Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  White Fox folded the newspaper, the photographs seeming to hurt her, and put it neatly in the outer pocket of the duster. All very deliberate and with purpose.

  Three Chins watched. “I got that for you. Like I done all them magazines and everythin’ else about that Shotgun. You want to know so much about him, it’s like he was kin.” He looked away before asking, “Is he kin to you?”

  She said, “No.”

  “That’s good.” He moved closer, brushed the edge of the duster with the wagon spoke “You got yourself so wrapped up, I can hardly see nothing of you anymore. You shouldn’t hide like that.”

  “Not hiding.” She put her hand on top of his and guided it to the counter. “Three dollars, trade.”

  All three chins worked his smile. “You got yourself five hides. Now that’s only fifteen.” He strained behind the counter, retrieving a small boxed cavalry medical kit from behind the barrels then wiping dust off it with his elbow. “This is all you wanted last time, too. You doctoring?”

  Fox looked at him. “We have the need.”

  “You get your medicine when the army says so. They find out I’ve been trading out these kits, they’d have me in stocks for ten years. That’s a hell of risk, but I’d take it . . . for my wife.”

  She kept her hand on top of his, moving it gently. “You have one in town.”

  The old woman with the long knife rocked in her chair by the front of the trading post, watching White Fox put the Cheyenne war club back in her belt as she moved to her horse, put the medical kit in a deerskin sack that she slung across her back, then unhitched her painted mare.

  The old woman smiled all gums and never stopped her chair or whittling.

  Three Chins stood by the door, holding his swollen hand. He shouted, “That’s the second time you’ve busted my knuckles. There won’t be no third. You ain’t welcome here no more. Tell Dull Knife and the rest it’s your fault they can’t do no business!”

  Fox turned to Three Chins. “You have a cooler. Put your hand there.”

  “I don’t need no words from you. Here!” Three Chins hurled a stack of penny dreadfuls, newspaper clips, and flyers out the door, a strong Montana wind carrying them. “Them’s all about Shotgun! That one by your feet? Somebody’s even put up ten thousand dollars for his killing!”

  Fox picked up the bounty notice as Chins said, “You savvy that? Ten thousand dollars! I’d like to see you go after that money. Get yourself shot in half!”

  Three Chins looked to the old woman who’d carved the snout of a timber wolf out of sugar maple. “Grandma, you got nothing to do with this.” He slammed the door, throwing the wooden bolt from inside.

  The old woman kept carving. “He never was worth nothing, honey.”

  White Fox thanked her with a look, mounted the painted pony, and rode for the North Moccasin foothills, the Shotgun leaflets still scattering.

  * * *

  Hunk’s hands were free and his knee felt better. He adjusted the blood flow from the tourniquet as Bishop had showed him. He manipulated the saber handle, looked up, and saw the barrels of the shotgun rig leveled on him, even as Bishop was turned, talking to the man standing by the gated fence.

  They were on the first part of the Del Norte Toll Road, leading into the mining town, then the Blue Mountains. Bishop paid for their passing and was asking some questions of the toll taker, who answered with waving hands and pointing.

  Hunk watched, still captive, but not a prisoner . . . because prisoners were worth something. He thought about the men he’d been chosen to lead—or at least, friends he’d ridden with—and how they all wanted him dead. Because of what they thought he knew.

  That bit made Hunk laugh to himself as he regarded his massive, powerful hands. His only true worth. He’d torn off his red tunic and wore a dead friend’s coat with a large, bloodstained rip made by a cavalry sword. That made him laugh, too.

  The toll taker was excited to see “that shotgun” in person and opened the gate. Bishop nodded his thanks and brought his horse around. He and Hunk rode through at the same time, the shotgun aimed at Hunk. Bishop’s eyes were fixed on the road leading to the distant town ahead. He was keeping his own pace, his own thoughts, not having said a word since they’d fought the Fire Riders at their campsite the night before.

  The horses were fed and watered, the afternoon bright, and for Hunk, the Colorado sky as open as he could want. Everything around them, the road and the miles of yellow-green to the mountains, was hopeful.

