Shotgun

by Courtney Joyner

  “I’ve seen your work. They still call you Vóhpóóhe?

  “She’s teaching you, right? Painted them symbols on the side of the place when she was a kid.”

  They both looked back at Fox, who remained buried in Poe’s words, never glancing up. Her father continued, “Before I ever married her mother, Crow warriors would come down, snoop around, and I gutted a few. That’s when the Cheyenne started with that White Claw. Had to get special permission from the chief for the wedding, but we got it because I’d killed his enemy. Nobody’s bothered me since. Helps to have a reputation.”

  Bishop said, “Yeah, it can.”

  “I already know your’n. You made that breather for her. We ran out of medicine to help with that when she was a kid, but you figured something out. Probably saved her.”

  “She gave it to a little girl she thought needed it more.”

  “Gets that from her mother.”

  Crawford threw the pieces of the double barrel onto the scrap pile. “Doctor, I’m going to build you a weapon you can use.”

  Howard held old man Kirby down, one massive arm across his chest, and a hand tight on his mouth. Kirby twisted and kicked as Beaudine withdrew his blade from the man’s belly, while Chaney pretended to check the dynamite wagon. He sorted through a few boxes of fuses and caps, found a dead mouse and tossed it—did anything not to hear the last bits of that old man’s struggle.

  Kirby finally went slack, and Howard let out, “Was he stronger than I thought, or just being stubborn?”

  Beaudine said, “I gave the right order, not to shoot. Who knows who’d hear it? It was good strategy.”

  “Damn, it took a long time for Kirby to give it up.”

  Chaney stepped up to the wagon’s driver’s seat. “All he had to do was drive us, didn’t have to fight.”

  Beaudine took a place beside him. “That wasn’t Kirby’s way. I’ve known that old man a lot of years, and he’d want paying, or go to the law. He always had his hand out.”

  Chaney said, “His dynamite sure helped the fight.”

  “As long as I was throwin’ it.” Howard counted the cash from Kirby’s pocket, stretched out in the back of the open wagon, comfortable between two dynamite cases, his legs dangling over the side. “And those idjit buddies he sent us all got dead.”

  Beaudine slipped the cleaver beneath the driver’s seat, “Kirby lived his life in the rough country, and this is how he knew he’d end. I feel good not to disappoint him.”

  Howard said, “Hey, he’s got a plunger back here! Use that instead of them damn cigars. Made me sick as hell.”

  Chaney looked to Beaudine. “Now what? Who do we throw the dynamite at? Or shoot at?”

  Beaudine measured his words. “Lem always claimed you to be a gambler, but you don’t know strategy. You must not be a very good one.”

  Chaney said, “Lem mouthed off. A lot. This capture did not go as planned, so I want to know about the new plan. Major.”

  “It’s simple. We are the target and Bishop wants us. So we’ll let him come, and be ready to meet him.”

  “Like all that craziness that just happened? What about them riders?”

  “You don’t get that many attacking for nothing. That’s more proof the gold is there for taking.”

  Chaney pressed. “By who? And when?”

  Beaudine shut his eyes. “If you want out, we can leave you with Kirby.”

  “You’re not answering the question. Try and game me now? I’ll kill you.”

  Chaney looked at Kirby and didn’t answer Beaudine, who was now rubbing his temples, his head rocking back. “If you’re driving, Mr. Chaney, head the team for the next town and wake me when we’re near a clean bed and hot food. And we’ll strategize to your satisfaction. I believe you want to be going northeast.”

  Chaney snapped the reins on the two mules harnessed in front of them, heading the wagon down a half-frozen trail leading out of the foothills.

  Bishop dipped into the cook pot, trying to balance a clay bowl on his knee. Fox swatted him away. “You’re no help, so sit and enjoy it.”

  Bishop settled on the floor in front of a small tree-stump table, tucking his shirt behind his back, then running the palm of his left hand over his clean-shaven face.

  “A man shouldn’t hide behind a beard.”

  “I’ve had it for so long, it feels strange.”

  “Because you’ve changed.”

