Shotgun

by Courtney Joyner

  One of them said, “It’s too damn early to be dealin’ with a fool.”

  Chaney didn’t take a step. “I bet I can kill at least two of you before you take me.”

  The same rider said, “No need for that. We was told there was work here.”

  Chaney didn’t flinch. “The mine’s played out.”

  The other riders aimed their guns so all shots would pound into Chaney’s chest in the same spot. “We didn’t come here to dig no silver.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

  Lem Wright stepped from behind the caved-in shack, a Winchester on his shoulder, and threw a smirk at Chaney. “Who’d you borrow your iron balls from, son?”

  The riders gut-laughed as Lem shook their hands before turning to Chaney, who had holstered his gun. “These are the extra boys Beaudine said he needed.” Lem shook hands with his old buddy in front. “Who passed you the word?”

  Lem’s buddy said, “Old Kirby. Had a wagonload of stolen dynamite, said you got some of it and could cut us in on something big.”

  “Did you leave him under the grass?”

  “Nope. And didn’t rob him neither, to thank him for the tip. He’ll be easy to find if this don’t work out.”

  Chaney barked, “Well, how are we knowing they’re not the law?”

  Lem turned and threw his dead eye at Chaney. “What?”

  Howard and Beaudine were standing by the mine’s old cross braces, Howard holding Betsy and Beaudine with a rifle aimed from the hip. He punched his words with the sound of the repeater being cocked. “The boy asked a question, and it was a good one.”

  Lem pointed to his friend. “I did a hard-labor stretch in Arkansas with this jaybird, and I damn well know he didn’t go straight.”

  Lem’s buddy flashed yellow ’n’ green teeth. “I think I’ve killed three or four since I saw you last, Lem. And these boys, well, they ain’t got nothing to lose.”

  “That’s a meaningful endorsement.” Beaudine let the repeater drop. “Coffee’s on the boil. I’ll let you in on the plan of battle, and what’s expected of each of you.”

  One of the new boys said, “We expect pay, brother.”

  “Not your brother, and there’s money to be had.”

  The riders stepped down from their horses, chortling as they passed Chaney.

  Beaudine said, “There will be a man with one arm, and a little Cheyenne girl with him.”

  Lem’s buddy said, “What are we gonna do for the rest of the day?”

  Chaney wasn’t impressed. “This ain’t going to be a hog killin’.”

  “Go boil your shirt.”

  Howard let go with a whistle-snort, then blew his nose on his sleeve. Lem handed Chaney a set of reins. “Don’t get worked up again. These ponies have to get out of sight.”

  Chaney grabbed another mount when Lem prodded, “Now, where’d you say your new balls came from?”

  Chaney flicked his gold tooth. “Guess I’m finally tasting the gold.”

  “And you’re not keen on shares.”

  Chaney didn’t add another word.

  The trail White Fox and Bishop followed had been hard-beaten into the earth by the weight of wagons loaded with miners and silver, pulled through the rough by a convoy of steam tractors. The man and machine traffic that had travelled here, before the Goodwill was pronounced dead, had left deep scars the Rockies could never heal. A constant, bitter cold and whip-harsh wind, strangled any hope of plants reclaiming the place, and what trees there were had been cut and left to rot into grey nothing.

  Snow dusted the blank morning sky.

  “Naévêháne.”

  White Fox nodded. “You’re learning. Yes, it feels like death. And you?”

  Bishop absently placed his left hand on the shotgun rig, his fingers sticking to the weapon’s cold metal before answering. “We’re riding into a massacre. This is how it should be.”

  “And death rides, with us.”

  “Creed used to say the same thing every time we went into battle. Win or lose, he was right.”

  The words settled. Bishop looked at her, waiting to see if Fox’s eyes would meet his to offer reassurance of their survival, but they didn’t. Fox wasn’t going to give a false promise, and that was right fine with Bishop, who watched her ride a few paces ahead, saddle heavy with bow, arrows, and blades.

  He kept the bay steady, his thoughts about what needed to be done for the memory of his wife and son; that was the bloody mission, though he knew well that Amaryllis would hate what he was doing. She had loved the doctor, not this assassin, and even though they both lived inside the same man, Amaryllis had never seen the latter. Only the good, only charity, found her eyes. That was her special gift.