  The rig stayed steadily on him. Bishop could take him out with the slightest gesture of his body. If Hunk broke his horse into a run, he wouldn’t make it.

  He said, “I told you where your brother was.”

  “You did. Finally.”

  “The prison in Rawlins.”

  Bishop adjusted his shoulders, moving the rig with both barrels directly at Hunk’s face. “Nothing decent there. You said you didn’t even know how many men were there.”

  “I said it changes.”

  “And you didn’t know where my brother does his business.”

  “They never let me up there. They wanted me out riding.”

  Bishop said, “They led you to slaughter.”

  Hunk said, “I know they want me dead, so I’ll take you to the fortress, but we’re going deeper into Colorado now.”

  “Other business first.”

  “Where we are going, is it to kill someone? Of course. What else?”

  Bishop turned to Hunk. His eyes had cleared the blood wash from the night before, but his face was still a mask. “It’s to see someone who wants to kill me.”

  * * *

  Colby held the Smith & Wesson Rimfire by its small wooden handle, thinking of the first time he’d ever used such a weapon.

  The boy who had bound him to the sheep shearing chair was standing not five feet away. He was several years younger than Colby’s youngest kill, and the thought of targeting a boy so close in age to his own son gave him pause. He didn’t like to think himself capable of that, even as a moneyed assignment.

  The thought shattered as quickly as it had come to him. “Simon, take this.”

  Colby gently positioned Simon’s fingers around the Rimfire’s handle, then lowered the boy’s arm, letting the gun hang. “Feel the weight first, get used to that against your wrist, yes? That’s what you have to get used to, and then bring it up.”

  Simon lifted the weapon. “It’s not that heavy. I thought a pistol would be more difficult to handle.”

  Colby said, “It’s still too big for your brother.”

  Simon wasn’t sure if he should smile at the remark. He looked at Jacob, who was sitting by one of the fence posts, giggling. His nose wrinkled as a lamb flopped onto its belly in front of him, wiggling for attention.

  Simon was trying to imagine his body and manner stiff. “Any gun is too big for his hands. I hope that always will be.”

  “Is that what your father would want?”

  Simon cracked off a shot, not hitting a well bucket on a tree stump. The lamb bleated and ran away at the noise. Colby helped Simon steady his hand, before a harsh cough turned him away. He covered his mouth with a monogrammed handkerchief, spotting it with blood.

  “Mr. Colby?”

  “I’m fine. You’re the one who must do the work.” He mopped moisture from around his eyes, caught a breath. “It takes time to know how to shoot properly.”

  “I would never touch a handgun if there was drink available. Never. It is important to me that you know that.”

  Colby put a hand on Simon’s shoulder, patting his starched shirt. “You’re a responsible young man. I’m leaving this pistol and some cartridges with you. I want you to practice, though.”

  Simon lowered the gun again, then raised it to position. “Mr. Colby, this is not how I assumed things would go between us.”

  “If a stranger came onto my property, and I doubted him, and had that chair? I’d do the same. Very creative. But I only fell into yo
ur fence.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand that now.”

  “And I never was here to do you any harm.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand that, as well.”

  Colby shucked the one round fire and loaded the pistol’s revolving cylinder. “I’ve slept, am healed well enough, bandaged up, and had some decent stew. Making sure you can defend your home seemed like an appropriate way to pay back your hospitality before riding on.”

  “It’s appreciated.”

  He handed Simon the gun. “But if I was here for the wrong reasons, you need to know how to handle a proper weapon.”

  “Did you teach all of this to your son?”

  Colby dabbed his bloody mouth. “No, his life doesn’t require it.”

  “My father would say he was fortunate. It’s not easy to be here, to protect this place.”

  “Now, that’s a steady hand. Good. Your father’s going to be very proud when he returns.”

  Simon turned again to his brother. “Jacob, check the stalls. See about the water.”

