Shotgun (9 page)

“Yes.”

“You could leave me here.”

“You belong at the camp, at the fire.
Néhe'éohtsé'tov
.”

White Fox turned for the tree-break. Hector grabbed the rabbits. “Ma'am, I surely hope you asked me to come with you,” he said and followed her, sidestepping the snow-and-pinecone-covered branches that had walled him in.

Fox's movements were quick-sure, weaving around the trees without disturbing them at all while Hector was slapped by the branches as he tried to keep up, icy snow always in his eyes. Every twenty steps or so, he'd reach out to brush Fox's back, assuring himself she was still in front of him. She'd glance over her shoulder and tell him, in her own English, to hold the rabbits high so not to be torn by nettles. Hector did as he was told.

Hector said, “I-I got these right off, like I said. But then we lost the sun, and Jed tripped up. Nobody can see in this dark.”

“Me.”

“Except you, ma'am.”

More than an hour had passed, and the image Fuller saw through the long sight was hazy with cold fog: silhouettes coming out of the shadows of the pines, becoming clearer and clearer with each step, as they moved onto the expanse of snow between the trees and Creed's camp. Fuller lowered his sniper's rifle when he recognized White Fox, with Hector stumbling behind, keeping the rabbits over his head. Bishop stood.

Fuller gulped his laugh. “Tarnation.”

Hector broke from White Fox, churning the snow as he ran toward the fire, waving his three trophies. He called to Creed. The captain grabbed Bishop's shoulder and pulled himself up, facing Hector's voice before opening his arms like a father welcoming a son back home. Creed then stiff-backed, froze his arms at his side, and killed the rush of feeling.

Creed's guard was barely down, but it didn't escape Bishop. “Hector's a good boy, like my son would have been. And Fox made sure he wasn't lost to you.”

“That tripe won't work. Your debt'll be paid.”

Hector offered Creed a flustered salute. “Reporting back, sir. Uh, mission accomplished.”

Creed said, “Not well. I blame Jed for this foolishness.”

“We lost Jed.”

“Report?”

“Uh, he tripped, busted his head again. He'd been sneakin' from a bottle you didn't know about, sir. He was pretty drunk.”

“No more missions, boy. No more losses. Where's the damn dog-eater?”

Hector coughed up his words. “Begging your pardon, sir, but she found me. I know I did wrong for the company, but she didn't. And she talked regular English.”

“She's standing with you, Bishop?”

Bishop absently raised his right arm, as if the shotgun were there, to fire both barrels into the blind man. His anger heating, he chose his words carefully: “White Fox is right here with
me
, Creed. And you owe her thanks.”

“Sniper Fuller?”

Fuller eyed White Fox as she laced her fingers around Bishop's left hand, then said, “Hell, yes. The prisoners are accounted for, sir.”

That's when Fat Gut screamed from the other side of the fire, “My leg's killin' me, cuz! You've gotta do something!”

Creed said, “Either cure him or kill him. He's been a weight on us too long.”

Bishop said, “You giving me an order, Creed?”

“And you both better obey it.”

“Want your man treated? I'll need my kit.”

“On my Pride.”

Fuller stepped around Creed's tall horse, and opened one of the hand-scrolled saddlebags that draped Pride's haunches. He took out the shotgun rig, slung it over his shoulder, while finding the medical bag.

Fuller kept his back to Bishop, making sure he got a good look, teasing him with the rig. The shotgun was less than two feet from Bishop, and he raised his half a right arm as if to reach for the weapon, but Fuller was having his fun. White Fox gently squeezed Bishop's shoulder.

“Sorry, Doc, but that special rig ain't what you asked for.” Fuller laughed, then produced the field kit, giving it to White Fox in a deliberate motion. “It's a good thing you came back. The doc needs you.” She tucked it under her arm.

Fuller noted the L
T.
B
ISHOP
in gold across the leather. “I am surrounded by officers.” Fuller admired the shotgun before putting it back behind Creed's saddle. “That gun's a hell of a thing. It's a part of you, ain't it?”

Bishop let the words settle. “When I need it to be.”

Fuller grinned, but there was nothing friendly there.

White Fox walked by the painted, stroking him along his withers as she moved to the group of hired guns crouched by their own, small fire. The painted snorted, bobbing his head in recognition. White Fox looked to Bishop, who was right behind her. Their eyes met, passing a message he understood.

