Down the tracks, the train whistle called out, and 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.
Bishop called to them, “Boys, we’re here to help! Stay down!”
Slugs ripped at Bishop and Fox. They dove off the car, the shots tearing close.
In the trees, Fuller’s position was good, as he lay cover fire for the Riders. He drew on Bishop, and fired. Bishop rolled, the slug ricocheting off the rig, and the steel taking it. Bishop grabbed Fox and dove from the wreck, as the shots tore into the train cars around them.
The sniper fire kept Bishop low, behind cover, as a Fire Rider bore down on him. Bishop jostled his arm. The rig was instantly up and loaded, and he sprang, blowing the Rider clean out of the saddle. The Fire Rider spun with the impact, then landed dead, on hot-metal debris.
Before his body tumbled into the snow, another Rider charged, and Bishop let fire with the second barrel. He shucked the shells, pulled down two more, and turned on another, who was coming up over the wood tender. He fired, turned, fired again.
The Riders lay wounded and dying, the snow offering a new shroud as they bled out.
Four Riders rode fast along the tracks, leaping around wreckage, and hurling Ketchum Hand Grenades. One, two, blasts sent ice, mud, and fire into the air.
Two young soldiers dove from the wreck of the passenger car, scrambling to get a good shot, as a grenade landed between them. One panicked a throw, tossing it into the air, where it exploded through the falling snow.
Bishop shot two Riders with a pull of the trigger line, sending them sprawling from their horses and still shooting as they hit the ground. Bishop reloaded from the bandolier, and wounded one more as he rode by.
White Fox got the last one, hurling a knife into his gut.
Bishop called out to the mail car, “Boys, you okay in there?”
A soldier yelled back that he’d been hit, but was all right.
Bishop worked his way to the top of the car when the Gatling gun cut loose from the trees. The thousand rounds hit the train wreckage, beating hell out of it, as Bishop and Fox took cover behind the old boiler. A few of the young soldiers shot back from the passenger car, which was riddled with bullets.
The gun stopped as two Fire Riders hurled dynamite, blowing off the back of the mail car. Hot metal and fire sliced the air. They kicked their way inside, grabbed a large strong box, and shouldered it out to a wagon. The Gatling laid cover fire as the horse team bolted, carrying the Riders and the strong box away from the battle.
Bishop signaled Fox.
He ran around to the far side of the locomotive, keeping behind the wheels, bursts of steam still gutting from the engine. The Gatling let loose again. Bishop made for his horse.
Fox worked back to the wood tender, and the fireman’s station. A drum of coal oil hadn’t burst in the wreck. Its seams bulged as she rolled it into the half-ton of firewood that was spread from the tender. She grabbed a fireman’s ax and cut open the lid, soaking the wood with oil.
The snow was falling solid now, frosting the wreckage, and the dead. Wet. Cold.
Fox watched, as Bishop climbed back toward the trail, trying to reach the ledge where the Gatling was protected. Fox ducked as another burst of fire raked the metal and glass.
She grabbed the brakeman’s lantern, lit it, and waited. Bishop got to the ledge, dropped silently from the bay. Fox smashed the lantern into the wood tender, lighting the pools of coal oil, and the wood. The flames ate the oil, spewing black.
Thick plumes of smoke instantly choked the sky around the locomotive, then blanketing the train. The Gatling opened up from the hills, shooting blind.
The smoke rolled from the train, as the wood fire grew. Bishop kept low, moving on the Gatling, the grey smoke mixed with the snow his cover. Both barrels were ready, the Fire Rider feeding the ammo into the machine gun, raking the train over and over.
The Rider had no time to react when both barrels of the shotgun lifted him off his feet, and tossed him down the icy side of the mountain, to the wreckage below.
The last sounds of the machine gun died in the distance, and Bishop stood, listening to the final reports. The snow was thicker, a curtain of white beads, as it began dousing the flames around the train. Bishop pulled the firing mechanism and ammo clips from the Gatling when a voice said, “I could have killed you a dozen times.”
Bishop turned to see Fuller step from the trees, with his Spencer rifle in his hands, but not aimed at him.
“Why didn’t you?”
“You see all that down there, doc? I guess I’ve had enough for a while. How about you?”
Bishop brought the shotgun rig up.
“I never was after you, but you and Creed stopped me from finding the men who killed my family. That’s all I wanted.”
Fuller said, “If you’d let me, I want to get back to mine. You’ll never see me again.”
Bishop lowered the rig. Fuller turned and walked back to where his horse was tied in the trees. He got on it, his rifle on his back, and gave Bishop a last nod before riding into the deeper woods.