  Bishop almost slipped back to those memories, the light notes of her voice even when she was being strong; a joke that she always told wrong, but that he loved. He forced those thoughts down, killing them. He had to.

  Bishop let the rig rest in its saddle sling, allowing him to relax his shoulder. His body was now serving the shotgun; the weapon had taken over, telling the healer what to do. And he wasn’t fighting the change.

  He and Fox rode farther, no words between them, before approaching the edge of the canyon that broke this side of the mountains in half. Fox eased the painted to a stop about twenty feet from the rough drop into the man-made opening, where she could see the bits of the braces and crumbling rooftops the Goodwill Company had built close to the edge.

  Bishop took a brass field telescope from his coat as he light-footed to a place where he could spy the area below. Fox was suddenly next to him, pointing to the tiny figures huddled around the damaged buildings, their low voices garbled into a common echo. Bishop held one end of the scope between his teeth, pulled it to its length, and brought the glass to his eye. Fox leaned over his shoulder, twisting the focus ring so he could make out the face of the man standing apart from the others, making sweeping motions with his arms.

  Through the lens, he watched as Beaudine gave orders to Chaney and other outlaws Bishop didn’t recognize. Howard, holding bundles of dynamite, barked silent instructions, walking around the perimeter of the mining camp, before tying charges off on an old mine support. Howard adjusted the charge, and nudged Lem, who looked up, facing Bishop directly, his good eye maybe catching a glint of light off the scope. Bishop pulled back, snapping the telescope shut.

  “He saw?”

  “Not sure. They’re not expecting us from here. They think we’ll be coming from the canyon entrance, as Creed’s prisoners. If they saw something, they don’t know what it is.”

  “Too many. Heómesto.”

  “Kate said it was a massacre. Creed thought he was getting paid, but they’re going to slaughter him, and then Beaudine planned to do God knows what with us.”

  Fox’s eyes met Bishop’s this time. “There is no Creed.”

  Before Bishop could even agree, Fox put her hand up for silence, cocking her head toward a sound that was distant, but rising. The first shreds were low and vague; the echo of a thousand trees falling together, miles away.

  Fox stood, turning toward an ice-scattered ridge that had a small pass worn into it. Bishop turned also, with the sound growing louder from the ridge, like a constant beating of huge drums, and then, there was the stretch of moving red.

  Men on horseback poured through the pass, nearly keeping shoulder to shoulder, their scarlet hoods and tunics forming a solid field of color that blew apart as they rode off in different directions. The thunder of running mounts pounded the air, becoming a roar as rider after rider followed, charging like a cavalry.

  Bishop and White Fox leapt onto the bay and painted.

  The Fire Riders circled wide, blocking the trail that led to the other side of the mountain. Others ran to flank the top of the canyon, drawing Prussian needle rifles from saddle scabbards and Colts from holsters. The guns were new, polished. Others swung knives, clubs, and axes. Strips of red cloth had been braided into thei
r horses’ tails and manes, so it looked as if flames were bursting from their bodies, while their heads had been painted silver-white, like bleached skulls.

  Even in the light of morning, they were demonic.

  Bishop and Fox pushed their horses fast along the broken rim of the drop-off, the rocky edge turning to gravel under their hoofs, as they angled toward a small grade leading to the canyon’s mouth.

  A patrol of Riders gave chase, shooting wild.

  Their first shots were a miss, but another ricocheted off the barrel of the shotgun rig, sparking hot, nearly throwing Bishop from his saddle. Bishop swung the bay around and drew his Peacemaker, firing four times with his left and hitting two of the Riders chest-center. Red sprayed beyond their crimson tunics.

  Fox kept parallel to Bishop, running close. She drew an arrow, then swung around on her horse’s back, facing the Fire Rider closing in. She raised the bow, her muscled body compensating for the horse’s every motion, absorbing its rhythm, making her aim rock-steady.

  The Rider brought up a breach-loading Prussian rifle. She made her shot. It was clean, into the throat, pinning his hood to him. His scream was a muffled choke as he tumbled over his horse’s neck, the arrow snapping in two, before he dead-rolled off the edge of the canyon wall, smashing onto the roof of a Goodwill mine shack below; shattered wood, glass, and bone.

