Shotgun Riders

by Orrin Russell

  Folks in the street came out of their crouches. They stepped forward, Balum along with them. When Joe took a few paces forward and flung Caleb’s knife in a soft arc across the street, the murmuring began. It landed at Long Fingers’ feet. He looked down at it and back up at Joe, who’d unsheathed his own blade from its scabbard.

  “You’re armed now,” said Joe.

  From where Balum stood he could see Long Fingers’ eyes dart around. The man was considering something. Weighing his options. To Balum it was clear; there was no escaping this fight. Long Fingers could turn and run, but Joe would catch him before he reached the end of the block. As if reading Balum’s mind, Long Fingers reached down and grasped the knife.

  “I’m gonna give you a taste of what you gave me, you red-skinned cunt!” snarled Long Fingers.

  The two stepped toward each other, closing the gap until only a few feet separated them. Long Fingers lunged forward in a stab, but Joe hopped out of reach. Long Fingers made another go of it, the stringy hair by his ears waving as he did so, but again his blade missed Joe. They circled, each man's knees slightly bent, their free arms raised in counterbalance. Again Long Fingers struck, this time in a hacking motion as if he were swinging an ax. Joe swerved like a dancer, his own blade answering in a flash that swept across Long Fingers’ arm. When they separated again, a dark stain was growing on Long Fingers’ sleeve. He looked at it, then at Joe.

  “I’m going to kill you,” he said. “You hear that? I’ll cut your goddamn liver out.”

  Even as Long Fingers said it, Joe was closing in. He feinted, waited for his scalped opponent to react, then darted in and thrust the blade an inch into Long Fingers’ shoulder. He made two more quick jabs before leaping back again, and a hum rose up from the onlookers. Blood ran from Long Fingers’ chest and shoulders and arm. The man held his blade a bit lower, his arm tiring. He swung and missed, swung again. At each attack Joe evaded like he was made of wind. Long Fingers’ knife seemed to miss only by inches. Exasperated and exhausted, the man stabbed forward and Joe swatted the arm aside and crossed him, drawing the knife across Long Fingers’ belly as he did so. The move looked like something seen at a barn dance, only one of the dancers was bleeding from the belly and his face had gone white.

  Again the crowd buzzed. Long Fingers was bent in a strange-looking cower. The citizens of Cumberland knew they were looking at a deadman.

  Long Fingers held the curved blade out from his body like it was some sacred amulet that might keep Joe away. He clutched his free arm across his belly and spun in the dirt as Joe circled. With one last desperate effort Long Fingers pounced. He drove the blade at Joe’s torso, but like a bullfighter playing with a wounded beast, Joe stepped aside. He grabbed Long Fingers’ arm and curled around him, embracing him from behind in a pose reminiscent of how two lovers might stand at a ship’s bow to overlook the sea. Such similarity was broken, however, when Joe thrust his knife through Long Finger’s chest. The blade entered at an angle through the man’s ribs, and long Fingers dropped his chin in awe of the hilt sticking out from his chest, Joe’s hand gripped over it and covered in blood.

  Joe held him for a moment, clasped tightly against him. Long Fingers’ eyes rolled in their sockets. His mouth opened for a breath that never came. When Joe dropped him he fell to the dirt and lied there motionless.

  Over a hundred eyes were watching. No one moved. They watched Joe wipe the blade clean on Long Fingers’ pant leg, then slide the knife from the dead man’s hand and crunch back over the broken glass to where Caleb stood. The only eyes that failed to follow his movements were Long Fingers’. They stared unblinking at the sun. Nothing moved but his hair. Not a finger, an eyeball, or a boot toe. Just a few wisps of hair waving silently around the grotesque scab of wrinkled skin that was his headpiece.

  17

  It took Balum all of three seconds to decide which of the two menu items he’d be having. He ordered the steak and grits along with a beer to wash it all down, then sat back as Joe and Caleb did the same.

  The three were hungry. They’d arrived to town hungry, and after the knife fight they’d spent another two hours outside the sheriff’s office going over the events that had led up to it all. Endless witnesses had come forward to corroborate the facts-- half the town had seen it play out. Still, the sheriff was thorough in regard to every detail. By the time they were finished, evening had fallen.

