Shotgun Riders

by Orrin Russell

  “You thought good,” said Connor. “Come on now, boys, be quick.”

  In a minute they had the sheriff tied up like a hog with the rag tucked between his teeth. He came back to consciousness while Connor was unpinning the badge.

  “You want another lick of this, old man?” said Connor, brandishing the gun again.

  The sheriff shook his head and closed his eyes.

  “John Boy,” said Connor. “Come over here.”

  John Boy stomped across the floor with his face in a pout. He stood still while Connor pinned the badge to his shirt, then looked down at it. “It ain’t gonna work.”

  “Not with you pouting like a damn fool, it ain’t. I’ll tell you what, we’ll go over it. You be the sheriff, I’ll be Balum. Delmar, you be Buford.”

  Donny and Floyd dragged the sheriff aside. Connor took Delmar by the arm and walked him into the center of the room. “Howdy, Sheriff. I got this prisoner here needs to be stuck in a cell for the night.”

  “Alright,” said John Boy. He stood with his hands slack against his thighs.

  “So here you go,” Connor shoved Delmar forward.

  John Boy took hold of an arm. “Now what?”

  “Put him in a damn cell, you nitwit.”

  “I ain’t got no keys.”

  “That’s them on the table there,” Connor pointed.

  John Boy trudged to the table. He snatched the keyring and walked to the single cell in back and fit one of the keys into the lock. He wiggled it, shook the bars, but nothing happened.

  “Try a different one,” said Connor. On the second try the door swung open. “See that? It’s that easy. You do just like we done here when Balum comes in. You hear me?”

  “What do I do if it works?”

  “It will work. No doubt in my mind. After Balum leaves you just sit here until it’s good and dark and the town is quiet. Then you let Buford out, steal him a horse, and meet us in that patch of cottonwoods west of town.”

  John Boy shrugged. The pout hadn't left his face.

  “And try to show some damn confidence. Wipe that look off your mug and look like a man. ‘Less you want to get shot.”

  In the street the dirt was popping in miniature craters as the first drops of rain began to bombard the town. Aside from the dogs in the street, the place looked deserted. Connor waved a hand. In a tight group they clomped over the boardwalk, carrying the sheriff in their arms like a deadman. They tossed him over a saddle and unlooped the reins and, in a pounding of hooves, raced out of town.

  Through wind and rain Floyd ran his horse up beside Connor and shouted. “Is John Boy gonna be alright?”

  “He’ll be fine!” Connor shouted back. He bowed his head to keep the rain from stinging his eyes. John Boy would be fine. Deep in his belly though, the acid had started to boil. He clamped his heels against the horse’s ribs and repeated his words to himself. He’ll be fine.

  19

  Before loading Buford onto the stage outside the Cumberland jail, Balum turned him around with a hand at his shoulder and looked him hard in the eye. “We’re going to have some company for a few days. You try anything foolish with them and I’ll give you that whipping you’ve been asking for.”

  Buford pursed his lips to spit in Balum’s face, but Balum saw it coming and shoved him back around from the shoulder. He slammed the stage door closed and threw the bolt and set the lock. Through the window Buford spat again, but Balum stepped out of reach.

  At the hotel Joe pulled up the team of horses. Charlise and Cynthia stood on the boardwalk with their valises beside them. They wore bonnets and gloves, their hair freshly washed. As Balum climbed down from the driving bench he wondered if either of the two owned a single stitch of clothing that didn’t show half their breasts to the world.

  “Good morning, Balum,” Charlise greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. “It looks like rain coming.”

  Balum glanced at the bloated clouds. “You won’t get wet inside.” He offered a hand, which she took, and helped her into the stage.

  “Are these bullet holes?” she asked.

  The stage was littered with them. From top to bottom were holes and splintered bits of wood. That first attack by the Bell brothers had torn it up something fierce.

  “We warned you it’d be dangerous. You still want to go?”

  “Of course. Come on Cynthia, let’s go.”

  When they’d taken their seats Balum stepped aside to make room for Caleb heaving the valises onto the roof.

