Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  “You ask interesting questions.”

  “And you special-kill people.”

  Colby let the echo of their voices drop off against the stone, but didn’t respond.

  She said, “Everyone here’s a thief, and they all shot somebody, or done some stabbing. Not as much as you, but they got their own business, so don’t pay no attention to me. That’s how come I know everything about this place.”

  “I think not paying attention to you is a vital mistake.”

  “I do what I want, except when I got the heavy lungs. See this here?” April opened the purse, took out a celluloid breathing mask attached to a small, leathered box by a length of rubber tubing. She held it over her face. “Keep it filled with ice. Makes me take air when I can’t.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  She took the mask off, wrinkled her snout. “Crazy doctor with one arm made it, and give it to me. He didn’t even know me, but that’s what he did. I’ll always recall that.”

  Colby said, “Sounds like a grown-up worth knowing.”

  “I heard you. Ought to get him to make you one.”

  The access way turned into an open landing where fire-damaged paintings of the previous wardens galleried the walls. Traces of black powder and soot laced the about-to-collapse ceiling.

  “These here are the men what kept everybody prisoner in this hellhole.”

  “You know, my son doesn’t use language like that.”

  Beyond the portraits was a heavily armored door that she hit with tiny fists. “Then he ain’t in the real world.” She hit the door again. “Fancy don’t mean nothing. The last warden put all this up to fool everybody. It’s all about foolin’ people so you can pull it off behind their backs.”

  Colby said “How old are you, truly?”

  “Don’t get no ideas.” April kicked the door twice and a bolt was thrown from the opposite side.

  * * *

  Hunk’s punch was hard. He pulled back, then landed his knuckles into the shaved man’s jaw again, like firing two rapid shots from a revolver.

  Colby judged from the blood spray across Shaved Head’s skull that he’d already taken at least three hits, maybe four. Hunk half-stepped back, lowered himself, then laid into Shaved’s side, his ribs snapping beneath the skin.

  April Showers squeezed Colby’s arm with excitement. Shaved Head collapsed, begging for mercy as his knees folded together.

  But no one could hear his voice over the cheers and hoots of the Fire Riders in the arena that was the prison’s old common area. Two tiers of cells stacked like iron cages were built in a semicircle with a catwalk running their length and iron stairs joining them. Fire-twisted, but with crude repairs, they were now barracks, not jail cells.

  In the center of the commons were the old wooden chow tables and a whipping post from the War. The Riders stood on the tables, rifle and grenade crates, surrounding Hunk and Shaved Head, thundering with each punch. Laying bets on the survivor.

  Smythe crutched himself through the crowd, his voice topping everything. “All right, ladies, you’re missing the point! This is training. It’s not Saturday night at the bloody Palladium!”

  Hunk was about to make another move, but Smythe put up his hand. “In the cells! Drag-ass down here for a lesson!”

  Colby looked up to the second tier of the block and watched Riders peel out of the bunks in their cells, putting down guitars and letters, wandering down from the catwalks and old guard stations. They’d afforded themselves some creature comforts, all stolen, making each cell their own. One watched from his rocking chair, enjoying a pipe.

  April Showers pushed around Colby, perching on top of the whipping post as Smythe shouted, “A man what steals from his own brigade is no man! Not under my command!”

  The crowd circle tightened.

  Hunk wrapped one hand with a thin, metal cord used to secure ship’s canvas to decking, then looked to Smythe, who gave the nod. Two Riders lifted Shaved Head by the shoulders, and Hunk held up his chin, before pulverizing his jaw with the wrapped fist.

  Hunk looked directly at Colby when he hammered the blow, then another, pulping Shaved Head’s face to nothing.

  Smythe said, “All right, a little too far, but you’ll remember this—when you steal, it’s for the brigade! Kill? For the brigade! Got it, boy-o?”

  Shaved Head rolled over onto his back, eyes blistered shut, teeth tearing through his lower lip, grabbing that last gulp of air, and then—done.

  April shrieked, the crowd cheered again, a few singing Romania’s anthem “Hora Unirii.” Hunk grabbed a towel to dry himself off, careful around his missing ear.