  The breach-loader never fired.

  Beaudine stepped from a cut in the canyon wall, the repeater in one hand, long cleaver in the other. “Everybody hold!”

  They all kept their positions, swearing.

  Lem jabbed a thumb toward the Fire Rider corpse sprawled in front of them. “That ain’t a Creed man! Look at him! What the hell do you call that getup? Beaudine!”

  “It’s what I said, what I told you.” Beaudine rubbed his temple, as if pushing his thoughts together, before barking, “War!”

  “With who? He’s got an arrow in him, for God’s sake!”

  Lem’s buddy perched low among the miner’s graves, with two of his gang, one of them just a kid. He shook his head, lit a cigarette. “Them two sound worse than my wife and her sister. One dead ain’t nothing. Let’s do this, get paid, go home.”

  Beaudine stepped back. “You’ve got—you’ve got your orders! I’ll tell you when to fire!”

  Lem’s buddy said, “Bullll-shit.”

  On the canyon rim, the Fire Riders called out commands, fragments of their voices echoing down to Beaudine’s men. Lem shielded his eyes, to see the troop of red-clad demons staking the edge, targeting the mine area, weapons ready.

  Lem said, “Sweet Mary, mother of us all,” to no one, and stood beside the silver shaft’s old cross braces, Peacemaker aimed, pockets filled with ammo, and a rifle beside him. He moved the rifle six inches closer, and said, “Seen that bunch? Still got your new balls?”

  Chaney heard Lem and threw back “Hell’s fire, yes,” while pressed against a broken-in door of the collapsed mine shed, his Colt at his side and another tucked in his waistband. Howard was the closest to the canyon entrance, protected by a huge slag heap opposite the shed. He had Betsy out of her leather, but was damn ready to throw the dynamite stacked at his elbow.

  Waiting. Ready.

  Above the canyon, Fox and Bishop pounded the trail to the sloping grade that led to the Goodwill road and the mine. They were running, keeping a lead in front of the Fire Riders, but the Riders were closing. One broke ahead, pushing a tall stallion, getting close to Fox, his horse and her painted almost colliding.

  The Rider fury-slashed with a cavalry saber. Fox dodged, but he cut, the blade slicing her shoulder, creating a bloody opening in her jacket and skin. She heel-kicked the Rider, cracking his knee. He howled through his red hood, twisting in agony. Fox pulled back on her painted, jerking the horse to slow his run, and getting out of the way of Bishop’s aim.

  Bishop’s shot was now clear.

  The Rider’s eyes panicked wide as the shotgun rig swung toward him. Rider slashed again, the saber bouncing off of Bishop’s saddle. One barrel of buckshot caught him solid in the side, tearing a good bit of him away. He hit the ground as a lifeless bag, his stallion still running.

  The other Riders, in formation, reacted and charged faster.

  Bishop and Fox broke hard down a small trail, the grade from the top of the canyon to the mine’s entrance road only yards away. Fox glanced over her wounded shoulder to see red demons taking positions with rifles and pistols.

  Bishop and Fox jumped a fallen log. The Riders leveled, shooting at them as a practiced one, a firing squad. Their guns flamed, the joined sound thundering across the flats, and bouncing against the canyon walls.

  The log blew apart, but the targets kept moving.

  A slug creased the side of Bishop’s neck. He ignored the burn, and angled the bay for the road. Fox got off an arrow, tearing a lead Rider through the gut. He stayed his horse, soaking red, while signaling the others to ride on.

  A battle cry erupted from the Riders.

  Fox called above them, “Mâhenot!”

  At the mine, Chaney cleared his head of all but the “gold reasons,” before stepping away from the cover of the shed, and shooting at the Fire Riders along the ridge above, aiming at everything. And nothing.

  Beaudine yelled, “I didn’t give the command!”

  Chaney emptied both pistols. “They’re gonna wipe us out!”

  The Riders returned fire, blasting calibers of all types from the backs of their running horses. Near impossible to hit, as they swept the mine with bullets. The dead buildings and dead ground ate the slugs, while Beaudine’s men leapt from their cover, firing back at what they could see. Quick shots, then ducking back.