The guns were snickering something, but it was too low to hear. Bishop stood in front of them, waiting for one of them to jaw something else. Nothing came, so he said, “One-armed man and a woman, and we cleaned your clocks pretty good.”

One of them, sporting a fancy blue kerchief, threw out, “But it didn't change nothing. You're here. The squaw had her chance, and she comes back. How mule-ass stupid is that?”

Fat Gut yelled, “Oh, you're a great one, Doc! Shoot us, then dig the bullets out! My leg ain't nothin' but a lick and a promise, you son of a bitch!”

Bishop and White Fox settled by Fat Gut, who was sprawled on a filthy blanket, his wounded leg stretched out with a bandage newly pink from leaking. Gut was cradling the Winchester, its stock muddy from where he'd been using the rifle as a crutch, sinking it into the wet ground.

“Lose the rifle.”

Fat Gut wrapped his paw around the trigger guard. “That ain't happening.”

Bishop said, “You have to be able to sit up so I can do this properly. You can't with that thing on your chest.”

Gut looked around at the others: two were ready to shoot, casual as hell, and Blue Kerchief wasn't tamping down his hatred for Bishop at all. It read on his face, and Gut liked that, so he let Fox take the rifle. She placed it near the med bag.

Fat Gut said, “Needs more than one hand to shoot it anyways.”

That's when the knives came out.

In the light of Creed's fire, Fuller drew his Bowie dagger from the beaded sheath on his belt, while thirty feet away, White Fox handed Bishop a surgical blade. Fuller “ringed” the largest of the rabbits, slicing a notch through the fur just above its feet, separating the skin from the leg muscles. As he did this, Bishop laid the surgeon's blade across Fat Gut's bandages.

Gut sniffed, “You and your squaw gonna operate again? I didn't say nothing about that.”

“The wound has to be checked, and I need her hands.”

“Her hands and those nice titties. I like them hangers. How about sharing a little? That'd make me feel a hell of a lot better than what you're doin'.”

White Fox didn't allow herself a reaction to Fat Gut's mouth. She couldn't. Instead, she held his leg steady as Bishop cut through the last of the bandages, exposing the wound.

“She might just finish what she started. She's taken scalps,” Bishop said as he tossed the bandages into a stained pile. “Got a little infection. I'll clean it, but it'll burn.”

Fat Gut turned his head away, snorting. “Just hurry the hell up. Do it.”

“Never argue with a patient.”

By the fire, Fuller tossed Hector the rabbit. “Peel him,” he said before casting his eye back on White Fox, as she wiped a surgeon's blade, laid it aside, and handed Bishop another.

Sometime, when Fuller wasn't watching, Fox had tied her hair tight behind her with a leather thong.

A feeling nudged Fuller: it was the bristling he felt when there was an enemy sniper close by, but couldn't be seen. During the war's last days, he'd climbed a tree to take position, and there had been a Reb, perched on a branch and hidden by leaves, loading a Sharps long-range rifle. He'd gotten him with the same Bowie he was using on Hector's rabbits. The Reb hadn't made a sound.

Now, that bristling was back, and White Fox was the reason. Fuller was ready for her move, prepared to shoulder his weapon. He said to Hector, “She talks English?”

“Better than me.”

Creed barked, “Fuller, you can't skin a jack faster than that? Boy, stop the jabber and get the meat on the fire!”

Hector said, “Yes, sir!” as he peeled the fur down the big one's legs to its belly, where it gathered in folds. Sniper Fuller ringed the next jack, cutting quickly, and a little deep, before grabbing the last one, its blood sticky between his fingers.

White Fox tore a shirt into clean strips, and Fuller whipped around at the sound. The bandages, scalpels, and Winchester were set out between her and Bishop, who was daubing Fat Gut's wound.

Creed barked, “Doctor, finish up your business!”

White Fox regarded the blind man shouting orders before saying, “
Exanomóhtá?
”

“Yes.”

Fat Gut winced. “What the hell's that?”

Bishop looked up from the arrow wound. “She asked, am I prepared?”

The scalpel was a flash from White Fox's hand into Blue Kerchief's throat, the blood-jet around the blade instant as Blue fell back, firing his pistol wild into the sky.

Bishop grabbed the Winchester in front of him, pumped it with his left hand, and blasted the next hired gun who was reaching. The slug sent him spiraling off his feet, his pistol not clearing his holster. He hit the ground red, calling for his ma.

