Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  IN YOUR MISSION. IT IS UNFORTUNATE

  THAT WE FIND OURSELVES HAVING TO

  RECLAIM OUR LANDS AND BUSINESSES

  FROM THESE MARAUDERS BUT IT MUST

  BE DONE AND I HAVE EVERY FAITH IN MR

  GARRETT TO ACCOMPLISH THIS. I AM

  GUILTY WITH REGRET THAT AGE PREVENTS

  ME FROM RIDING ALONGSIDE BUT I

  WOULD ONLY BE A HINDRANCE.

  I WISH YOU ALL GODSPEED. KNOW THAT

  ALL I HAVE IS AT YOUR DISPOSAL.

  SINCERELY HENRY TUNSTALL.

  Chisum was on the crest, reading the wire a final time, then pocketing it, and watching the drovers start the herd out of the valley toward the northern trail. The cattle were obedient, with a few stragglers easily shooed back into line.

  He loved to watch the movement from the back of the herd to the front—the wave of motion and muscles under hair as the animals followed each other to the next place for water and the place for camp after that.

  Chisum missed the sound, the dust, the coffee. Missed being a part of it.

  Pat Garrett rode up. “Those jingle-bobs will fetch a great price!”

  “That’s not what they’re supposed to fetch.”

  Garrett dropped his voice. “I know that, Mr. Chisum. And the men know it, too.”

  “Who’s riding”

  Garrett pointed out the crew. “I picked our fellas who’re best with a rifle to put them around the town. Maynard’s still bandaged up, but he can fight. Rose insisted, and she’s a better shot than most. And him.” He nodded to a young man in a sombrero, taking a wide turn around the back of the herd, getting between a couple strays and the stream. “Name’s McCarty. He’s one of Mr. Tunstall’s. They say he’s too quick to shoot, but that might be a good thing.”

  “Remember the time when only the trail boss needed to carry a gun? Man put a rifle on his saddle if he wanted something special for chuck. Now, we have to ride out with enough guns to face a band of Commancheros.”

  Garrett said, “These are violent times.”

  Chisum stayed on his men and cattle. “Patrick, this drive’s to end the war, so we can get back to business.”

  “It’s what we all want, sir.”

  “Back to business, Patrick.” Chisum let his words settle, then added, “Just don’t be foolhardy.”

  “I’ll do what’s best, sir.”

  Chisum looked back to Garrett, who tipped his hat and rode down to the moving herd. Something weighing him down, the cattleman climbed onto his horse slowly as Bishop brought the bay to the vantage point and stopped.

  Bishop said, “Well, Farrow told me you always get what you pay for.”

  Chisum eyed the bandolier, the leather-gloved left hand, and the shotgun, steady in the special sling hanging from Bishop’s saddle so it would rest parallel to his leg. “As much a warrior as any I’ve seen coming across the flats.”

  Bishop said, “Still a one-armed man, Mr. Chisum.”

  “You’re facing down our enemies, Doctor.” Chisum wasn’t looking at Bishop when he said, “I wish you all the luck.”

  “I never had much of that. Just strange chances.”

  * * *

  Smythe had put on his best double-breasted jacket and had polished his shoes even though his dead legs would drag them through the slop of the prison yard. He crutched his way down the stairs from the gallery of wardens to where his men had brought their horses into formation.

  He pulled himself to the weapons rack as Riders took the last of the carbines without chatter, only purpose. They nodded and pulled on their red hoods. The horses stirred and there was the rattle of tack as the men took their mounts, but no other sound.

  No jokes, no passing of whiskey.

  Dev Bishop faced the yard and Riders from the gates, standing on several blocks of stacked granite like it was a pulpit. He acknowledged Smythe, then raised a hand.

  Tomlinson, flanked by his snouted daughters, leaned between them. “Sing.”

  “Rolling home, rolling home; rolling home across the sea, rolling home to dear ol’ England, rolling home, fair land to thee.”

  Smythe watched Dev drop his hand, signaling the Riders to move out. In his fire-red tunic, Hunk rode point, holding his right hand to the temple just above his missing ear in the European style of salute. He sliced the air as he rode past Dev. Colby followed two horses back, his select arsenal secured behind his saddle.

