, but most folks just want to know if it actually works. Would you like to see? Maybe that old couch?”

He turned, the shotgun snapping into position, when the deskman grabbed a key from the pegboard. Fox snatched it from his hands.

The bed was too large for the room, the door hitting it when you entered. There was a nightstand with a cracked pitcher and washbasin, both painted with blue roses, and one ragged towel. There had been a mirror on the wall sometime, but it was long gone, with only the dirty outline of it remaining.

Bishop put his saddlebags and med kit on the floor, and reached for something as Fox splashed water on her face from the basin.

“I'm sorry about that.”

She turned to him.

“I don't like to act that way, but he was being stupid.”

“He was.”

He held out the note that Miles had slipped him. “That's the train that's coming tomorrow night. It's a gold transfer for the bank.”

“Dev's gold? The treasure that everyone wants?”

“That's not real.”

“The pain it's caused you is real.”

“This shipment might bring out some of the men we're looking for. You saying I should leave it alone?”

Fox just said, “Things do not stay the same.”

“They have to for a little while.” He took the copy of Poe from his bags, and placed it on the bed. “You left that behind.”

Fox regarded the book, but didn't make a reach. “Let's do what you need done. Then we'll see.”

Bishop said, “
Hó'ótóva
,” wanting Fox to agree and say, “Yes. Someday.” But she didn't.

Instead, she handed him the bandolier of six.

 

 

Howard was on the ground at Crawford's feet, holding his stomach that had been ripped by the iron talons of White Claw. The metal contraption was still fitted to Crawford's hand, spattering red whenever he moved. Howard screamed, but it only made it worse for him, intensifying the pain, as he felt his lungs and throat with his cries.

His face was slashed, and one arm taken down to the bone. Every move that Howard made, Crawford blocked with his boots, holding him down, making him squirm even more. And cry out again, to nothing, but the woods.

Crawford kept walking around Howard, kicking small piles of snow against his torn face, bringing the claw close to him, pressing the sharp edges against open wounds.

“Think you can come onto my place, threaten my daughter? Because you're a big fella? That ain't the way it works. You're talking about harming
my
blood, which means
your
blood is gonna run! You're gonna die here, and then I'm gonna feed ya to the next thing that comes down out of them woods! Because you needed me to talk? Brother, that's the mistake that killed you.”

He slashed again, opening Howard's back through his jacket. Howard crawled, face pressing into the muddy snow. Crawford bent down, and snatched the deputy's badge from his shirt.

“I don't know if you're a real lawman, or just stupid, but I'm keepin' this.”

Howard rolled onto his back, staring into the sky. Crawford held Howard's gun above his head. “Gun ain't a threat, if you don't know when to use it. And you sure don't.”

Howard couldn't speak, and tears erupted from his eyes to his mouth. Everything else was soaked red, and burning.

Crawford aimed the pistol at Howard's head. “If you shot me a few times, at least you could'a gotten the hell away. I ain't gonna do anything more to ya, though. Now, I bet you wish I would, just to get her done. You made your choice to come after my family, and you're gonna die with it. And wherever you end up, remember, it was White Claw what sent you there.”

 

 

Beaudine let the match's flame edge the tobacco of the cigar, heating it just right, before drawing deep. It was fine leaf, but tightly rolled in several layers. That made it last and gave it a firm ash, but it was difficult to light.

Chaney stood with him on the platform of the Paradise River station, watching the cigar process and checking his watch. The sun was red behind the mountains, and Beaudine had to shield his eyes when he spoke to him.

“Mr. Chaney, the window doesn't open for another three minutes. You should enjoy this time.”

“If we get that money, the shares are a lot larger than when we started.”

He drew on the cigar, and studied it. “Yes, I've done my calculations. Our earlier efforts were derailed by other forces. I always said the best way was to have Bishop come to us. Now he has to, or he doesn't get the little package, does he? Or even the bang-tail. We just have to have patience.”

“That's getting short in supply.”

“So you keep threatening.”

The ticket window opened, and a pair of thick glasses peered out, with a man behind them. Beaudine gave the ticket clerk the package for general express, then unfolded the Brakeman's schedule.

The clerk said, “You work for the Colorado, young fella?”

“A good friend does.”

“That's paperwork only for employees.”

“He's trusting me with this information. Can you tell me about this train? Is it express?”

The clerk laughed. “Better not be. It's got to stop here and make a gold transfer to the bank. And the only reason I'm letting you know is—” The clerk brought a Colt 45 up from under the counter and pointed it out of the cage. “And mister, there are soldiers on that train, and they're carrying something a damn sight bigger than this.”

The bonfires were set in three separate places in the prison yard, spreading a moving light that allowed the men to check weapons and horses. Some tried for night target practice: quick-drawing service pieces, or cracking off as many as possible with a Winchester.

Dev and Smythe moved among them, noting the weapons and their variable abilities. One rider tried long-shooting with a Colt, missing the wooden target three times out of six. Fuller stepped in, obliterating it with two perfectly placed kill shots.

“You're putting all these fellas to shame.”