  “We turning this stagecoach into a damn slut wagon?” said Buford. He belched and laughed, and Balum reached past Caleb and pulled Buford from the seat by the collar. He planted his knuckles on Buford’s mouth. The man’s head snapped back. His laughing stopped, and he pushed his eyebrows together in a frown.

  “Any complaints from these two and the rag is going in,” said Balum. He wiped his knuckles on his pants. A thin streak of blood came off. He shut the door and bolted it once more. On top of the driving bench he felt the looks coming from Joe and Caleb. Finally he threw his hands up. “Hey,” he said. “They saved your life. Besides, it’s only a few days. Nothing can go wrong.”

  A few bystanders stood watching them go. Among them counted the veteran. The legs of his trousers had been cut off and tied where his legs ended, and on these stumps he propped himself up with an arm behind him, his head waist-level to those around him. Balum searched his pockets until he came up with a gold piece. He pointed at the veteran and nodded, then flipped the coin through the air. The veteran plucked it from its trajectory like he was catching a fly in his hand. He gave Balum a nod in return, stuffed the coin into his army jacket, then turned and swung himself over the boardwalk using his arms as extended crutches, and disappeared through a saloon door as the stage rolled out of Cumberland.

  From the stage roof Balum pulled out slickers. They’d had little cause to use them since leaving Denver, but the sky from one side of the earth to the other was gray and heavy with clouds. He tossed one to Caleb and handed another to Joe, then slung his arms through the sleeves and waited for the rain to come.

  He waited all morning, expecting the sky to open any minute, but it never did. When they stopped that afternoon to water the horses at a creekbed, Balum assisted the two women down with a proffered hand and asked them if Buford was behaving himself.

  “He won’t stop looking at us,” said Cynthia.

  Balum wasn’t surprised. But if all Buford was going to do was look, it would be a simple few days.

  “He stinks,” said Charlise.

  “I can throw him in the creek if you’d like,” said Balum.

  “I doubt that would do much good. He’d probably come out smelling like a wet dog.”

  They had a laugh, the three of them, and when Balum caught Joe and Caleb exchanging looks, he grabbed up the empty canteens and walked to the creek to fill them. Joe and Caleb were watering the team. They’d unhitched them and led them to water, each man quick and sure in his actions. Balum knew what that look meant. He reminded himself that work came before women. He wouldn’t allow his chores to be taken up by others. Each man had a weight to pull, and he’d be damned if he made his friends pull his load for him while he giggled with the ladies.

  When they made camp that evening it was on the open plain. They chose the spot of highest ground and staked the canvas up on poles, then stepped back to look at it.

  “That ain’t gonna do shit,” said Buford. “We’re gonna get soaked.”

  “Especially you,” answered Caleb. “Ain’t no room for all of us underneath there. First one gets kicked out is the one smells like a muskrat.”

  “Let me out of these chains, damn you,” shouted Buford. “I’ll show you how to talk to a white man.”

  “You keep asking for that whupping, I’ll give it to you.”

  “Just give me the chance,” said Buford.

  “I’m not going to listen to this all night,” said Balum. “Let’s get that rag in his mouth.”r />
  They gagged him and tied him in rope and secured the rope to the stage wheel. With Buford taken care of, Balum lugged out the three hundred feet of wire along with the tin cans filled with pebbles and strung them out around the camp perimeter. They built no fire, as was their custom at night. With the Bell brothers around they couldn’t risk it. Camp needed to be dark. With the clouds hanging low, the night was black as a crow’s wing.

  Balum took first watch. He sat cross-legged on the ground with the Dragoon over his lap and fought to keep his mind on the surrounding countryside. His eyes could make out nothing. In place of sight drifted visions of Charlise and Cynthia. He saw their lips, their eyes, their plump breasts squished together and bouncing at each step. They slept not thirty paces away, and all Balum could think of was how much he wanted to creep over to them, strip their clothing off, and smother himself in their warm flesh.

