Shotgun

by Courtney Joyner

  “Maybe, but—” Fuller picked up a red hood from the ground, tossed it on the bonfire, and watched it burn.

  White Fox was curled up on top of the bed, not even a blanket covering her, as Bishop sat in the corner, checking the motion of the rig. He snapped his wrist, and the barrels responded instantly. He turned, the gun turned. Every move, and the weapon responded. He let the hammers drop. Click.

  Fox murmured, and Bishop tucked a blanket around her.

  The break of morning was shrouded by blowing snow that moved thick in the air, the heavy powder of the mountains being swept up by cold bursts of wind. For Smythe, it was like grey evening, as he tied his horse and walked around the side of the Paradise River Rail Station, noting the platform and tracks.

  The station was deserted—no crew or distant whistle of a locomotive. Just the cold that deadens the back of the neck, which is why he didn’t feel the barrel of Beaudine’s Colt against him.

  Beaudine kept his voice steady, though his hand was shaking. “Mr. Smythe, killing you the worst way possible has been one of my dreams, since we were in the Tomb. But I think I’ll allow you to stay above ground, while we discuss our new partnership.”

  “Oh, you’re making a whopping mistake, boy-o.”

  “My mistake was not killing you all those times I had the chance.”

  Beaudine nudged Smythe with the pistol, and they both moved off the platform, toward the cattle pens.

  White Fox woke in the room, stretching her arms, and wiping her eyes. For a moment, she felt that someone would be next to her. But she was alone.

  Rachel Duffin tried to hide her displeasure when Bishop knocked on the doctor’s door, but she was unsuccessful. Her face was newly tear-stained, and her expression, dark.

  Rachel said, “We’re not staying in this town. I don’t want you saying anything to change my husband’s mind.”

  “I won’t do that.”

  Bishop wanted to extend Rachel a bit of comfort and tell her that she reminded him of his wife, when Dr. Benson stepped from the back room and introduced himself. He was pleasant and old school, and probably had a drink or two with his breakfast. Benson walked Bishop to a small side bedroom where Miles was recovering. Bishop kept his arm down, his duster hiding the barrels of the rig.

  Benson gave Bishop a sidelong look over his glasses. “Miles told me you fixed him on the road. Where did you serve?”

  “Out of Virginia.”

  “That was a good field dressing, doctor.”

  Benson’s office and the patient’s room were clean. Organized. And he carried himself with that rare combination of sawbones and educated physician. There was a little more small talk, but he knew when to leave. Another good sign of a good doctor.

  Bishop sat by Miles’s bed and told him so. Rachel stood in the doorway, arms folded, struggling.

  Miles said, “I’m glad to hear you think he knows what he’s doing.”

  “You’re the best judge. How do you feel?”

  “Like hell. But less like hell than I did yesterday.”

  Rachel said, “This is the best thing for him, but he can’t get overtired.”

  “Honey, I sure would like a cup of coffee.”

  “Tea.”

  “Fine. Anything for you, Doctor Bishop?”

  Bishop turned to Rachel and said, “Tea sounds very fine, I haven’t eaten this morning.”

  Rachel left, but didn’t shut the door. Bishop tapped it with his foot, nudging it almost shut. “I need to know about the gold train.”

  “You gonna rob it?”

  “Not me, but someone might have plans.”

  “That’s what the soldiers are for, I guess. They didn’t really include me in it, except as an extra gun, when they carry the money to the bank from the station. They’ve only done it twice before, and nothing happened.”

  “With the money or the town?”

  “Both. They deposit here because shipping companies keep threatening to build, and they need loans. The mayor gets excited for the boom he’s been counting on for twenty years, and then nothing happens, and they pull the deposits. Last time it almost wiped the town out.”

  “What about the sheriff ?”

  “Up territory someplace. I heard he has another wife. Anyway, he’s not around much anymore, so when I get laid up, it can be a problem.”

  “And what about your wife?”

  “She don’t like what I do, and something like this makes her hate it.”

  “She might not be wrong.”