  They’d chosen a restaurant close to the hotel and taken seats with their backs against a wall where their eyes could keep tabs on the only entrance. The waiter had just stepped away from their table when Charlise and Cynthia sauntered in.

  The women’s entrance caused a stir. They wore nearly identical evening dresses, spaghetti straps straining to hold the weight of their luscious chests. The amount of skin showing was more than certain burlesque shows allowed, but none of the waiters or cooks or any of the male patrons uttered a word of disapproval. The few women seated in the restaurant did, but Charlise and Cynthia walked by them without seeming to care. They stopped in front of Balum’s table where the three men rose in gentlemanly fashion to greet them.

  “Charlise, Cynthia, meet Joe and Caleb.” Balum couldn’t help but smile at his friends’ reactions. They tried their damnedest to keep their eyes from wandering down to the soft cleavages. Instead they took the hands offered them and made awkward bows accompanied by words of unusually gallant salutation. Two chairs remained unoccupied. Balum invited the girls to join them.

  “We heard all about the fight today,” Cynthia said, running her eyes over Joe. “Are you hurt at all?”

  “I made it out alright.”

  “People are saying he unloaded his gun on you!’

  Joe swallowed. Balum swore he could see the man blushing.

  “He did,” said Joe. “I heard Balum shout and I dropped just as the first bullet sliced through the spot where I was standing. He shot up the ice cream parlor but no one got hurt.”

  “‘Cept that fool cracker,” said Caleb. “Balum said you could handle a knife, but I ain’t never seen a man fight like that.”

  “Well we’re glad you’re all okay,” said Charlise with a smile and a long look at Balum. “Cynthia and I will feel so much safer with all three of you on the stage with us.”

  Joe and Caleb looked at each other, then at Balum. Before any explanation could be given, the waiter stopped at their table with three steaks and three beers. Charlise and Cynthia put in an order. When the waiter left, Charlise asked what time they should be ready to leave in the morning.

  “Ah…” Balum had forgotten about the favor she’d mentioned earlier. He looked at the foam sitting on his beer and took a sip to buy time.

  “What's all this now?” said Caleb.

  “Has Balum not told you?” said Charlise.

  “Balum ain’t said nothing.”

  “He’s agreed to give us a ride to Inglewood. It’s only a few days down the road, but still, it’s so gracious of you all for helping,” Cynthia gave Caleb a flirtatious smile. She knew how far her charms could reach.

  “I never said yes to that,” Balum set the beer down. “You asked, and I never answered.”

  “Balum, honey, Cynthia and I can’t stay here in Cumberland any more. My deadbeat husband will be back in less than two weeks, and Cynthia and I want to be far gone. The train runs through Inglewood and we aim to be on it. Your stage is going to take us there.”

  “Well…” Balum began to make a show of deliberation, but he knew what his answer would be. He wasn’t the type of man to refuse a favor to women like these.

  “It’s too dangerous,” interjected Joe with a shake of his head.

  “Because of your prisoner?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But he’s all chained up, isn’t he?”

  “It’s not so much Buford, it’s his brothers. There’s five of them trailing us and they can attack at any moment, day or night.”

  “We know all about his brothers,” said Cynthia.
“We’re not worried. How could we be, with you strapping young men protecting us?” She gave them another smile, a little wiggle of her chest that brought all three men’s eyes to it. “Please,” she cooed.

  “Ya’ll is mighty charming,” said Caleb, “but there ain’t no way.”

  “Oh come now,” Cynthia placed a hand on Caleb’s arm. Balum held back a laugh watching his friend’s eyes widen and his arguments melt away.

  Still, Caleb fought to stick with the only sensible answer. “I’m sorry ma’am,” he said. “There’s just no way. Right, Joe?”

  “Like I said, it’s too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous or not, we’re coming with. You can’t refuse us a ride after we saved your life.”

  Joe tilted his head. He looked from Charlise to Balum.