  Bishop couldn’t deny it. His fingers told him the soft roundness of his face was gone, the scar from Chester Pardee’s knife as much a sign of who he was now as the shotgun rig on his right arm.

  Fox smiled. “From now on, you shave yourself. Do you want my vanity glass?”

  She ladled jerky soup and dumplings into clay bowls with intricate designs of deer running around the edges.

  “This is all he lives on. All he ever lived on.”

  Bishop took his bowl. “And whiskey.”

  “And whiskey.”

  Bishop said, “Vé’ho’émahpe.”

  Fox sat opposite. “That’s right. You can eat.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait, for your father?”

  Fox set out a plate of cornbread. “He’s at my mother’s grave. He’ll be back in the morning.” She held out her right hand. “You can give thanks.”

  Bishop squeezed her hand, and they gave silent thanks, for the food and the warmth. Bishop squeezed her hand again, and Fox broke his grasp, started eating.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Edgar Allan Poe?”

  She said, “I read to learn, and haven’t learned it all. Yet.”

  “‘Morella’? I go back to that one most.”

  “Still, not perfect.”

  Bishop smiled. “You don’t speak so you can find out what everyone else is thinking.”

  Fox cast her eyes to Bishop, ate a dumpling from her spoon. “When I’m perfect. When will you be perfect?”

  Bishop grinned. “Nenóveto?”

  “Good. Then soon, we can both talk the way we want.”

  “Did your father buy those books for you?”

  “No.” Fox broke a piece of cornbread, put the rest in front of Bishop. “He killed a man for his horse. They were in his saddlebags. My father is not like your father.”

  Fox’s words dropped off. Bishop gave her time before saying, “He knows about your life.”

  “Memories of what náhko’éehe said.”

  “Your mother told him, about when your husband hurt you.”

  “Right before she died.” Fox poured the last of the soup into Bishop’s bowl. “You saved me. And I will do for you. Until I can’t.”

  The lantern cast stale yellow on the two grave markers. One was flat steel, polished, with fine scrolling and the Morning Star hammered into its surface. Just below the star were the words, ARCHISHA. MOTHER AND WIFE. SHE LIVES ALWAYS. The other was a wooden cross with HORACE SMITH burned onto it.

  Crawford stood before the Morning Star. “You won’t believe what happened, Chisha. Hell, you probably knew before I did.” He punched the ground in front of Horace’s marker with his shovel, quick-turning the earth only a few inches before hitting the coffin.

  Crawford tossed the shovel aside, pried the lid until it opened.

  Batting the smell away from his nose, he scooped a pile of moldy hats and bloodstained jackets with his giant hands, tossing it all on Archisha’s grave beside him. He added a tangle of kerchiefs, monogrammed things, and a sheriff’s badge cut by a bullet hole to the pile, before yanking up the coffin’s false bottom.

  The coffin was actually built deep enough for four men lying on top of each other, which meant that Crawford could store at least fifty rifles and as many pistols as he could tuck in around them. Each weapon was wrapped in oilcloth, and he checked them carefully, searching for a specific shotgun he’d taken off a Swede who had been passing through years before.

  Crawford found the Shuster double-barrel, and remembered the kill: the Swede was a family man, and surprised
as hell when Crawford peeled two slugs into him after he’d just paid to have his horses shod.

  Most of the others had fought back. He’d been chopped and shot, but one way or another Crawford got them, their horses, or their wagons. That’s when he was White Claw, ripping through whoever came his way. Other times, he just did his work in the smith shop, lived a righteous life. It all depended on his mood.

  He packed away the guns and clothes of the dead, covered the coffin up again. Tucking the Swede’s gun under his arm, he picked up the lantern, and said to his wife’s marker, “I’m giving Vóhkêhésoa a gift. She always heard you—get her to take it.”

  Bishop watched Fox from the rope-mattress bed as she knelt by the fire, pouring water for tea. Her naked legs were long, meeting her waist a little high on her body. They were muscular, the sinews working too close to the surface of her skin, as they did on her upper arms.