  The other riders, horses freshly painted as skeletal demons, all rode with formality, respecting their mission training. Rifles, specially made battle axes, and long swords hung from belts and saddle sheaths.

  In perfect union with the movements of the troop, the girls’ voices lifted the sea shanty Smythe had chosen. A troop. That’s how he saw them. He straightened himself on the crutches to stand tall, beyond his useless legs. The nerves were dead, but he wasn’t. His troop was ready for battle, and if he couldn’t feel anything below his hips, he could feel pride.

  Tethered to the last rider and weighted with grenades, the pack mule was the last to clear the gates, just as the girls sang their final note. April Showers threw a quick punch at her yellow-haired sister. Tomlinson yanked them apart.

  Smythe called out, “Girls, you did me proud!”

  Dev moved across the yard as other men stowed horses, stolen rifles, and supplies.

  Smythe nodded a greeting. “You stood inspection. Did everyone pass muster?”

  “They’re not ragtag anymore. Your doing, Sergeant.”

  Smythe crutched himself along as Dev walked. “If Chisum delivers your brother, then you’ve broken him. Every cattleman in the territory will be running scared when they read about it. That’s one hell of a thing, boy-o.”

  “When you’d come down to the tombs and beat me so I couldn’t eat for a week, ever think it would end up like this?”

  “Things can change.” Smythe stopped, slashing a line in the dirt with the tip of his crutch. “That’s the way I used to think. You crossed a line I wouldn’t, which is how come you were a prisoner and I was the sergeant of the guards.” He dragged himself across the line, his feet erasing it.

  Dev said, “And now you’ve crossed it?”

  “It never truly existed. We were always of the same stripe. We just wore different clothes,” Smythe said. “Sometimes a uniform’s nothing but a clean rag. It took me a while to come to that.”

  Dev said, “Major Beaudine told me that a man’s only measure is the loyalty he inspires.”

  “See, you didn’t leave me on that mountain with a bullet in my back. That’s why I’m still here.” Smythe put his crutches forward, pulled himself along. “I’m glad that lunatic died screaming, but he wasn’t wrong.”

  * * *

  The kneecap was plated tin that Linus had hammered around a section of fence post, rounding it out in Chisum’s stable. He’d cut according to Bishop’s plans, hinging it, then fastening iron struts on either side that curved to an ankle as a leg would. The base was a thin piece of iron Linus had forged to a length matching Claude Ray’s foot.

  “The doc wanted you to have something better than that damn peg you’re always dragging.” Linus held out the artificial limb, but Claude Ray made no move, staying by the stable entrance.

  “Linus, that’s really something. Probably too good for me, but I’ll wait till my wife comes back before trying it.”

  “You don’t want to surprise her?”

  Claude Ray said, “Rose was there when they outfitted me with this piece of pine. I want her here for this, too.”

  Linus worked the knee’s smooth motion. “You could take her dancing.”

  * * *

  Bishop stayed back, trailing the Angus herd as they spread out across acres of scrubbed grassland. Pat Garrett peeled to the side, giving signals to the outriders who were threading their way around, keeping the cattle moving toward a cut in the hills that led to the northern Colorado trail.

  Bishop watched Maynard struggle in his saddle, shifti
ng his pain, while the new kid in the sombrero rode the length of the herd, back and forth, whistling and yee-hawing the cattle’s pace.

  Rose rode drag behind them all, the animals kicking up a moving curtain of dust and hair to ride through. She pulled her kerchief up to her nose as Bishop moved up beside. The bay stayed perfectly in step with Rose’s stallion, keeping Bishop close enough to hear over the sounds of the drive.

  “Break now, you’ll be back at the ranch in time for lunch.”

  Rose leaned from her saddle, swatted a straggling cow behind the shoulders to get it to catch up with the others. “That sounds like Claude Ray talking.”

  “I told him I’d try.”

  “I figured you’d understand my doing this better than anyone.”

  Bishop said, “You’re not facing one man. This is a tactic to bring down an attack.”

  Rose didn’t look at Bishop, but the animals and cowboys in front of her. “I know what I’m riding into. I’ve done it before.”

