Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  He looked up from his craft at John Bishop, who was leaning against the workbench, affixing springs to either side of the shotgun support pieces.

  Linus said, “I did the best I could to curl that wire tight. You sure those are small enough?”

  Bishop screwed the springs down between the metal sections that bent at his elbow and supported the gun barrels along the arm extension, making a shock absorber. He gave the left side one last turn. “Fine job.”

  “That should take up some of that kick.”

  “And kick it does, like a blind Missouri mule.”

  Linus laughed, holding up the buffalo hide. “This’ll go around your elbow so you can brace it without plowing backwards whenever you shoot.”

  “You’re good at what you do, Linus.”

  “I don’t get to work on things like this. Usually, I’m just shoeing the horses, the few we got left anyway. I’m not bellyaching”—Linus held up the completed elbow brace—“but this was a hill to climb. I like to test what I can do.”

  “You did right well.”

  “A fix up isn’t the same as starting from scratch. The man who made this rig knew what he was about.”

  Bishop gave it a moment, then said, “Yes, he knew about weapons.” He steadied himself as the blacksmith secured the shotgun rig’s straps across his shoulders. Bishop adjusted the gun’s soft-lined arm-cup around his right elbow joint, finding comfort, as Linus threaded the chain from the triggers to the small silver ring that anchored it to his left side.

  Linus said, “Give it some slack.”

  Bishop held out his arm as if being fitted for a Sunday suit, and Linus cut two links from the chain, then used pliers to twist it back together. Bishop lowered his arm, the trigger line pulling exactly as it was supposed to.

  Linus slipped the elbow pad onto Bishop’s arm, then fastened the small strap. “Between this pad and those springs, that mule kick should be a kiss in the dark.”

  Bishop stepped away from the table, cocking his arm, the shotgun snapping into place.

  Linus stood back to admire the whole apparatus. “That’s quite a rig, and now it’s Mr. Chisum’s.”

  Bishop shook his head. “No matter what happens on this drive, what I’m doing isn’t for sale.”

  “Glad to hear it. He’s a good man, but he owns everything. I’d like to breathe somebody’s else’s air for a while, but I know I probably never will.”

  Bishop slipped on his shirt.

  Linus helped with the buttons. “You do need two hands, Doc.”

  Bishop studied Linus’s face. “Who’s the Apache, your mother or your father?”

  Linus handed Bishop his beaver pelt bandolier. “My mother is Jicarilla. Chisum lets her have her own place two miles down the road. Most take me for Mex.”

  Bishop took the bandolier lace in his teeth, tied it off like a bandage with his left, before filling it with shells. “Reach my medical bag.”

  From the bag on the workbench, Linus took out a folded sheet of paper laying on top of the instruments.

  Bishop slipped the last shotgun shells into the bandolier sleeve, nodded at the paper. “Can you make that? I figured it out this morning, but my writing’s pure chicken scratch.”

  Linus laid the paper flat and smiled. “No worries. I’m schooled to read.” He studied the drawing and the dimensions on the page. “Uh-huh. I can do this, and it’ll be a good job, too.”

  “No doubt.”

  Linus regarded the plans. “Doc, that gun, that was your idea? Like this here?”

  “It was in my mind, and I got the right man to build it. He had two hands.”

  “Funny. We’re rigging you with this double-barrel, then you give me this to build. You’re really two different kinds, ain’t you?”

  Bishop said, “Like being half Apache?”

  Linus didn’t disagree.

  Bishop brought his shoulders together. He felt the chain working in concert with the straps, become taut, and set to pull the triggers. All in one motion.

  Linus inched the medical bag toward him. “Doc, looks like you’re all set.”

  * * *

  Colby had a bolt-action rifle in his hand when the fire erupted again in the back of his throat, choking him. He grabbed hold of the foot of the bed, spit bloody strings into the washbasin, gulped water from a pitcher, then spit again.

  “Try this here.” April Showers held out her breathing mask.