John Bishop took some deep breaths, the rig now weighing him down. He stepped around the bodies of the Riders he’d dropped, and looked at the burning damage below, the field of battle.
Bishop made his way off the ridge and rode toward the mail car, as the soldiers began climbing from the wreckage. He got off his horse, and walked it to the other side of the wood tender. The fire was now smoldering, but the smoke from the coal oil was still thick, and choking the air.
Bishop couldn’t be sure of what he was seeing as he moved through the cloud of grey. He stopped, the cloud breaking apart. It was a man, holding a woman, with a large blade pressed against her throat.
“Dr. Bishop, wouldn’t it have been so much simpler to give me what I wanted a year ago? Think of the lives you coul
d have saved. You’re still a doctor, correct?”
Bishop’s answer was to take a step, the rig snapping into place. He pulled back the sleeve on his right arm completely, to expose the gun and the extra shells: two chambered, and two ready.
“What do you think this is going to get you?”
Beaudine held the blade tight. “My fortune.”
“They stole some.”
“Your brother promised me a fortune in gold.”
“You should have gotten it from him before they hanged him.”
Beaudine laughed. “They never hanged him, you fool.”
Bishop took another step, the smoke and snow shifting in front of him, making him ghostly. An apparition. The shotgun rig shifted with his every move, keeping its aim on Beaudine’s chest.
“Take that blade away.”
“And what will you give me? You know what happened last time, and I have no problem doing the same thing again.”
“I don’t have any gold. But I can give you your life.”
Beaudine was fixed on the figure in front of him, advancing.
“You asked if I was a doctor, and I’m really not. I’m something else, that is going to kill you in ten seconds if you don’t let her go.” Bishop extended the rig. “We both have something the other one wants.”
“I know.”
Beaudine said, “I’m the man who turned you into what you are, and I think that deserves compensation.”
“You’re right.”
Fox brought her heel down, breaking Beaudine’s foot, before smashing his windpipe with her elbow. He stumbled, the cleaver blade falling away. The first barrel caught him in the leg, dropping him.
Bishop moved on Beaudine, screaming in the snow.
“Why did you say my brother was alive?”
“Because he is! Oh, sweet Lord—”
“Tell me!”
“I don’t know much—!”
“You’ve made me very angry.”
The next barrel blew half of Beaudine’s right arm off, leaving it to dangle. Beaudine screamed, and prayed. Bishop loaded the weapon again.
“I’ll leave you in the snow to die unless you tell me everything.”
Beaudine looked up; he was choking now, Bishop’s figure in front of him darkening even more behind the smoke and snow.
“The Riders . . . You’re not who you were.... You’re the Angel of Death.”
Bishop fired two more barrels into Beaudine. Fox turned away, started to run for her horse. Bishop ran for her, grabbing her with his left, and spinning her around.
Fox twisted away. “Let go of me!”
“I deserved that! You know what that man took from me! You’ve been with me for a year, leading to this!”
Fox looked at him, said, “I told you I would help you until I can’t. Now I can’t.”
The young soldiers had finally climbed from the wreckage, laying some of their comrades in the snow while wounds were tended to. A young officer took a head count, while the two soldiers from the mail car handed over the cache of gold.
Bishop watched all this from a distance. Fox had climbed onto the painted, and brought the horse around. She looked down at him, and said, “Aren’t you going to help them?”
Bishop said, “Yeah, I’ll try, if I can.”
“This is what you need to do now.”
Fox eased the painted away, and Bishop watched her as she followed the tracks, before climbing a small trail that led into the mountains.
“Are you a doctor? We could use you over here!”
Bishop nodded, following the young man to the remains of the passenger car and the caboose.
The soldier looked at the shotgun. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“I had it made special.”
The soldier stopped in his tracks, was peering into the distance, snow collecting on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“The guys in the Red Hoods, there are two of them on the ridge. If they go for another wave, that’s the end of us. We’ve already lost the shipment.”
Bishop looked where the young soldier was pointing to see two men on horseback, both wearing crimson tunics, one sporting a red hood, while the other was not.
The young soldier was calling his friends to arms, as John Bishop saw what looked to be his brother flanked by the other rider.
Bishop took a step, and Dev’s face came more and more in focus. Through the snow and screams, he recognized him, and his name tore from Bishop in a demonic cry.
The rig snapped instantly into place. The hooded rider threw something, as Dev reared on his horse, and galloped away.
The grenade landed at John Bishop’s feet.
* * *
Bishop’s eyes opened, just as the Benson finished rolling his cigarette. He lit it and drew deep before saying anything to his patient.