  “Brave as anyone I’ve ever seen, Rose, but you’ve got a husband. I’m alone. That’s the difference.”

  Rose pulled her kerchief. “It wasn’t my nephew they killed. It was my baby boy . . . from before Claude Ray. They killed my son. I never—” She broke from Bishop, then rode to catch up with the herd.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Assassins

  “Sure tastes like Colorado, don’t it?”

  A Fire Rider, hood bunched up, licked coffee from his thick mustache then poured himself a little more from the fire by the chuck wagon. The other riders were scattered about the orchard. Another small campfire burning at the far end showed rows of apple trees and inky silhouettes of the horses nibbling at them. The moon was large and low, with a light spring snow dancing in front of it.

  Mustache drank again, melting the snowflakes that had been caught below his nose. He turned to Colby. “Don’t know what you’re missing. This is damn good coffee.”

  Colby was sitting by a small kerosene lamp, making notes in the Bishop shotgun file. There were scribbled surmises about the rig’s black powder grain, figuring something heavier given the amount of buckshot dug from the Riders already killed. He made a column of numbers of possible extra shells Bishop carried, figuring how fast he’d run out of ammo, and the rig’s original make, in case he’d faced it before.

  He made another notation, then finally said, “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” His finger pressed the bullet wound on his neck, the quick sting of pain keeping him focused as he wrote.

  “You know we got orders not to talk to you, to leave you to your own patch?”

  Colby glanced up at the figure that was blocking his light. “And you’re disobeying those instructions. Why?”

  “Find out what makes you so special. Maybe I’d like to improve myself.”

  “I doubt that, and I doubt this.”

  Mustache backed on his heels as Colby stood and walked toward the chuck. He called out to Colby’s back, “Walking away? That’s a grievous insult.”

  Colby took a closer look at the last piece of peach pie and checked the night’s bean pot that was hanging over a flame. “You’re trying to start something, but I can’t imagine why. You’re not insulted. You’re finding an excuse. We all have our work, so let’s leave it at that.”

  Mustache said, “How much you getting paid for yours?”

  Colby stayed by the chuck wagon and called out to the riders who were just beyond the firelight, their red tunics browning in the shadows. “Bogdan! You’re supposed to be in command here. Are you going to take control of this?”

  Hunk stood, backed by a line of Riders. Two had drawn pistols, the others were waiting, fingers tapping guns and knives hanging from their belts.

  Hunk said, “These men are my command. Mr. Bishop said you were on your own.”

  Mustache’s face was suddenly close to Colby. “You ain’t part of this raid.”

  Colby was steady. “I don’t owe an explanation, but I’ll say I have a special mission. My own raid, if it makes you feel better.”

  “Special? With them rifles?”

  Colby said, “Bogdan, you should stop this man.”

  “He said you was on your own. You said it, too.” Mustache kept pressing forward, chest out, his chin a locked challenge. “This ‘special mission’ sounds kind of piddling. Hell, I’d bet real money I could do your work better than you, make that ‘special’ pay. I don’t think Mr. Bishop cares who pulls the triggers tomorrow, ain’t that so, Hunk?”

  Hunk stayed put. “He just wants the job done. What we trained for.”

  “Your training seems to ebb and flow. I was very impressed with our exit this morning, but not so much by your actions now. You seem determined to challenge me.” Colby had moved to the back of the chuck wagon, sorting through the salt, ground pepper, and tins of spices. He palmed a small can, popping the lid with his thumb. He kept his back to Mustache, feeling him advance.

  Mustache said, “Well, that clears the road, don’t it?”

  The powdered mustard flew from Colby’s hand as he turned, a splash of yellow directly into Mustache’s eyes. He yelled, tumbled back, and Colby shot him in the chest three times with a small-caliber Smith & Wesson he had in his belt.

  It happened so fast, the echo of Mustache’s voice and the roar of the gunshots faded against the distant hills at the same time. Mixing there, then dying in the rocks.

  The light spring snow dusted Mustache’s face on top of the mustard, slopping it into a yellow mask. The coffee cup never left his hand. Colby tucked the pistol behind his back again and took a few steps away from the corpse as the other Riders came in for a closer look.