  Instead he held the cold metal of the Dragoon and stared into the darkness. Not a single star shone through the cloud cover. Not the moon either. To judge time without such clues was by and large a matter of guesswork. He passed the time listening to the night and waiting for rain, and when there was no doubt left that his shift was over, he rose and walked to the canvas lean-to and woke Joe.

  They switched places without speaking. The ground where Joe had been sleeping was still warm. As comfortable as it was, Balum found it hard to sleep. Charlise and Cynthia were now only a few feet from him-- so close that, if he tried hard, he could smell them. The more he thought of them, the more aroused he became. But Caleb was just as close. Neither was Buford far off, and Joe not more than a stone’s throw.

  Under these realities he forced his eyes closed. He rolled to his side with his back facing the women, and by some gift of fortune found his way to sleep.

  The sun rose behind a bank of clouds so thick that only a dull shade of light seeped through. While Balum unstrung the wire, Joe and Caleb hurried to make fire, certain that any minute the sky would unleash its flood. They set a pot to boil. Strips of bacon, eggs bought from a store in Cumberland. After the coffee was brewed they drank it down in hot gulps and resumed their places.

  For all Balum’s years spent under the open sky, rarely had he seen thunderclouds build to such depths without releasing their hold of water. They took on strange billowing shapes, rolling onto one another in dense compressions of gray matter. Long before sundown, the visibility had shrunk so much they were forced to make camp. Again they strung the wire, tied Buford, pitched the canvas into a lean-to. Again Balum found it hard to sleep. When Caleb woke him for the second shift, he felt he’d only just closed his eyes.

  At noon the day following, the clouds began to rumble. They started in low, far-off groans, edging closer with cracks and sharp bites of ruckus, and when Joe pulled up on the reins to give the horses a rest and a moment to nibble at the parched grass, the entire party craned their necks back to behold the froth churning above them.

  Cynthia was first to look away. “I don’t want to get back in that stage,” she said.

  Balum looked from her to Buford. “Is he bothering you?”

  “He keeps looking at me.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  “Well I don’t like it. Can I ride up top with you?”

  Balum hesitated. “There’s not much room up there with me and Joe. Besides, we should reach Inglewood by evening.”

  “I wouldn’t mind taking a break from the reins,” said Joe. “Besides, this rain is about to hit. It won’t hold off any more.”

  “You fixing to get in the stage?” asked Caleb.

  “It’d suit me alright.”

  “I ain’t in no mood to get wet neither,” said Caleb.

  “See?” said Cynthia, beaming. “Plenty of room.”

  Balum looked at the group. It was a bad idea, he knew it, but he also knew he wasn’t cut out to refuse a girl a ride next to him. Not one looking like Cynthia anyway. “I don’t know,” he said, making a sorry attempt at devil’s advocate. “No one’ll be riding shotgun.”

  “Ain’t no one around for miles,” said Caleb. “Only thing you need to watch out for is the rocks.”

  It was true. Despite the gloom, the land was flat and mostly treeless. If the Bell brothers showed up Balum would spot them ten miles out. All that stood out on the ground was parched brown grass and jumbles of rock. They had begun to stick up from the soil the day before, small stones at first, wide jagged boulders as the stage rolled southward. The path Joe threaded through them was an intricate pattern of zigs and zags.

  “We about to find out how good you drive,” Caleb raised his eyebrows. He was tying the lead rope of his horse to the thoroughbrace. After he gave it a jerk to test it he raised a teasing finger at Cynthia. “Don’t you go distracting him now. Ain’t none of us want to be bouncing around in back like tailor’s dummies.”

  Whatever protest was left in Balum, he quickly let it go. While Joe hitched the team back up, Balum and Caleb ushered Buford back into the stage. Charlise followed. She hiked her dress as she boarded, revealing a derringer strapped to her calf. Balum made no mention of it. For the floozy that she was, she was also no push over. Balum had no doubt that she’d put a bullet through Buford’s face if she found herself under attack. After Caleb and Joe had taken their seats he closed the door without bothering to lock it, then climbed aboard the driving bench.

  Cynthia was already seated. She’d taken Balum’s usual spot, and when he took up the reins and looped his fingers through the leather, she gave him a smile that made his blood thicken.