Fox grabbed the scalpels, then busted Fat Gut's lower teeth with her heel, cracking his jaw sideways.

It all took less than a minute.

Fuller turned, swinging his rifle around on its strap, bringing the sight to his eye, just as Fox leapt on the back of her painted. Fuller thumbed the hammer. Easy kill shot.

Chaos exploded.

The painted reared wild, his head whipping from side-to-side, with Fox hanging on, turning the animal on Fuller. The horse's huge legs smashed Fuller square in the chest like two pistons, tossing the sniper clean off his feet, hard into Creed and Hector, shattering ribs, and Creed's dark glasses.

Screams and gunfire polluted the air.

One of Creed's men used Fat Gut for cover, blasting at Bishop and White Fox from behind Gut's huge belly, scorching his shirt. Gut screamed himself raw, as Bishop fired a single shot from the hip, missing Gut and hitting Creed's man between the eyes.

Bishop was in motion, didn't look twice at the dead.

He cooled the barrel of the Winchester in the snow, before using it to snag the handle of his kit on its sight. Gut's broken-teeth-screams never stopped as Bishop charged to Fox and the horses, the kit dangling from the rifle.

The painted chopped air with his legs, while Fox swung him around, kicking wild. Her weapon. A Creed man opened up with a revolver, and the painted bucked at him, shattering his arm to nothing. He went down shooting and screaming.

Captain Creed shouted blind: “The prisoners! Report! Goddamn you!”

Bishop yanked at Pride's saddlebags, grabbing for the shotgun rig. A slug ripped past his ear.

Fuller struggled to his feet, reaching his rifle.

White Fox called above it all, “
Asêsta'xêstse!
”

Bishop leapt onto Creed's Pride, just as White Fox and the painted bolted. Both animals ran for the open snow, the prisoners tight on their backs.

Creed's voice strained, “Shoot them, goddamn it!”

Hector had his pistol raised, both hands shaking. “I—I can't shoot her!”

“I sure as hell can!”

Fuller's words stretched into a howl as he brought up his rifle, pressing against one of his busted ribs. He steadied on his target, and fired. The hammer dropped, and the ball ripped from the Morgan-James in a spit of flame. Fuller's jaw clenched at the recoil, fighting the pain of the weapon slamming back into him.

The targets kept moving.

Captain Creed stood, hands deep in his pockets, listening for a scream. What he heard was the sniper's shot echo and die, above the cries of his own men.

 

 

A river and half a mountain away, on a trail that was little more than a finger poking through a frozen hillside, Lem and Chaney ate the last bit of their beans and jerky supper, while Howard shuffled a poker deck with massive fingers. Beaudine watched, drinking thick coffee.

Chaney said, “Look at the top card.”

Howard turned over the four of clubs. “Shit.”

“That's your card?”

“How'd you do that?”

Chaney took back the deck. “I can do it as many times as I want. That's my business.”

Howard lunged, grabbing Chaney by the lapels. “You're cheatin' me!”

Lem eased the giant back. “How can he be cheating you when there's no money bet? You didn't lose nothing!”

Howard settled back, wiping the sweat from his face.

Beaudine threw the last bit of coffee into the fire. “When you go into battle, you better bring more than card tricks.”

“I got more.” Chaney spit out a chunk of hard gristle, and then drank deep from his canteen. Deadeye Lem laughed without making a sound.

Howard said, “I guess this ain't your style, is it?”

Chaney coughed. “I've done my time on the trail, but we're supposed to be eating better than this. Isn't that what you said?”

Beaudine took the long cleaver and a small wooden box from behind his saddle, and sat by the fire. He looked at Chaney as he opened the box, removing a Carborundum sharpening stone, and began running it against the cleaver blade. The sound of the stone against metal seemed to be Beaudine's answer.

Lem said, “You can't ask questions like that, gambler. You have to have faith, like the next card you draw is the one that gives you the winning hand. Only you can't cheat.”

Howard snorted. “Winning hand. That's almost funny.”

Beaudine didn't stop sharpening. “The troops are always impatient before the attack.”

Chaney said, “We're not a troop. I've never been in any army, and they say you haven't neither.”

Beaudine kept sharpening. “We were all denied that glory, but we won't be denied this. Chaney, if you're not a coward—”

“Coward has nothing to do with it.”

“If you're not a coward, when we find that Bishop gold, you'll eat like a king for the rest of your life, however long it lasts.”