  One said, “damn fool,” and another laughed in the back of his throat.

  Colby said, “Gentlemen, I apologize. We have our separate missions and upbringing, but this should never have happened.”

  The Rider who’d choked out a laugh said, “Hell, this raid don’t depend on that jackass.”

  “What say you, Hunk? Was this some sort of last-minute test before the battle?” Colby pulled his watch chain from the small pocket on his vest and displayed Hunk’s ear that he’d threaded onto it. It had started to shrivel, but kept its shape. He gave it a little twirl, saying, “Eti un mgar.”

  Standing in front of a fire now, Hunk didn’t answer the insult, just watched as Colby put his trophy back in his pocket. Finally he barked to the others, “We all got much work to do! Someone check the horses, make sure none have bolted.”

  Colby stepped over the body, settled by his lamp, opened the Bishop file again, and continued his notes.

  * * *

  John Bishop held the Police Gazette at an angle, catching a bit of light from the Chisum chuck fire to see the pen and ink rendering. The double barrels were blasting at the same time, tearing through the guts of two finely dressed men, while two more lay on the bank floor in pools of black blood. His teeth were a wide grimace, his one hand locked in an angry fist. Just behind him, what looked like a widow woman was on her knees, praying.

  “Too many teeth, and I think they’ve got me a little short.” On a blanket, resting against his saddle, the rig off his arm and beside him, he flipped through the penny dreadful with his left hand, not giving further reaction to what he saw.

  McCarty shifted from one leg to the other, formally holding his sombrero, but not concealing his excitement. “Kept that magazine for better than a year. Always wanted to see the rig in person, see if it was true.”

  “Am I robbing the bank or protecting it?”

  “It don’t matter, does it? They wrote it up.”

  Bishop said, “They surely did.”

  “Well, can I? Look at the rig?” McCarty’s words were breathless, and Bishop gave him permission with a look.

  McCarty picked up the shotgun, handling it as if it were made of spun glass and antique gold. His smile split his face as he opened the side-breech, looked down the barrels, and checked the tightness of the triggers. He
whistled. “How fast are you with this thing?”

  “I’ve learned.”

  McCarty used both hands to lower the gun back onto the blanket, careful not to tangle the shoulder straps and trigger lines. “I’m good with a Colt, feels natural in my hand; most folks can’t see it leave my holster. But that double barrel, well, the way it’s rigged, it’s really a part of you.”

  After consideration, Bishop said, “It is. Now.”

  McCarty’s voice dropped. “How’s that feel? To be . . . the same as the gun?”

  “Not like this.” Bishop tapped the page, then handed back the Police Gazette, its cover screaming SHOTGUN—THE TERROR OF THE WEST! by Virgil Everett Chaney.

  Pat Garrett came down from the edge of the pine woods where the herd was tucked for the night. He was riding a hammerhead roan a good two hands taller than anyone else’s so he could look down on his men, even if they were saddling a good horse. He eyed McCarty from his saddle. “This one bothering you, Doctor?”

  Bishop said, “No, we’ve been having an interesting talk.”

  McCarty frowned. “You don’t have to be on me, Garrett. We all know why I’m here.”

  Garrett said, “And you’re gonna have a chance to prove your reputation real soon. Need you thinking clear. Get some rest.”

  McCarty threw Garrett a defiant salute and a quick laugh, then reached to shake Bishop’s empty right sleeve. He quickly switched to his left and said, “A lefty. It was nice to meet you, sir. Honor to be riding with you.” He got on his horse and rode to where a few drovers were catching sleep or coffee.

  Garrett dropped, pulling a bottle of bourbon from his saddle with him. In one motion, it was open and being poured into a shot glass with initials PJG engraved across it. He handed it to Bishop. “Gave it to myself for my birthday. A little something fine.”

  Bishop listened to the herd, watched the hired guns roll dice by the fire or practice their technique. They were flickers in the night, drawn in streaks of orange from the flames. One was spinning a Winchester from his hip then firing on an empty chamber. McCarty was laughing, showing off his lightning-quick draw.

  Bishop handed Garrett the empty glass. “They can’t wait.”