“They tell me a grenade blew you ten feet in the air. You’ve got some bruises and a broken ankle, but I didn’t find any sign of hemorrhage. Pretty amazing. There were a lot of dead men at that wreck.”
“How many have you treated?”
“About twenty, shipped them out to an army hospital yesterday.”
“How long have I been out? What have you been giving me?”
“Light morphine so you could sleep. Two and a half days.”
Bishop edged his way onto his elbow, “Great. I’ll have soldier’s disease on top of everything else. How’d I get here?”
“A boy brought you on horseback. Said he was a friend, but that no one could know he helped you. He brought some of your things, too.”
Bishop looked to the dresser by the bed to see the shotgun rig, his medical kit, and a worn volume of Edgar Alan Poe setting on top of it.
The doc moved to the dresser and picked up the shotgun. “That’s quite a contraption. Had a hell of a time getting it off you, but you don’t need it now, understand? You should, you’re a doctor, too.”
Bishop lay back in the bed, enjoying the feeling of the cold, clean sheets. He nodded his cooperation.
The doc said, “Sleep for another few hours, and we’ll get you some good supper. You’re lucky, my wife can cook.”
Bishop smiled. “Yeah, I’m lucky.”
The doc stepped from the room, pulling the door behind him. Bishop threw back the sheets and sat up, a jolt of pain hitting him. He caught his breath, and then looked to the gun, book, and med kit on the dresser.
John Bishop reached for one of them.
THE BLEEDING GROUND
INTRODUCTION
From a journal left by Dr. John Bishop:
I write this as a dead man. My own life ended with the death of my wife and son. I existed only to find their killers and see them draw last breaths. It was a long and bloody trek, and with the help of White Fox, I have done it. But revenge has led me to my own family, and to my own brother, and a group of terror-riders worse than anything I saw in the War Between the States.
My mission is to stop my brother—and his followers.
I used to be a doctor, and now I’m a killer, with a gun where my right arm used to be. I am a monster of my own making, stitched together when I should have died. I have become what I am because to win this fight I must become something feared by the outlaws and killers who plague the decent families like my own used to be, and I must wipe that plague out any way that I can.
I set this down so that others will understand that I spilled blood, so that no one else will have to exist as I exist.
That is my mission, as a dead man, until I find my final peace.
CHAPTER ONE
Dead Memories
The special bandolier was designed perfectly. Cut from beaver skin and holding six .12-gauge shells, it fastened tight around the upper part of John Bishop’s half-arm with two leather ties. The oil from the pelt let the shells slide easily from their pockets into the double-barreled, swivel-breech shotgun that replaced the rest of the right limb he’d sacrificed defending his family.
Bishop’s one-handed prep of the weapon was all skill and adrenaline; quick motion to open the breech, pop the shells into place with his thumb, then a jerk of the wrist to snap it shut. It was load, fire, shuck brass, and load again. He could do it in fifteen seconds; less, if he fell into a rhythm, facing enemies from any direction.
At the moment, only one enemy was facing him, but with two guns. A shadowed figure stood on a frozen ledge jutting from the side of an unforgiving mountain, its peaks twisted like diseased muscles.
The sun was behind him, making him a dark specter. Blowing snow masked his face, but he held a Navy Six in each hand, his stance daring Bishop’s approach from below. A horse couldn’t make it that far off-trail, and a man, just barely. He kept the Navies hammered back, waiting. He knew Bishop was there, someplace, waiting for his chance.
Bishop stayed out of sight in a deep wound in the mountain’s side—an opening in the rocks, hidden by tufts of dead grass. Without showing himself, he could see the man on the ledge twenty feet above him. The wound was good cover, but lousy aim, especially for a shotgun. He scrubbed the snow from his eyes with his left palm, looking for a better position, judging his odds of making it.
Shreds of winter light threw a hint of the man’s shadow at Bishop’s feet. He watched him inch to the other side of the ledge, ready to open fire as soon as Bishop stepped away from the mountain’s protection.
Filling his lungs with the cold, Bishop followed the shadow. The enemy on the ledge had the advantage, but at least he was finally a clean target. Bishop raised his half right arm, the elbow joint bringing the shotgun rig instantly into place, the metal supports on either side of the prosthetic locking its firing position.
Flexing his shoulders, he drew tight the silver chain that ran from the gun’s two triggers to the leather harness that fit snugly across his back. The chain looped through the leather and was anchored to a band on his left wrist so the triggers could be pulled with a simple tug or a half-move of the body. His body and the special weapon acted and reacted as one.
To goad Bishop out of the wound in the mountain, the figure yelled, “Your ma never . . .” but his words were murdered by the high wind. The second attempt was a shot into the sky, followed by whoops of laughter.
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