  Her toned strength was almost masculine, except where it melted into the flat of her stomach, or the full curve of her breasts. Her hair fell in front of her face, until she threw it back over her shoulder, glancing back with a smile for him alone.

  Her smile was so rare it felt like a privilege to see it. It always started with her eyes, warming from cold to welcoming, letting him inside. She stood, carrying the tea to the bed, walking proud, and just as fine exposing the multiple scars on her left side as she was with the flawlessness on her right.

  Bishop sat up in bed, propped on his one arm, as she settled under the bearskin, holding out the tea.

  “It surely tastes better than the whiskey.”

  She sipped after he did, nodded, put the cup aside, and then wrapped herself around his body. He could feel her scars among the softness, the rough flesh left behind after his surgeries and the signs of recent violence that were healing.

  She murmured, running her fingers across his chest, lightly kissing to his shoulders, across them. Bishop’s half-arm pressed against her back, holding her tight to him. All she felt was his strength, not any sort of compromise. Her hands traveled back across his wounds, brushing his nose with a giggle.

  Her laugh was something Bishop had heard only a few times, and he didn’t want it to stop, but her smile was fading, and a different feeling was taking over her eyes.

  He kissed her, and they lost themselves in each other again.

  Bishop shifted to the other side of the bed, curling under the bearskin, reaching for Fox in his sleep, when the distant thunder jostled him. There was a second strike, and Bishop sat up and saw that he was alone, except for a pot of coffee boiling over.

  Bishop stayed in bed until the blast faded, his thoughts about his wife and son.

  Outside, Crawford shucked the spent shells from the double barrel, checked the dead oak he’d used as a target. The buckshot spread was good, and the damage severe. He set the gun on his workbench to adjust the special triggers he’d made, when Bishop limped around the side of the dugout, struggling to put on his left boot.

  “So that’s why God gave us two hands!” Crawford was still laughing when he grabbed the bootstrap, pulled it up. “Doctor, I guess there are still some things you need help with.”

  “A few, thanks.”

  “Your boots, not shooting this here.”

  Crawford moved to his bench, held up the new shotgun rig with tired, toothless pride. “Say somethin’, damn it.”

  The weapon was swivel breeched-open to the side, with the stock cut shorter to fit flush into the amputee cup. Jointed metal supports kept the gun steady in any position, while a catgut line looped around both the triggers, and was knotted to a small chain bracing across the cut-leather shoulder straps, and then anchored to the left arm at the wrist.

  “That’s fine workmanship, Mr. Crawford.”

  “Told you I was going to do it.”

  Bishop slipped his half-arm into the padded cup as Crawford fastened the new leather rig across his back. “This is a damn sight better than what that son of a bitch fixed up for ya.”

  “Did Fox see all this?”

  “She’s running her horse.”

  Crawford brought the trigger line from Bishop’s right arm, and fastened it to a small, Cheyenne-silver band that he slipped on his left wrist, giving the line a little play. Bishop buttoned his shirt, rolled down his sleeves. He nodded; the rig was perfect under his clothes.

  Crawford said, “This needs saying: we’re not on terms, but I’m still her pa. Any kindness I’m doing? Because of her.” Crawford held up two twelve-gauge shells. “So?”

  Bishop loaded both barrels, snapped the breech shut.

  “That’s a Shuler swivel-breech for a quicker reload. And these barrels can take anything. Straighten your left arm.”

  Bishop straightened his left at his side, the chain from his wrist snapping tight across his shoulders, instantly bringing the shotgun rig on his right waist-high and steady, twice as fast as before.

  “Position and shoot. So, who’re you going to face down, Doctor?”

  Bishop turned from Crawford, brought back the hammers, and snapped his wrist pulling the trigger line. The first barrel blasted the oak dead center like a man’s chest, the metal braces absorbing the gun’s recoil into Bishop’s body.

  Bishop said, “It really feels like a part of me.”

  “Over here!”

  Bishop half-turned, and the rig reacted, swinging in the direction of Crawford’s voice, and locking, but not firing.