  “Doc, I have considered that about twenty times a day.”

  “Miles, no one can hit that train at the station if they’ve got men on it.”

  “I know a little spot, just a gopher hole about ten miles down the tracks. That’s where I stake out. Perfect view of the Fire Riders, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “One man, one badge, huh?”

  “That’s why we’re lame ducks. If you can find anybody from Paradise to help, you’re a better man than me.”

  Bishop stood. “Doubtful, but here’s some advice. Do what she wants, and go build your life.”

  “But, ere long the heaven of this pure affection became darkened, and gloom, and horror, and grief swept over it in clouds.”

  White Fox read the line from “Morella” aloud several times, the words coming easier and easier to her, even if their true meaning didn’t. She said, “Not perfect,” to the empty room, flipped through some pages, and let the cover drop shut.

  The knock on the door came immediately afterward. Her hand turned the knob; then she was thrown back hard. Chaney had shouldered the door into her and was now slamming it shut behind him.

  Chaney flicked his gold tooth before speaking. “Where is he? And don’t look at me like a squaw pissing in the dirt.”

  Fox separated her words: “I—don’t—know.”

  Chaney’s Derringer was out of his jacket, and he brought it up to her temple. “We know about that little package from your pa, and I paid three clerks to let me know if they saw you. I stacked the deck a little, especially since you cut my rib in half with an arrowhead.”

  Fox let Chaney lean in close; she could taste his breath, even as he kept the gun pressed into her, leaving a mark.

  “Your man has money, the railroad has money. Everybody but me, and we’re going to fix that right up. Tell me where he hides his cash, or I’ll kill you. Understand? Or do I have to talk in dog-tongue?”

  She closed her eyes. “Tó’ovenohtsé.”

  “Not an answer.”

  Fox locked eyes with Chaney, staring. He almost smiled, as she reached over her head for the water pitcher, and shattered it against his skull. The scream of the breaking china and the scream of the gambler were a garbled one as he fell to the floor.

  She lunged across the bed for her saddle, grabbing a sheathed knife, as Chaney came up shooting wild, blood washing his eyes from the cuts on his head.

  The slugs hit the wall behind her, as she threw the knife. It hit his chest, but broke off at the tip. Chaney fell forward, catching himself on the edge of the bed.

  “God, get me some help, and I won’t do nothing else to you again. I swear. Just help me, please.”

  Chaney lurched as Fox took a step toward him. The knife blade in his gun’s pistol grip jutted out, and he slashed, catching her arm. Fox smashed him back with both elbows, the bone punching his face, then brought up her knees to send him slamming against the wall.

  The knifepoint was pushed deeper into Chaney’s chest. He dropped to his knees, and then collapsed. The room seemed darker for a moment, as Fox sat on the edge of the bed. Chaney was nothing now, just an empty shell lying on the floor. It had all taken less than five seconds.

  Fox wiped at the tears she hated.

  The roof was nothing but an overhang, but it kept the now steady snow off Smythe and Beaudine. Smythe’s hands were tied, and he was sitting with his back against a wall, long lengths of chain and butchering hooks hanging behind and
above him. Sledgehammers to knock out the cows were gathered in a large barrel by the door that opened onto the always empty cattle pens.

  Beaudine settled on a bench, holding the long cleaver.

  “Another business in Paradise that isn’t doing well. Ask anyone in town and they’ll be happy to tell you. I understand their need, as I have it myself. Money comes so easy to some, and the rest of us can chase it forever, and not catch a dollar. What do you think, Smythe? About money? Do you know anyone who has any?”

  “Come on, boy-o. Doc Bishop’s got nothing! All that gold talk was a trick to get you to go after the brother, so Dev could work his own thing.”

  Beaudine studied the blade, letting the light from an oil lantern bounce off of it, into his eyes. “You keep saying that, Smythe.”

  “Because it’s the bloody truth. He’s got big plans.”

  “I was closer to him than anyone, helped him.”

  “But he played you, mate. He didn’t want you anywhere near this.”