  Colby took it, placing it on his face as he’d seen her do. She cranked the small handle on the device, circulating cool, oxygenated air through the rubber tubing to the mask, easing the coughing. He lay the rifle on the bed and sat at its foot, holding the mask over his mouth and nose as the little girl continued working the machine.

  “Helps a lot, don’t it? You don’t have to say nothing, because you can’t. I know.”

  A moment later, Colby wiped the corners of his mouth with his stained handkerchief, gulping his words. “You came just in time. You’re right. That’s a marvelous thing.”

  “Yeah, works good for me. I wanted to see what kind of gun you was going to take.”

  Colby stood. “Child, the less you know, the better.” He splashed water on his face.

  “You people always say things like that, like I ain’t old enough. I saw the beating. And didn’t I just save your hide?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Colby dried his face, the spell over. He was tall and intimidating as he regarded the little girl with the disastrous face. “You’re not the type I normally do business with, but I’ll trade you. Five minutes on your machine, for the knife you took this morning.”

  April squinted, wrinkled her snout. “Won’t tell nobody I got it?”

  “If you don’t reveal that I needed that mask.”

  April shrugged. “Not sure what that means, but I’ll keep your secret, if I get to keep the blade.”

  Colby said, “Just use it with discretion.”

  * * *

  Linus turned the iron plating in the coal scuttle with a pair of long tongs, heating the tip of the iron, then pounding the end to a thin, flat point. He cooled it in a metal wash kettle full of water.

  Steam rose as Chisum rode into the stable and got down from his horse. “Did you see Dr. Bishop?”

  Linus put the thin, iron plate back in the scuttle, heating the tip to refine its shape, then took the horse’s reins. “Yes, sir. The doctor’s ready for the drive.”

  “Good.” Chisum glanced into the largest stall. “Where’s Hurricane?”

  Linus relieved the horse of its saddle. “Mr. Farrow’s still got him.”

  “Let me know when they return. That’s a fine horse, though. Fine ride.”

  “He’s one of yours.”

  Chisum stepped out of the stable’s back door, walking to the house, where the young maid waited for him by the kitchen. He didn’t say a word, but placed his hand on her belly before going inside.

  * * *

  Blinded again by tears, Rose pushed through her rage, keeping her horse running full-out. The animal broke hard through the tall grass, finding the road to the Lincoln train station, and followed it by instinct.

  They came in fast, and she twisted the reins, pulling the mare back. Her eyes were soaking, but she hadn’t intended to end up there. Rose wanted someplace else. A clearing. The edge of a brook. But it is where the horse had brought her. Stopping short. Snorting.

  “It’s all right,” she said, patting his neck. She rode along the trail from the road to the loading platform, before pulling up. Two men from the ranch loaded a coffin from a wagon to a boxcar. A name was written on the coffin lid in chalk, and she recognized it as one of those killed in the massacre the day before.

  Rose turned the horse toward a stretch of grass on the other side of the street, swung off the mare without hitching it, and settled on a park bench that had been dedicated to John Chisum by the town council. Arms tight across herself, Rose rocked back and forth, saying something only she could hear
.

  Hurricane nickered, and Rose looked up. Chisum’s best mount was tethered to the only rail across the street. She stood and walked to the horse.

  Farrow watched through the window of the small café directly opposite the train station. Rose ran her hands across Hurricane’s back, finding the Chisum brand before kissing him on the nose. His lips curled back, and she fed him an apple core she had in her shirt pocket.

  Virgil Chaney was at the small table, too, as were a sarsaparilla, still foaming, a short whiskey, and three boxes of Havana cigars. He examined the contents of an envelope, counting the money inside. Satisfied with the total, he looked at Farrow, who was still staring into the street.

  “Something’s truly captured your attention.”

  Farrow said without turning his head, “Just a minor annoyance outside.”

  “Worth a picture?”

  “Hardly.”

  Chaney held the envelope just out of reach. “You’re guaranteeing that Bishop’s riding out with Chisum’s men?”

  Farrow faced him. “I’ve been working to make this happen for months. He’s going. All the directions, everything I gave you, are accurate.”

  Chaney handed over the cash, smoothed his lapels. “You do very well for yourself, Mr. Farrow.”