  The four-year-old wobbled for the barn, a few lambs tagging behind him. He slipped in the wet grass, came up laughing. Simon waited for his brother to reach the open side of the barn and start crawling through the slat fence before turning to Colby. “My father is gone. Not coming back. Jacob doesn’t know.”

  “Run off by the cattlemen?”

  “No sir. He drowned in the Little Colorado. He was helping build the ferry down by the river crossing and was caught under the boat. I asked if it might have been drink, and the ferryman wouldn’t say, but I feel sure.”

  Colby turned Simon to him, looking directly into his wide eyes. “Son, I have to cross the river, to find the bad man I’ve been tracking.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. We found some of your papers over by the fence you knocked down. Do you recall that?”

  Colby allowed a smile. “I do, indeed.”

  Simon held up the pistol. “We never had a near crossing before. My father would have to ride a full day out of his way to find a shallow. This crossing would be his gift to you for helping my brother and myself.”

  “This will be a fine help, son.”

  “He’s an outlaw, the one you’re after?”

  Colby said, “The man obeys only his own laws. So, I’d say that qualifies.”

  “You considered your answer carefully, like a teacher. And he only has one arm, yes?”

  Simon straightened his white shirt, checked his collar button as if centering himself before raising the pistol to the position Colby had shown him. He fired three shots. One of them sent the bucket spinning away.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Blind Dead

  He claimed everyone called him Old Chaw. His legs had been amputated at the waist. He’d strapped wooden blocks to his hands with oil-stained belt leather and planted them on the floor in front of him, leapfrogging forward using his arms and shoulders. His Union tunic was worn to tatters, the coattails ragged to nothing after dragging behind him for years, but the gold sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves shone like they’d just been stitched on with new thread.

  Chaw said, “The crazy bastard’s out back.” He moved faster than most men walked, half-rolling around corners, then jumping three steps ahead.

  Bishop followed him into the rooming house, and Hunk walked stiff kneed beside him.

  Set off from Del Norte’s central street and flanked by stock pens and loading platforms, the house had been a day lodge for teamsters. As Del Norte grew, businesses pushed in other directions, forgetting that side of town and the men living there. Now it was a place for soldiers who’d run out their pensions and their road.

  Everything about it, even under a clear sky, had surrendered.

  Chaw stopped at the kitchen door barely on its hinges and looked up at Bishop. “Where’d you lose your arm? My legs are somewhere at Chickamauga.”

  “Mine was after the war.”

  “After? It’s still goin’ on, ain’t it?”

  As Bishop held open the kitchen door with the rig, Chaw said, “You didn’t lose nothing. You traded up!”

  They moved inside, a pot of sour coffee boiling over on a rusting two-burner. In the rest of the kitchen were pots with week-old beans, stale bread by the sink pump, and a sack of grits crawling with bugs.

  Chaw pulled a wrinkled tie from his pocket and held it out to Hunk. “Captain Creed puts a high regard on respect and dressing proper.”

  Hunk said, “Bishop knows this man. I don’t.”

  “He tell you he was blinded? But he’d still value that tie.”

  Hunk tied the tie as Chaw forwarded himself to the back door on his arms. “Where the hell you hail from, anyway?”

  The steps leading from the kitchen porch to the small yard next to the alleyway were missing the bottom two. Old Chaw made the jump, landing on the soft grass next to the pile of dirt from the open grave.

  “I asked for all things, that I might enjoy life; I was given life, that I might enjoy all things.” It was a young voice, but commanding, and continued as Bishop and Hunk stepped into the yard. “I got nothing that I asked for, but everything I hoped for.”

  They took a place next to four old men in army uniforms, standing around an open hole dug near the side fence. A body, wrapped in a moldy blanket and pieces of a battle standard, had been dumped there like so much old washing.

  The old men used rosewater to cover the smell of bottom-turned whiskey and their dirty uniforms, but the sweet just made it worse. The four mourners were of different ranks—one sported a Confederate long coat—but all looked spiritually caved in.