  April tried to sing along, but couldn’t. “I don’t know them words.”

  Hunk never broke his look at Colby.

  “You really do keep yourself in check. I’d heard that.”

  Colby turned to see Devlin Bishop standing behind him, sporting a pressed shirt, pants, and manner.

  Dev took Colby’s hand to shake it, guiding him away from the crowd, as Shaved Head was dragged off, leaving a wide smear of blood across the floor. Others got out of the way of the corpse and settled their bets.

  Smythe barked, “School’s out, ladies! Time to pay up!”

  Dev said, “Little reminders like this are important for the men. Keeps them on their toes.”

  “He rode in with us, seemed like a decent enough sentry. How much did he appropriate?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Colby said, “I get it. It’s the act, not the amount.”

  Dev smiled. “I’m going to recall that.”

  Hunk threw his towel, and April Showers caught it, the smell stinging her eyes. She pulled the mask from her purse, covered her mouth and nose, and turned the crank on the small device, letting the cool, new oxygen fill her, while fixing her eyes on Colby and Dev Bishop.

  Colby held up the target file. “This made for interesting reading.”

  Dev said, “As long as you can do something about it. Watch yourself.”

  Colby quickstepped to one side as a trapdoor lifted from a section of stone floor in front of him. Dev grabbed hold of an iron ring attached to the door and hefted it back. The telegraph operator scrambled the last of the steps from the solitary cells below.

  Dev held out his hand. “The information?”

  The operator held out a length of yellow telegraph tape, eyes blinking in the morning light. “Yes, sir, with date and time, just like you said.”

  Colby asked, “Good news from the belly of the beast?”

  Dev Bishop regarded him. “It’s why you’re here.”

  April Showers watched as Colby and Bishop vanished behind an always-locked door on the far side of the old cellblock, with Smythe hauling himself after. She touched the stolen knife in her pocket and smiled under her oxygen mask.

  * * *

  John Bishop ran his hand down the bay’s neck, stroking its length as he walked him from a stall. The horse was rested, well-tended.

  Outside the corral, Bishop threw a leg over his back and pulled himself up with his left arm. Chisum men lined up by the ammo shed next to the stables, getting new stores of ammunition and extra guns.

  Maynard stood unsteadily at the end of the line, his wounds wetting his bandages, but loosing a war whoop when Chisum and Garrett rode up.

  Chisum said, “Men, I’m damn proud of each of you. You don’t have to worry about your families or your pay. I’m doubling it.”

  A cowhand said, “My salary goes to my wife and kids. That’s why I’m doing this.”

  The crowd agreed and Maynard broke through. “Hell, I’m doing this to get another crack at those red-hoods!”

  Chisum said, “I guarantee you’ll get both! Dr. Bishop, would you take a ride? Let me show you what we’re fighting for, and how we’ll win.”

  Bishop angled over to Chisum, who led his men away from the ranch.

  * * *

  The grassland was an open stretch, protected on all
sides by sloping hills creating a small valley. Four hundred head of Angus cattle were scattered between the hills, either grazing easy on sweetgrass or settled by the small bent of a running stream. Cowboys with rifles poised rode the loose edge of the herd.

  With Garrett and Bishop beside him, Chisum heeled his horse to a crest above the valley. The horse stepped too close to some brush hiding a flock of prairie chickens, and the birds broke wild, cawing loudly as they flew away.

  Two cowboys heard the noise, looked up from their position at the far end of the grazing basin, saw the three men on the hilltop, and went rifle-to-shoulder before Chisum signaled them with a wave of his hat.

  Chisum said, “Right now they’d take a shot at anybody riding up.”

  Garrett said, “They’re better than that, sir, but they’re damn nervous.”

  Chisum lit his briar pipe. “With good reason. That’s prime stock, birthed, raised and nurtured here. My stock, my sea of grass.”

  Bishop said, “It’s a beautiful picture.”

  Blue smoke drifted from Chisum’s mouth as he spoke. “Except for some scrub herds, about all I have left. Patrick, you’ve a map in your saddlebag.”