  “She’s right,” said Balum. “It was Charlise and Cynthia that warned me about Long Fingers. They overheard the Bell brothers hire him. If these two hadn’t told me I’d have never been there to shout your name. You wouldn’t have dropped, and Long Fingers’ first shot would’ve nailed you with your mouth full of ice cream.”

  Cynthia leaned forward. “Now wouldn’t that have been horrible?”

  “Indeed,” said Joe. He took a slow sip of beer, his arguments gone.

  “So,” said Charlise. “I assume you’ll want to get an early start? Cynthia and I will have our bags packed and ready at sunup.”

  18

  Connor Bell couldn’t sleep. He lay on his back in the grass beside a dead campfire, pinching the wad of eighty dollars in his pocket and feeling no consolation from its touch. He would much rather have given it to Long Fingers. But instead of killing Balum and Joe, the would-be killer turned out to be a reckless shot.

  Connor had seen the whole thing go down. He’d been standing in a shadowed alleyway with his brothers. Up until Balum had shouted Joe’s name he’d felt a good degree of confidence in his hired gun. The man had drawn his revolver, the distance not more than twenty paces, when suddenly it had all fallen apart. At the memory of Joe wielding his knife, Connor shivered in the grass. For the hundredth time he relived the details, wondering again if he’d made the right decision.

  He could have drawn his weapons and shot Joe. Shot Balum. His brothers would have unloaded, they would not have missed. But in that crowd of onlookers they would never have gotten away. Cumberland was too big. It had a sheriff and two deputies and plenty of men standing around strapped with weaponry and not afraid to use it.

  He told himself he’d made the right decision but it didn’t ease his mind. While his brothers snored around him, he went over his options. They could use the eighty dollars to buy a long-range rifle. Maybe a Spencer like Balum had. Yet even as he thought it, he discarded the idea. All he needed was to miss by a few feet and he’d risk hitting Buford. They never roamed far from him.

  He could hire another gunman. But he’d been down that road and it left a bad feeling in his gut. He considered again attacking at night, blowing Buford out of jail with dynamite, even stampeding cattle through Balum’s camp, but none of those options seemed rational. Nothing would work. He was desperate. He didn’t even like the risk of going into towns after Balum had shown up, for the sheriffs would be on high alert. He’d risked it in Cumberland and didn’t feel like doing it again. He could ride into towns before Balum reached them, but what good did that do?

  Suddenly he sat up. He crossed his legs and blinked. “Donny,” he slapped at his brother’s foot. “Delmar, Floyd, John Boy, wake up. Go on now, get up.”

  In fits of obscenity they roused themselves. They sat upright with displeasure written like calligraphy across their faces, but in the dark Connor hardly saw it.

  “What the hell, Connor?” said Delmar. “I was sleeping.”

  “Shut up and listen. I got a plan, and it’s good.”

  “Hope it’s better than the last one,” said Donny.

  “You want a black eye? Cause I’ll give you one. Now listen here. Balum’s making stops in every town he gets to. He sets Buford up in jail with the local sheriff and spends the night drinking and gambling and sleeping in fancy hotels.”

  “We know that,” said Floyd.

  “Exactly. We know his routine.”

  “That don’t change nothing,” said Floyd. “Once he gets to town we can’t do much. The sheriff’s always watching, deputies is watching, hell, the whole town gets the message.”

  “That’s after he gets to town. But before-- well, don’t nobody care much when we stroll in.”

  “Why you waking us up to tell us that?” said John Boy. “You got a plan or don’t you?”

  “The plan, John Boy, is to be waiting for him. We take care of the sheriff before Balum gets to him.”

  “You mean kill the sheriff?”

  “Kill him, tie him up, whatever. Just get him out of the picture.”

  “Balum ain’t gonna turn Buford over to an empty jail. There needs to be a sheriff.”

  “There will be.”

  “Who?”

  Connor pointed a finger at John Boy. “You.”

  “Me?”

  “That’s right. They only seen your face once, and that was when they arrested us at the Ranch. But that was mostly that son-of-a-bitch Pete Cafferty-- Balum and Joe hardly got a look. Plus it was dark out. And that nigger ridding with ‘em still ain’t got a good look at any of us.”

  “That ain’t no plan,” said John Boy.