Fuller checked the hammer of his Morgan-James, blew it out. “Well, that's not my intention, Mr. Bishop.”

“Just the same. You going to be riding tomorrow night? We could use you, and I'll see that your share's double these others.”

“Double?”

“Triple.”

Fuller looked to Creed, who was standing with Hector, brushing down Pride by the firelight, the flames literally dancing in the reflection of the horse's muscled, black coat.

“What about the captain? That's who brought me in.”

Dev said, “I'll talk to him. He wants the best for you.”

He walked over and put a hand on Hector's shoulder. “Watch the captain, son. Learn how to do things right.”

Creed continued with the grooming. “What are we doing about your brother, Mr. Bishop? Is finding him part of the mission tomorrow night?”

“The mission's about money. My brother's close, Captain. And when he pops his head out of the ground, we'll chop it off.”

“You agreed that would be my role.”

“Not tomorrow night, sir.”

“I have the finest horse here, and Hector for my eyes.”

“It's not enough. There's too much at stake.”

Creed stopped brushing and followed Dev's voice so he could be directly in front of him. His dark glasses looked like eyeless sockets in the firelight, transforming his face into a skull.

“You remember who you're talking to? I have more right to kill your brother than anyone. I helped you organize this ragtag, because I was told that I would get to exercise that right.”

“And we followed him after his accident, so you'd know where he was for the capture. But he's not here, is he, Captain?”

Creed turned away, slipping the grooming brush into his saddle. “If we're a burden, then we'll ride.”

“Mr. Fuller's staying on.”

Creed stepped around his horse, Hector taking his arm as he tripped over a pile of stones and rotting wood. He stumbled almost to the ground, then stood, jerking away from Hector. “Fuller! Is this true?”

Fuller said, “I need money for my family, Captain. That's what you promised.”

“Do you know what will happen if I find Bishop?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Fuller extended his hand to shake, but Creed turned from him. “I had my hand out for you, Captain.”

“I know.”

Hector guided Creed to his horse, then stood away, as he swung onto Pride's back. Pride lowered his head, helping Hector climb on behind. Pride snorted, ready to run, but Creed sat the animal for a moment before walking Pride around the bonfires, circling the yard and the men in red and then breaking to a full run out the front gate.

From the back of the Conastoga wagon, Tomlinson's daughters began to sing. Their perfect-pitch voices carrying over the sounds of the prison yard, as Smythe, Dev, and Fuller watched Captain Creed and Hector ride into the enormous darkness beyond the gates. And then they were gone.

They said nothing when Smythe held out a new .56 caliber Spencer carbine. “Ready to go to work?”

Fuller took the rifle, hefting its weight.

“Feel good?”

“A fine weapon. Balanced. Never shot it before. Looks like I'll be practicing.” He slammed home an ammo magazine.

Dev said, “After the raid tomorrow, you'll be able to give your family a future. Better than these others. Money in the bank, and it's only going to get better. You're a Fire Rider, now, sniper.”

“Maybe, but—” Fuller picked up a red hood from the ground, tossed it on the bonfire, and watched it burn.

 

 

White Fox was curled up on top of the bed, not even a blanket covering her, as Bishop sat in the corner, checking the motion of the rig. He snapped his wrist, and the barrels responded instantly. He turned, the gun turned. Every move, and the weapon responded. He let the hammers drop. Click.

Fox murmured, and Bishop tucked a blanket around her.

 

 

The break of morning was shrouded by blowing snow that moved thick in the air, the heavy powder of the mountains being swept up by cold bursts of wind. For Smythe, it was like grey evening, as he tied his horse and walked around the side of the Paradise River Rail Station, noting the platform and tracks.

The station was deserted—no crew or distant whistle of a locomotive. Just the cold that deadens the back of the neck, which is why he didn't feel the barrel of Beaudine's Colt against him.

Beaudine kept his voice steady, though his hand was shaking. “Mr. Smythe, killing you the worst way possible has been one of my dreams, since we were in the Tomb. But I think I'll allow you to stay above ground, while we discuss our new partnership.”

“Oh, you're making a whopping mistake, boy-o.”

“My mistake was not killing you all those times I had the chance.”

Beaudine nudged Smythe with the pistol, and they both moved off the platform, toward the cattle pens.

White Fox woke in the room, stretching her arms, and wiping her eyes. For a moment, she felt that someone would be next to her. But she was alone.

 

 

Rachel Duffin tried to hide her displeasure when Bishop knocked on the doctor's door, but she was unsuccessful. Her face was newly tear-stained, and her expression, dark.

Rachel said, “We're not staying in this town. I don't want you saying anything to change my husband's mind.”

“I won't do that.”

Bishop wanted to extend Rachel a bit of comfort and tell her that she reminded him of his wife, when Dr. Benson stepped from the back room and introduced himself. He was pleasant and old school, and probably had a drink or two with his breakfast. Benson walked Bishop to a small side bedroom where Miles was recovering. Bishop kept his arm down, his duster hiding the barrels of the rig.

Benson gave Bishop a sidelong look over his glasses. “Miles told me you fixed him on the road. Where did you serve?”

“Out of Virginia.”