  Farrow slipped it in his jacket without looking inside. “You know, I actually like Dr. Bishop, but his death has presented a number of opportunities.”

  While tapping the camera case on the chair next to him, Chaney said, “I don’t want to kill him per se, but it’s imperative that I witness it.”

  Farrow looked back into the street to see that Rose had ridden off then turned to Chaney. “And you will. Just don’t forget to give proper attention to the entire event. The massacre will be newsworthy.”

  “Sir, above all else, I am a journalist.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Riding Hurt

  “That thing won’t go off, will it?”

  Bishop was on the edge of a low-slung cot, the shotgun locked by his side, as he checked Maynard’s dressing. “Not if I don’t want it to. One of you put some antiseptic on this cotton, will you?”

  A cowhand with a bandage swathing half his face dripped pine tar syrup onto the cotton ball Bishop was holding. He wiped the dried blood from Maynard’s stitching and the swelling around it. “Wrap it again, but tighter this time. He needs the pressure.”

  Maynard bent forward, pain gut-punching him as the cowhand relaced the bandage. Bishop put his supplies back into the med kit and tossed a roll of gauze to an injured drover on a far bed, who caught it.

  Maynard winced. “You say I can’t go on this drive, that Chisum won’t allow it. But that’d be a damn fool thing to do. I been in on this war since the start.”

  “Oh, going to see it through?”

  “I don’t know what your stake is”—Maynard shifted, pain from the gun wound slicing him—“but I don’t leave no fight unfinished.”

  Bishop snapped the med kit shut. “What if I said you weren’t in any condition to finish it?”

  “Then I’d kill ya.”

  A cowboy said, “Hell, Maynard, you wouldn’t even be here except the doctor dragged your worthless ass out of that field!”

  Maynard said to the cowboys in the bunkhouse, “I know he done a good thing, but now he’s got to do another by not gettin’ in my way!”

  Bishop stood, the rest of the house watching from beds and corners, waiting for the shotgun to snap upward, taking a firing stance. It stayed locked. “A lot of these men need time to heal, but I can’t truly stop anybody.”

  Maynard grinned. “Especially me?”

  “I wouldn’t even try. You’re strong as an ox, twice as stupid. A few hours on a horse, and those stitches start coming apart? You might be in for a surprise.”

  “If I’m on that horse, I’ll take care of the rest.”

  * * *

  Rose’s kiss was brief, just brushing Claude Ray’s cheek, before she opened the corral gate and brought out her brown and white stallion. He supported himself on the fence, watching her tie down her bedroll and a Winchester scabbard.

  She had washed and changed clothes, but seemed more exhausted than before, her eyes and mouth permanently down.

  Claude Ray said, “Honey, this is all going to be taken care of, but you’ve been real lucky, so far. Those fence-cutters? You could have gotten really hurt.”

  Rose checked her mount’s new shoes, and Claude Ray tried again. “We owe Mr. Chisum, but this ain’t like it was before. How many did we lose yesterday? You won’t have a third of the men we had at the Pecos.”

  He took a step on his peg, grabbing hold of a fence post. ”I don’t want you to end up like me . . . or worse. That’d kill us both. Mr. Chisum’s a good man. He’ll understand.”

  Two cowboys jumped the rail fence, slipped ropes over their horses, and brought them out of the corral.

  One of them said, “Claude, I wish I was stayin’ here with you, keepin’ the frying pan hot!”

  Claude Ray let it go. He said to Rose, “We’ll figure another way to pay Mr. Chisum for his kindness.”

  Rose pulled herself into the saddle and looked down at Claude Ray looking up at her.

  He said, “I know you’re hurting.”

  She put a hand on his cheek before falling in with the other riders.

  * * *

  “Paradise, you know it?”

  Dev Bishop and Tomlinson were in the prison yard as the Fire Riders packed gear and horses, putting on tunics and sheathing blades to their belts. Dev checked an army carbine and handed it off while Tomlinson referred to his notebook, looking up his PARADISE entry.