  “The hell it ain’t. If we get you in that jailhouse with a star on your chest, Balum’ll hand Buford right over to you. Come midnight when they’re all asleep in their hotel you just walk him out.”

  “Why me?”

  “Cause you look the least like the rest of us. You got Uncle Buck’s genes more than ma or pa.”

  John Boy shook his head. “This plan is dumb as a coon’s ass.”

  “I like it,” said Delmar.

  “I think it sounds good,” said Floyd.

  “Me too,” added Donny.

  “Ya’ll are gonna get me shot.”

  “Just use that quick draw you been bragging on if Balum tries to shoot you,” said Donny.

  The four brothers cackled in the dark. Connor stretched out over the grass and smiled on imagining the look on Buford’s face when he showed up to the jail and found John Boy waiting. This was a damn good plan if there ever was one. He closed his eyes, and soon the soft buzzing of katydids lulled him off to sleep.

  Clouds gathered all the next day. They arrived at first light in the form of fog, armed with a strength that proved unbreakable. By noon they’d gathered into a thick mattress that floated above the plains. When evening came and still it had not rained, Connor considered it a form of miracle. He slept that night expecting to wake in a fury of storm. Instead he woke to more clouds.

  Four days later the clouds had blotted out the sun. The Bell brothers rode beneath columns of ashen sky without their usual senseless banter, for what stirred above them seemed some fabled prophecy to which they were the sole witnesses. They stared skyward to watch it churn upon itself, and under cover of that gathering tempest they clopped into Inglewood; a town without color or beauty or any remarkable quality about it save for the twin silver rails laid out across the plains. They extended out to the horizon where they disappeared into the low-slung clouds. Gray sky, gray tracks, all of it merging into a hazy distance.

  Though the rain had not come, the wind had. It whipped the horses’ manes from side to side. As if struggling against some invisible force, the Bell brothers leaned forward until the flinging horse hair nearly stung their faces.

  In the streets roamed more dogs that humans, snarling and snapping in display of canine barbarity. They paused briefly to watch the five riders clop down the dirt lane. When their inspection ended they returned to their own devices.

  Above the jailhouse door the wind had pried the sign loose. One end clung to the paneling by a few stubborn nails while the other smacked against the outer wall with each new burst of wi
nd. Connor reined his horse in and scowled up at the thwacking sound of wood on wood. He twisted in the saddle and gave each of his brothers a look in the eye, then dismounted and looped the reins over the hitch post.

  In the squall of wind, their movements were soundless. The fall of Connor’s own boots on the steps leading to the jail could not reach his ears. Nor could his brothers’. Not the clomp of their bootheels, the swish of their guns pulled from their holsters, or the sharp metallic clicks of hammers cocking back.

  At the door Connor paused. The wind provided cover, the streets were half empty. Still, a barrage of gunfire would cut through the wind. It would draw attention, people would come running from wherever they were hidden. He pulled his brothers close. “We’ll shoot him if we have to, but it’ll draw folks in. Let’s see if we can’t tie him up and get him out of here quiet-like.”

  When he got a nod of affirmation from each brother he put a shoulder to the door and swung it open. He hadn’t known what to expect-- one man or two, big or small, weak or strong. Though he’d just told his brothers not to use their guns, he knew at the first sign of a legitimate adversary he would simply shoot. When he burst into the small jail office and came face to face with a tired old man running a broom over the boards, Connor grinned. He took a quick step forward and struck the man across the temple with the revolver.

  The broom fell, the old timer fell with it. He landed on his back with the six-pointed badge wobbling on his shirtfront. Immediately Connor stepped over him and gave him another blow at the first bit of movement. The sheriff’s head clunked back down on the freshly swept floor, and Connor rose up, still grinning.

  “You see that, boys? Easy as stealing a sweet potato. Let’s tie this old fart up and get him out of here. Delmar, go get some rope.”

  Delmar stepped into the howling wind. In a moment was back with a length of rope they’d stolen from Otis Johnson’s place. He held a rag in his hand, another piece of booty they’d thieved from the old rancher’s house. “I thought we’d stick this in his mouth,” he said.