  Beaudine took a few steps with the blade chest-high, as an executioner would hold it before going to the chopping block. “Yet, he trusts a prison guard, and not his own cellmate?”

  “So what do you do now? Kill me? Or go after him? You’ve talked to the station master, you know what’s happening with this train.”

  “Those men in red who attacked me, they belong to Devlin?”

  Smythe threw away, “They’re his men, yeah.”

  Beaudine lowered the blade. “That can’t go unpunished.”

  “There’s money on that train. Real money, not some kind of trick. I don’t give a damn about Dev Bishop, but you can’t take it alone.”

  “I don’t trust you a bit.”

  “I’ll show you, then you decide. I’m not running, boy-o.”

  Beaudine hauled Smythe to his feet with a grunt. “You know this is going to end in his death.”

  “And I’m in for shares, Major?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Dead Men Kill, Too

  The tracks of the Colorado Line ran through a narrow gorge that opened onto flatlands on the other side of a small grouping of mountains, before reaching Paradise River. It was like a natural tunnel, heavily treed, and a beautiful cousin to the Rockies if seen during a new spring.

  But the first snows settled and stayed, slicking the mountainside, and weighing the trees until they bent almost to the ground. The gorge was covered with jags of ice, from frozen rain and water coming down from the higher range, only to be captured and paralyzed here.

  Dev Bishop and Fuller stood by on their horses, just above the gorge, watching as dynamite was bundled to the trunks of some tall pines just above the tracks.

  Fuller said, “That stuff almost killed you and your men once.”

  “Well, now you’re riding with us, so you best pay attention. What position are you going to take?”

  “You want me to hit the engineer?”

  “Just take care of what the trees and the boiler don’t.”

  Someone yelled, “She’s goin!” and all broke for their horses, riding quickly away as the first charges exploded, throwing tree trunks in the air, and breaking them into huge pieces, tumbling down onto the tracks, blocking them.

  A wave of snow and ice followed, rolling from the hillside, covering the blockade. After a few moments, the air calmed again, as the last bits of wreckage found its place.

  Fuller said, “Now, that was a hell of a noise.”

  “There’s not a train due until the one we want. This bunch will take care of anyone who comes sniffing around. You’re too valuable for guard duty, stay with me.”

  Chaney’s body was covered with a blanket, one of his hands peeking out from under. Spots of blood had soaked through across his chest. Miles walked around the side of the bed with the help of a cane, lifting the blanket for another look, then dropping it again.

  Bishop and Fox stood by the open door, the rabbit deskman with them, his arms folded as tight as his expression.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have given them the room. I’m not letting this go. She’s gonna feel the law!”

  Miles said, “This is a killing, and you’re going to have to go to trial, miss.”

  Bishop said, “Chaney tried to kill her.”

  “Miss, you self-defended this one all over the room and I’m sure a judge will see it that way.”

  The deskman said, “But you’ll be rotting in jail until then!”

  Miles stepped to Fox, his voice low. “I understand what this is about for you two, so if you swear you’ll appear, I won’t arrest you.”

  White Fox said, “I swear.”

  “I’ll do up the papers for a territorial judge.”

  The rabbit said, “That’s it?”

  “For right now. If she don’t come for trial, I’ll have a warrant sworn out.”

  The deskman was still fuming, his forehead changing color, as Bishop and Miles moved into the hallway. Miles hobbled toward the stairs, his voice low. “I should be doing a hell of a lot more.”

  “I know. They’ll probably take your badge.”

  “That’s not the worst thing to happen. Doc, I couldn’t be more grateful to you and the miss for what you’ve done, but please, don’t test it. You have to come back and face this. I won’t be the law anymore, but you don’t want this hanging over you.”

  Bishop said, “Miles, if we’re able to make it back, we will.”

  “One last bit of advice? You’re a civilian. Let the troops do their job.”

  Bishop gave Miles a shake with his left, before turning to Fox. She started down the stairs ahead of him, walking across the street to the livery, her eyes dry and fixed ahead.