  Garrett unfolded the map onto his lap. It detailed the Goodnight-Loving cattle trails from Texas to Montana, and had eleven red slashes scattered over three states.

  Chisum said, “Each mark means men and stock lost to the Fire Riders. Men buried, cattle stolen.”

  Bishop leaned from his horse to look. “How much has it cost you?”

  “Well over a million dollars, Doctor. But my men?” Chisum pointed to the cowboys, “Just working for wages, but I know the name of everyone that died and take care of their families.”

  Bishop said, “They can’t fight a trained army.”

  “I won’t dignify those terrorists by calling them an army, but you’re dead right. Cowhands don’t stand a chance.”

  Garrett said, “Before we move out, Mr. Chisum, why not request a cavalry escort? You’ve got the contract for the government beef. When the Riders attack, the soldiers can mow ’em down. Job’s done.”

  Chisum said, “Fire Riders have spies, Patrick. One word leaves this ranch, and they’ll know what we’re doing before we do. See a patrol, and the Riders’ll never come close until the soldiers move on. Then they’ll wipe us out. We’ve got to go it alone.” He nodded to Bishop. “That’s how the good doctor took them on.”

  Bishop said, “You keep saying that. I barely got through it alive.”

  “But you did, and left a pile of their dead behind.” Chisum put another match to his pipe. “We’re forcing the enemy’s hand by moving those four hundred up the northern trail to a cow town set off the main. Called Myrtle.”

  Garrett said, “Beg pardon, sir, but why’re we headed to Myrtle? It’s little more than a hole for a dog to pee in. Why not push into Colorado?”

  “Because it is just a hole, and it’ll lure the bastards in. They’ll think we’re just stopping over.”

  Bishop said, “You’re sure the Riders will try?”

  Chisum took the briar from his mouth and tamped the bowl. “I trust history. They’ve been targeting my smaller herds with less men. They leave no survivors and take every animal.”

  Garrett said, “And they’ve always come in at night.”

  Chisum said, “It’s two days on the trail, but you’ve got to reach Myrtle by sunrise to give yourselves a full day to set up for a raid. Let them think we’re drinking, whoring, and sleeping. Anything but ready.”

  Garrett half-agreed with him, “They’ll get a surprise . . . I hope.”

  “Patrick, it’s your reconnaissance, your decisions on who goes where. You’ve got the pen, a barn, and hotel for cover.”

  “There are a couple new men, supposed to be pretty handy, taking the place of the ones we lost.”

  Chisum said, “Mr. Tunstall’s volunteered a few guns as well. ” He turned to Bishop. “They’re going to hit us hard, and anything you can tell Patrick will help bring our victory. Defeat’s not an option.”

  Bishop said, “My old captain used to say the same thing before every battle, and he lost a few. I know you’ve got a lot at stake, but so do we all.”

  Chisum’s eyes were back on the spread before them. “We’ve got to make this a safe country again.”

  Bishop’s half-arm jerked in its sleeve. “You’re welcome to anything I can remember, as long as we all agree I’m here on my own business.”

  “You’re riding out with us, Doctor. That’s all that matters.” Chisum turned his horse and started down the slope to the herd.

  Garrett watched the cattleman break toward his animals before sidling to Bishop. “You were on the fence last night. What changed?”

  “You put any stock in dreams, Garrett?”

  “You mean what the Navvies and Cheyenne preach?”

  Bishop gave it a moment, then nodded. “Something like that.”

  “Can’t speak for anyone else”—Garrett turned his horse—“but I’m not a damn fool.”

  * * *

  Devlin Bishop sat at the warden’s high desk. A large chart behind him showed the Fire Rider raids across three states, each one marked in red. Smythe got himself into a chair, pulling his legs out of the way for Colby.

  Dev opened the target file. “Mr. Colby, everything’s here that you need?”

  “More. I’d seen most of the newspaper stuff before. Your brother’s a rather famous man.”

  Smythe snorted. “That’s the damned wrong thing to say, boy-o.”

  Dev said, “You’re not wrong, Mr. Colby. John’s gained some infamy, that’s for true.”