  Hector Hayward paused his reading, looking up from the prayer book as the Reb set Old Chaw on an apple crate, to make him the same height as everyone else.

  Hector saw the shotgun and his eyes went to the rig first, then to Bishop and Hunk. He tried not to react, but failed, losing his place on the page. Finding it, he continued. “Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered. I am among all men most richly blessed.” He closed the book, regarded the military men hanging on to each other, knowing what should come next.

  Old Chaw said, “It ain’t right if we don’t fire no salute. Owner don’t allow no firearms, says we’re too old to handle ’em.”

  The Reb took a cap and ball from his long coat and held it up with whiskey-shot hands. Chaw grabbed the pistol and looked to Bishop.

  Bishop said, “I didn’t come here for this.”

  “Then why the hell are you here?”

  Hector said, “Doctor, would it really put you out to do something for a dead man?”

  Bishop cocked the shotgun rig and stepped back. Extending his arm, he fired the first barrel into the sky, then the second.

  A murder of crows broke from a tree, and there were shouts from someplace across the back alley. The mourners began filling in the hole with flat spades.

  Chaw said to Bishop, “Ain’t none of this legal. You better git before the constable comes around. Tussling with you would be the biggest thing he ever done.”

  Hector was already up the steps, the kitchen door clack-slamming behind him. He stood by the attic doorway, pressing close to the raw-brick wall, bracing a Union service revolver with both hands, and aiming for a head shot to the next person in.

  The door was an old rug nailed to the top of the frame. Hector watched it move as it was pushed aside. There was a shadow. Closing his eyes, he locked the hammer with his thumb before the gun was knocked clean across the room by the shotgun barrel.

  The pistol landed without going off.

  “Nice weapon.” Bishop stepped in, followed by Hunk, who angled himself sideways, ducking the ceiling beams and dragging his injured leg.

  Hector shrugged. “It was Captain Creed’s. The one he lost in the river. I fished it out for him a year ago.”

  Bishop picked up the gun. “Hector, why’d you think you needed this?”

  “I got pretty scared when I saw you, sir. You weren’t . .
. expected.”

  “I wasn’t expecting the captain to be dead, but you sure as hell made me feel welcome.”

  “It’s just . . . your reputation now. It’s quite something.”

  “So now you’re afraid of me?”

  Bishop tossed the pistol onto one of two small beds in a windowless corner. “You never were before.”

  Around the beds were scattered copies of the Police Gazette, some old newspapers, a portable field telegraph with wires dangling from it. Patched trousers and two shirts hung on a line. All of which Hector was packing.

  Bishop picked up a beat-to-hell saddlebag and handed it off. “Don’t let me stop you, son.”

  Hector’s hair was darker and he was three inches taller than the last time Bishop had seen him but he still moved like a schoolboy unsure at the blackboard. Hector reached for one of the clean shirts as if he’d be shot in the back.

  Hunk tore it from the line. “You had a gun on us, boy. Act like it.”

  Bishop said to Hunk, “You wouldn’t know from the greeting, but this young man saved my life.”

  Hector put the shirt in the bag. “When we found you by the tracks, that was more blood than I could stand. I was sure you’d be dead by morning.”

  “The doc told me it was you who took me in.”

  “I figured I owed it.” Hector moved about the room, never turning his back, snatching up his belongings. “That Miss White Fox, she got me out of those woods, and the Captain, well, he didn’t want to see you die from the Fire Riders, not after they put us out.”

  “You helped me so Creed could come back and kill me himself?”

  “That was in his mind, yes sir.”

  Hunk laughed. “Boy, you were with the Riders?”

  Hector’s eyes locked on the bloody bandages around Hunk’s arm and chest, the corrupted leg outstretched. Hunk seemed monstrous to the boy as he dropped himself onto a bench, examining an empty vodka bottle that had rolled across the floor. “Why, yes sir. I surely was there with them. In that prison and everything.”

  Hunk pulled the cork.

  “A mule skinner gave that to the captain in trade for his army sheath. We traded off almost everything he had.”