  “I’ve not been to that part of Colorado, but we’ve transferred over fifty thousand dollars to their bank. I’m unclear as to the nature of this investment.”

  “You’re meeting a woman who calls herself Widow Kate. Can’t miss her. Round as a fat mule’s ass, lives in a wheelchair. She’s behind this deal.”

  Tomlinson said, “I’ll put her, and it, under a magnifying glass.”

  “Check her plans, verify the money she’s kicking in. If it’s real, the whole town could be ours. When you’re back, the drive’ll be over. We’ll have a fine herd to add to the stores and maybe Paradise, too.”

  Tomlinson said, “And the question of your brother will have been answered.”

  Dev looked to Tomlinson. “You’ve a way of saying things without saying them, bookkeeper.” He started across to the camouflaged ammo cache. “It edges me.”

  Hunk was beside the break in the outer wall where the hand bombs and dynamite were stored behind a painted canvas. He hefted a ten-count crate of Adams grenades onto the back of a pack mule and lashed it secure.

  Dev said, “Don’t be blowing holes in that cattle. It’s supposed to be fine breed stock.”

  “These are for the Chisum men. I know what to do.”

  “I know. You’re commanding this, Hunk.”

  Hunk cocked his hat to one side, away from his missing ear and the stitches that had sewed his wound together. “So, maybe I’m worth more than my fists?”

  Dev nodded. “More . . . or you wouldn’t be riding for me.”

  “Then what about the dandy man?”

  “He bushwhacked you.”

  “Never again.”

  “He’s on his own special business. Let him do his work. You take care of Chisum’s men and the herd.”

  Hunk knotted the line tying the crate. “Oh yes. The easy part.”

  Dev said, “Spill the right blood, show everyone they’d be damn fools to go against us, and you’ll never have to worry about anything. Ever.”

  Hunk took Dev’s hands, smothering them with his own. “No blood on these”—he dropped them—“but I have family, and they need taking care of.”

  Dev took a cigar from his shirt pocket, cut and lit it. “Bogdan, that’s why I want you for this. You’re a man who knows how to make a right choice.”

  It was the first
time Dev had called Hunk by his proper name.

  Hunk extended one of his paws. “I have gratitude. Sunt recunoscator.”

  * * *

  At the Chisum ranch, John Bishop put gun oil, a clean rag, and two boxes of .12-gauge shells into his medical kit before tucking it into his saddlebag. He got onto the bay, his long coat draping, hat pulled down, double-barreled rig in place.

  Claude Ray limped to him, peg leg dragging, waving an arm. “Dr. Bishop, this is your business. My wife’s not right-headed. She shouldn’t be going, but grief won’t let her stay.”

  Bishop said, “I’ll try to turn her around.” He gathered the reins in his left hand. “You should see Linus.”

  Claude Ray glanced at the blacksmith shop, turned back to say something else to Bishop, but he was gone.

  * * *

  In the prison yard, the Fire Riders brought their horses to the center, tightening saddles and cinches.

  By the weapons stores, Colby worked with Toothless, finishing the prep of his special ammunition. Toothless fit a lead slug into a casing held in the bullet vise before Colby pressed the side of a Chinese dragon dagger into the soft lead, then quickly pulled it back, the pattern of the knife’s tail perfectly dividing the tip of the bullet into small sections.

  Toothless cackled like hell and brought out more slugs he’d poured from a mold, fitting them into the brass he’d laid out.

  Dev watched the procedure. “Doesn’t the slug flatten when it hits the chest?”

  Colby patterned another slug. “On the contrary. These are high-velocity rounds, so the tip splits apart after it enters the target, then moves through the insides, stirring them.” He made a circular motion with his hands. “Like a cook with a good stew. Much better than shrapnel.”

  “Whatever you say”—Dev examined a completed bullet—“as long as you’ve got what you need for the job.”

  Colby took a piece of ice from a small bowl. “I’m very satisfied.” He put it in his mouth like a chaw of tobacco, cooling his throat.

  GOOD FRIEND CHISUM I HAVE SENT

  ALONG SOME OF MY BEST MEN TO ASSIST