  After the first mile Balum commended himself on his driving. The wind had begun to howl, thunder cracked in recurrent bursts that made the horses jerk in response, and all the while Cynthia was chatting beside him with a thousand questions the way women will when flirting with a man. She scooted along the bench and now sat close enough that her leg bumped his as the stage wobbled over bumpy ground.

  Balum found his eyes leaving the trail and turning every so often to take her in. Her lips were soft and red, her hair like silk. With every bounce of the stage the tops of her breasts would shake in their corset. His peeks into her cleavage lasted longer each time until finally he let the horses drift onto rocky ground. The stage wheels clunked over rocks. The undercarriage jarred, and Balum and Cynthia took a hard bounce on the bench.

  “Balum!” Cynthia squealed. “Watch where you’re going!”

  Balum pulled the team hard to the right, back onto grassy terrain.

  “Your eyes keep wandering,” she chided him.

  “It’s hard not to take a peek,” he looked her in the eye, then tilted his head slightly to admire her jiggling tits. He’d seen them more than once before in their entirety. The memory gave his face a flush.

  “You’re naughty,” she slapped his arm.

  “I think both of us are.”

  “Not me,” she said as her knee bumped against him.

  Balum unlaced one of the reins from his fingers. He stretched an arm around Cynthia’s back. He squeezed her against him and reached around her chest to cup one of her massive breasts in his hand. He gave a squeeze and she squealed again and slapped his leg.

  “You’re so bad,” she said. “You’re supposed to be driving.”

  “I am driving.”

  “You need to keep both hands on the reins.”

  “One hand seems to do alright.” He gave her breast another squeeze, pulling her against him at the same time. She let herself be fondled a moment, smiling coyly, until the stage hit another rock.

  Balum whipped his arms back around and grabbed the fallen rein. Again he steered the horses back to flat ground.

  From the stage interior Caleb shouted, “Hey Balum, what the hell?”

  “A little rocky ground is all,” Balum shouted back.

  “See?” said Cynthia.

  Balum let out an exhale. His head felt foggy. The soft give of Cynthia’s tit in his hand stayed with him, along with the solid erection in his pan
ts. He wanted to throw the reins aside and grab the girl beside him in both arms. Another few hours like this would be torture.

  As if reading his mind, Cynthia leaned her lips alongside his ear. “You won’t be able to drive like this,” she said.

  “No,” he agreed.

  “Maybe I can help.” She slid her hand along his thigh up to his crotch. Her fingers worked at his belt buckle. In a move faster than he would have believed possible she had his cock in her hands and was running her gloved hand along the length of it.

  Balum scanned the horizon. His heart hammered against his ribcage. He shifted around and stole a look over the wagon top, but all he saw was brown grass and rocks and an endless gray sky above. Wherever the Bell brothers were, they weren’t anywhere close.

  Cynthia bent across his leg. She stuck her tongue out and licked the tip of his cock. With her head tilted sideways she looked at him, smiling, then turned back to his massive erection and swallowed it whole. It disappeared in her mouth and Balum gasped into the wind. He felt the tautness go from the reins. The only sensation left was the hot wetness of Cynthia’s mouth slurping the length of his dick. Her hair fell across his lap. With a free hand she pulled it aside so he could watch her lips run up and down, saliva glistening in their wake.

  Wham, a stage wheel struck a boulder. It climbed it, the stage tilting, and slammed back to the ground on another series of rocks.

  “Balum!” Joe’s shout came from inside the stage.

  “Hey what’s going on up there?” Caleb echoed him.

  “It’s alright,” Balum shouted back against the wind. But it wasn’t. He’d let both reins go and had instead grabbed the back of Cynthia’s head. He pumped with his hips, thrusting his cock into her mouth, a knot in his throat and thunderclaps cracking in his ears.

  A bolt of lightning flashed out of the gray. The accompanying crack struck like a shot from a gunbarrel, and the horses jerked and broke into a run. The stage careened over rocks. It tilted, floated, slammed down again. The braces whined in a painful stretch under the carriage.