“That was a good field dressing, doctor.”

Benson's office and the patient's room were clean. Organized. And he carried himself with that rare combination of sawbones and educated physician. There was a little more small talk, but he knew when to leave. Another good sign of a good doctor.

Bishop sat by Miles's bed and told him so. Rachel stood in the doorway, arms folded, struggling.

Miles said, “I'm glad to hear you think he knows what he's doing.”

“You're the best judge. How do you feel?”

“Like hell. But less like hell than I did yesterday.”

Rachel said, “This is the best thing for him, but he can't get overtired.”

“Honey, I sure would like a cup of coffee.”

“Tea.”

“Fine. Anything for you, Doctor Bishop?”

Bishop turned to Rachel and said, “Tea sounds very fine, I haven't eaten this morning.”

Rachel left, but didn't shut the door. Bishop tapped it with his foot, nudging it almost shut. “I need to know about the gold train.”

“You gonna rob it?”

“Not me, but someone might have plans.”

“That's what the soldiers are for, I guess. They didn't really include me in it, except as an extra gun, when they carry the money to the bank from the station. They've only done it twice before, and nothing happened.”

“With the money or the town?”

“Both. They deposit here because shipping companies keep threatening to build, and they need loans. The mayor gets excited for the boom he's been counting on for twenty years, and then nothing happens, and they pull the deposits. Last time it almost wiped the town out.”

“What about the sheriff ?”

“Up territory someplace. I heard he has another wife. Anyway, he's not around much anymore, so when I get laid up, it can be a problem.”

“And what about your wife?”

“She don't like what I do, and something like this makes her hate it.”

“She might not be wrong.”

“Doc, I have considered that about twenty times a day.”

“Miles, no one can hit that train at the station if they've got men on it.”

“I know a little spot, just a gopher hole about ten miles down the tracks. That's where I stake out. Perfect view of the Fire Riders, if that's what you're talking about.”

“One man, one badge, huh?”

“That's why we're lame ducks. If you can find anybody from Paradise to help, you're a better man than me.”

Bishop stood. “Doubtful, but here's some advice. Do what she wants, and go build your life.”

 

 

“But, ere long the heaven of this pure affection became darkened, and gloom, and horror, and grief swept over it in clouds.”

White Fox read the line from “Morella” aloud several times, the words coming easier and easier to her, even if their true meaning didn't. She said, “Not perfect,” to the empty room, flipped through some pages, and let the cover drop shut.

The knock on the door came immediately afterward. Her hand turned the knob; then she was thrown back hard. Chaney had shouldered the door into her and was now slamming it shut behind him.

Chaney flicked his gold tooth before speaking. “Where is he? And don't look at me like a squaw pissing in the dirt.”

Fox separated her words: “I—don't—know.”

Chaney's Derringer was out of his jacket, and he brought it up to her temple. “We know about that little package from your pa, and I paid three clerks to let me know if they saw you. I stacked the deck a little, especially since you cut my rib in half with an arrowhead.”

Fox let Chaney lean in close; she could taste his breath, even as he kept the gun pressed into her, leaving a mark.

“Your man has money, the railroad has money. Everybody but me, and we're going to fix that right up. Tell me where he hides his cash, or I'll kill you. Understand? Or do I have to talk in dog-tongue?”

She closed her eyes. “
Tó'ovenohtsé
.”

“Not an answer.”

Fox locked eyes with Chaney, staring. He almost smiled, as she reached over her head for the water pitcher, and shattered it against his skull. The scream of the breaking china and the scream of the gambler were a garbled one as he fell to the floor.

She lunged across the bed for her saddle, grabbing a sheathed knife, as Chaney came up shooting wild, blood washing his eyes from the cuts on his head.

The slugs hit the wall behind her, as she threw the knife. It hit his chest, but broke off at the tip. Chaney fell forward, catching himself on the edge of the bed.

“God, get me some help, and I won't do nothing else to you again. I swear. Just help me, please.”

Chaney lurched as Fox took a step toward him. The knife blade in his gun's pistol grip jutted out, and he slashed, catching her arm. Fox smashed him back with both elbows, the bone punching his face, then brought up her knees to send him slamming against the wall.

The knifepoint was pushed deeper into Chaney's chest. He dropped to his knees, and then collapsed. The room seemed darker for a moment, as Fox sat on the edge of the bed. Chaney was nothing now, just an empty shell lying on the floor. It had all taken less than five seconds.

Fox wiped at the tears she hated.

 

 

The roof was nothing but an overhang, but it kept the now steady snow off Smythe and Beaudine. Smythe's hands were tied, and he was sitting with his back against a wall, long lengths of chain and butchering hooks hanging behind and above him. Sledgehammers to knock out the cows were gathered in a large barrel by the door that opened onto the always empty cattle pens.

Beaudine settled on a bench, holding the long cleaver.

“Another business in Paradise that isn't doing well. Ask anyone in town and they'll be happy to tell you. I understand their need, as I have it myself. Money comes so easy to some, and the rest of us can chase it forever, and not catch a dollar. What do you think, Smythe? About money? Do you know anyone who has any?”