  Beaudine cracked his repeater until it was empty.

  One of the new boys yelled to Lem, “Sweet Jesus on Sunday, what did you get us into?” before a .44 slug blew out his back, spinning him onto a slag heap. Smaller slugs tore him up as he lay still.

  The Fire Riders retreated from the canyon edge, reloaded, and started Hell again. Lem let it happen around him, bullets chewing the wall of the building where he was taking cover. He aimed carefully at them with his one eye, showing his hand, and killed three.

  Smoke and sound thickened the air, as Bishop and Fox reached the road to the mine, their horses plowing gravel. A single Fire Rider stood as sentry, blocking the road in the opposite direction—an easy kill to get off the mountain, and ride away.

  But that wasn’t their mission.

  The sentry moved to the middle of the road, but didn’t advance, his horse pawing at the ground. He watched them, a new Smith and Wesson .38 hidden in the sleeve of his red tunic.

  He saw Bishop breaching the shotgun rig, shuck the spent shells, and reload. He kept his hands tight on his gun, while Fox shouldered her bow and a sling of arrows, then took an ax from her belt and slipped her wrist through the leather thong on the end of its handle. Ready to throw.

  Fire Riders were charging down hard from the top of the canyon, raising more dust and noise, but Fox and Bishop didn’t bolt. Instead, they ignored their own wounds and shared a water bag with their horses. They did what they needed to do, never looking back at the Riders, or anything else.

  The red-hooded sentry said, “You’re damned to hell, Dr. Bishop,” lifted his hood, and spit.

  But they didn’t hear or see him. Fox and Bishop only regarded each other for a moment, hands just brushing, before they urged the bay and the painted into full runs, galloping for the Goodwill Mine, and Beaudine.

  Beaudine’s hands were clamped around his skull, pain bursting through him. He murdered his own scream by locking his jaws tight, so nothing could escape. His back was shielded by the canyon wall, and he was in a good position, still ready to fight Creed’s men, and take John Bishop as his prisoner. Still ready, but boiling inside his head. Boiling.

  He dropped to one knee, water from his canteen washing over him. Cooling down, letting him find his thoughts. This wasn’t the time to be lost,
to be unsure. He drew a deep breath, neatened his hair as an officer should, before standing again. He stepped around a decaying mine support, noting the placement of his men: behind the old mining office and land shack to the right, and the slag heap on the left.

  The pain behind his eyes eased, like a fever breaking.

  He’d ordered the Goodwill ringed with explosives, and it was. He’d reunited his company, and even though there had been a burst of insubordination, his men were up to the skirmishes ahead. He knew that, and that calmed him. The pain continued to subside.

  Beaudine knew he’d made a good plan, and could lead his men to victory, and allowed himself that satisfaction.

  His mind was clearing. Calm before battle.

  Beaudine saw Howard, his massive hand on Betsy, staring directly at him. Howard distinctly mouthed, Loco, with a twisted face and crossed eyes. Beaudine didn’t flare. He steadied his rifle at Howard, and held the long cleaver like a battle ax, but the coffin maker was already looking away, shaking his head.

  Beaudine reminded all, “We’re doing this for gold!”

  Howard gut-hollered, “Then where the hell is it?”

  “You’re forgetting yourself, soldier! I give the orders!”

  Howard lit a cheap cigar, inhaled deeply. “I should’ve stayed where I was. Hell—”

  Howard’s words were shot dead by a .44 slug ripping the slag heap, pieces of rock flying jagged. He ducked, as more bullets struck around him. He rolled to one side, and Betsy exploded in his hand toward the red shapes riding along the canyon rim, her voice .44 thunder.

  From his spot, Beaudine opened up with the repeater, laying fire on the enemy’s position above, covering for his men. Beaudine got off as many rounds as his hands allowed, taking down two Riders, screaming, “You’re outmanned! Come on down, and talk your surrender!”

  He fell back just as the enemy returned maximum fire, blowing away huge chunks of the support braces. Beaudine kept low, fitting more ammo into the rifle, singing, “Roll out the drums of war, let’s speak of things worth fighting for! Roll out the drums of war!”