  Crawford laughed, “She won’t do nothin’ you don’t want her to. Go ahead, shoot. The line’s tight, use your shoulders.”

  Bishop spun on his heel, as if taken by surprise, and shrugged. The second barrel ripped apart two limbs. Bishop swung open the rig, popped the shells.

  They clattered to the floor, black-powder smoking.

  Crawford said, “That’s faster than a lot of men can draw. And I made you this here.”

  Crawford held out a small bandolier, sized to fit Bishop’s arm. “It’ll hold six, so you ain’t fumbling for shells. I also got a loader for you.”

  Bishop regarded Crawford. “If you’ve heard anything about money I’m supposed to have—”

  “Because I’m White Claw? I know you had to get that insulting shit out of the way, but forget it. She picked you, Doc, and this rig’s to keep her safe as long as she’s with you. If you ride on alone, this pays back all you done for her.”

  “I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for her.”

  “I settle my own accounts.” Crawford stepped back to admire his work. “Either way, them dogs you’re chasin’ won’t know what hit ’em. It ain’t flapdoodle—I’m damn good.”

  Bishop checked the sights. “We came close to getting the leader.”

  “You’ll get him, you’ll feel the revenge for your family. But that’ll go, and you’ll go after more. Killing a man ain’t nothing more than flipping a switch, and there’s always some that’s asking for it.”

  “I’ll finish what I have to do, then put it behind me.”

  “The hell you say. You’ve already crossed the river. Look at the way you handle that rig. Like God’s own power, ain’t it? Some days you’ll be the doc, other days you’ll be the shotgun man. Then one day, you’ll only be shotgun. And I hope she ain’t with you when that happens.”

  Bishop said, “Maybe,” the truth punching him.

  He bent his elbow, bringing the rig up to him, as if it were on a precise gear-set. He moved his body, and the double barrel adjusted its height and position to compensate. “You have skills, sir, and at this moment, I’m a doctor and I need them.”

  “A week.”

  “What?”

  “Rifled your saddlebag.”

  “Not much there, Claw.”

  “I saw what you sketched out for that breather box. She needs a new one, gave the old one away? One week, and it’ll be better than what she had. But don’t tell her it’s from me, ’cause she’d rather choke to death than use it.”

  Crawford held out two more shotgu
n shells. “Ain’t you gonna reload, Doc?”

  White Fox ran the painted through the woods, heading for the clearing where her father had set his traps. She had a long blade tied to her thigh, and a vision of red hanging in front of her eyes like blinders.

  It was dark red, as dark as the night sky above it, and spreading wide against the snow. It was the first thing Fox had seen as she’d ridden toward the little house with the porch and rocking chairs. She’d had a present for Dr. Bishop’s son tucked under her jacket, away from the evening weather, and had been rehearsing a birthday song when she saw the circle of blood around the two bodies lying in the yard.

  Fox pushed the painted harder, thinking of how she’d run to Amaryllis, who had been shot twice and had still been cradling her son. The boy, his face buried against his mother, had had a single bullet wound to the head.

  They had been holding hands, gently.

  The painted broke to a full gallop. White Fox was pushing against the images of Bishop’s wife, but they kept coming. She remembered touching the side of her face, color gone, her skin turning with the cold, frozen tears on her cheeks. Fox had taken a blanket from her horse, draped it over mother and son.

  That’s when she’d heard John Bishop’s voice from the house. He had crawled inside, arm gone, and had been trying to get to a rifle behind a shattered china cabinet. Bishop had pleaded about his family, but Fox hadn’t known what to say to make him understand. She hadn’t had the words.

  He was dying in front of her.

  She’d brought the painted right to the front door, helped him climb from the chair onto its back, where he’d collapsed. She’d swung on behind him, holding him on, and they’d galloped away from that ruined house, leaving wife, son, and a birthday present lying in the snow.

  That was a year ago. She’d had the same painted then, running the same way, and she was now on her own mission to revenge that night. Her revenge. The Cheyenne word is óoxo’eéh, and it was the first she’d taught Bishop to say—the first he’d wanted to learn.