  “You tried to have him killed and failed. His revenge quest has captured a certain, shall we say, public spirit? The man with the .12-gauge arm, perfect for the penny dreadfuls.”

  “If you’re going for some kind of laugh here, I’m not getting it.”

  Colby said, “I just want you to understand that special circumstances like your brother require special compensation.”

  Dev was smiling. “Hell, I knew that before you did.”

  A quiet tapping on the door brought Tomlinson in, his steps not making a sound. He placed a sheaf of papers on the desk, straightened them, then inched away, folding his hands together.

  Dev nodded. “You know Mr. Tomlinson.”

  Colby extended a hand to shake with a flourish. “Indeed I do. Still favor the Marlin Standard? I’ve also had the distinct experience of meeting your young daughters.”

  Smythe killed the laugh up from his belly.

  Dev tapped the folder. “Mr. Tomlinson calls this your retainer. There might be a lot of work coming up, and I don’t want to have to chase you down.”

  “I’ve always made myself available when I can.”

  “Always with a new price. Instead, you’re going to be regular pay, maybe not as high as you’d like, but steady.”

  Dev stood, revealing a bullet hole in the center of the chair. He poked it with his index finger. “You know it’s the only time I’ve ever purposely taken a life? Slug passed right through Warden Hog. He didn’t even blink. I knew, if I was going to sit here, I’d have to claim it as my own.”

  Colby said, “A coup?”

  Smythe said, “You ain’t far off, boy-o.”

  Dev sat on the edge of the desk, arms folded, looking down at Colby. “I was in solitary for four years with a man who knew history. My schooling’s spotty, but I can listen. He taught me what the ones he called ‘Empire Builders’ did. In Rome, Greece, places like that. When he wasn’t fever-crazy, he made a lot of sense.”

  Smythe said, “In the Indian Nation, all the way to California, there’s almost no law. There aren’t enough men to back it up.”

  Dev looked at the map. “The law will come with the people, but if we’re there first, they’ll have to pay to be safe, to not be robbed. To stay alive.”

  Smythe said, “Oh, and they will.”

  Colby said, “That’s a fine, old busin
ess practice. You learned a lot from your cellmate. I’d say you’re well on your way.”

  “Right now’s the time to figure out if you’re going to be a part of it.”

  Tomlinson added a meek, “It does offer security, Mr. Colby.”

  Colby picked up the contract. “I haven’t said no, but I do have a condition. Payments aren’t to be made to me, but put in a trust account for my son. When that’s arranged, we’ll visit this again.”

  Dev looked to Tomlinson. “Get it done.” To Colby he asked, “Well?”

  “You have a time and place?”

  “My brother will be riding with a herd of Chisum cattle up the northern trail to a small depot. Mr. Chisum’s been a great source of income for us.”

  Smythe said, “Aye, but you can only hit a man so many times, then you ruin him for the future.”

  Colby said, “Protecting future investments. That’s wise.”

  “Chisum and I came to terms.”

  “He turns your brother over, and you allow him to get back to his cattle business?”

  Dev retook the warden’s chair. “Forget turn over. My brother’s got my blood in his eye. He needs putting down.”

  Smythe said, “Aye, the mad-dog kill.”

  Dev handed the target file back to Colby, who flipped to the last pages, stopping at a fading, glued-together photograph of the Bishop brothers. John, about ten, his brother a few years older, standing together, with hair and collars slicked, and grinning wide. Dev’s hand was on John’s shoulder, which is where the photograph had been cut in half.

  “My father had that done, figuring it would please our mother. She’s the one who cut it, but Pa sent me that piece during my last stretch.”

  “When you were condemned to death?”

  Dev frowned. “I changed them plans.”

  “And so you did. In the next days, we’ll right the family wrongs. Are the descriptions of the special shotgun accurate?”

  Smythe said, “That came from me. I saw it up close and lived to tell the tale.”

  “It’ll make a fine addition to my collection.”

  * * *

  The buffalo hide had just enough give for the shears to cut through. It was an older piece, curling at the edges, but Linus worked through them, cutting it into a triangle, then fastening it to a pony-sized bridle strap.