  Bishop fell in next to her and said, “You don’t have to go. Now I’m giving you the out, if you want it.”

  Fox said nothing. Light, fresh snow stuck to them both as they moved to their horses, checking for the weapons they’d need. She held out a knife, the same size as the one she’d used on Chaney. Her hand started to shake.

  Bishop didn’t see it, and said, “Have it ready.”

  He filled the bandolier with shells, and more in his pockets, then slipped a small-caliber Smith and Wesson into his jacket, and gave Fox a Colt. She checked the weapon; all their moves were measured, just what he thought they should be. Automatic.

  Bishop said, “I’m ready. Are you? Last chance.”

  Fox swung onto the painted’s back.

  They broke from the livery, running the painted and the bay down the road parallel to the tracks, heading for the trail in the hills above them. The snow was coming harder now, blowing heavy, and sideways.

  “It would be unwise to fabricate.”

  Smythe was on his horse, riding alongside Beaudine, his hands still tied behind his back. “I’m telling you this is the place that we’ve chosen. They’ve already brought down some trees up the tracks, and here’s where we’ll ride out to take the cars.”

  Beaudine maneuvered farther along a ledge high above the tracks, ice patching the rock, before taking a spot next to a sparse blue fir.

  Smythe said, “What about me?”

  He didn’t see the gun in Beaudine’s hand, or hear the shot. He saw the muzzle flash, and then it was too late.

  The distant shot echoed, as the Fire Riders gathered at the edge of the woods, some taking their attack positions above the railroad tracks, while others towed more split trunks and giant limbs into place. The wall they’d built was over ten feet high, and beyond the height of the engine’s cowcatcher.

  Fuller watched as they worked, all wearing their crimson tunics, and a few, their hoods. All the sniper could think about was family, and money, and the worth of the risk.

  One of the Riders barked at Fuller, “Hey, how many times you kill for money, son?”

  Fuller didn’t answer, checked the action on the Spencer.

  Dev Bishop called out, “We’ve got less than ten!”

  Down the tracks, the train whistle called out, an
d echoed back through the hills. The snow was now a thick curtain, whiting everyone’s vision.

  John Bishop and Fox rode their horses up from the tracks to a small space in the rocks, looking down on the gorge. Deputy Miles’s cigarette makings littered the ground where there was a tin cup solid with ice, and flat stones for a small campfire.

  The whistle called again.

  Bishop looked to Fox. “We can’t stop this happening, but we’ll avenge my wife, my son.”

  She finally said, “That’s what we’re here for.”

  The train whistle became a pained cry, and the crash that followed was so loud the bay and painted buckled at the knees.

  The gold train was five cars long, led by a Baldwin steam engine, powering through the storm. The engineer had pulled the brakes half a mile back, but the downward grade and icy tracks pushed the train faster, with its large power wheels throwing hot, yellow sparks as they skidded, fighting to slow. Failing.

  Half the trees and rocks were blasted out of the way on impact, but the rest held fast, jammed beneath the rails and pushing against the boiler until it exploded. Bleeding iron. The rest of the engine crumpling into itself, blowing off the wheels, sending them still-spinning into the frozen mountainside.

  Bolts were bullets, blowing off in all directions, while the brass fittings twisted from the engine and ripped back through the cab, killing the engineer and fireman.

  It was all screaming metal and steam, as the rest of the train spun wild off the tracks, the cars tumbling, colliding with each other, glass and metal erupting before smashing into the snow drifts—dominoes thrown by God.

  Bishop and Fox charged the small cut through the hills, down to the tracks. Metal was still bending, whining, as steam exploded from safety valves and brakes. The falling snow cooled the boiler, which sizzled as the winter fought to put it out.

  The soldiers in the passenger and mail cars cried through bloody injuries. Bishop and Fox climbed on top of the mail car, peering into the door that had been ripped open like wet paper. Two young soldiers were huddled in the tipped-over corner, bleeding and wide-eyed, clutching their rifles, but not knowing what or where to shoot.