Bishop kicked the stack of papers and digest magazines. “I’d think after you talked to the newspapers, you wouldn’t need money.”
“Well, they don’t pay much. When they’d write about you, the captain had me read it out loud and figure something else to say. I’d telegraph it in. I learned to use that key pretty good.” He put the portable telegraph kit next to his other belongings. “Is that why you’re here? What we said in the papers?”
“It’s how I found you.” Bishop adjusted the rig to lay against his shoulder. “I’m here to settle accounts.”
Hector stopped bundling his clothes and bit his lower lip. “Sir?”
“I’m going to Rawlins. You’ve been inside.”
“Yes, sir?”
Bishop said, “I told you, I’m settling accounts. With my brother. I need someone who knows that prison.”
Hector’s stammer returned. “Y-yes, I’ve been inside. A-a-and so have you. You visited your brother. H-he told the story . . . often . . . many times.”
Hunk said, “Your talk is worse than mine, boy.”
Bishop said, “You saw me when I was near dead.”
Hector’s words were barely there. “I can’t never forget it.”
“That’s my problem. I have forgotten. That grenade took a lot from me, son. Some things I just don’t remember. I’ve got to know what I’m walking into.”
Hector swallowed hard. “What about this gentleman? You’ve got the boots, that red stripe. You’re a Fire Rider, sir?”
Hunk raised the empty bottle in a mock toast as Bishop said, “He came after you did, doesn’t know all the secrets of that place. You crawled all through it. Said so in one of the Penny Dreadfuls.”
“Yes, sir. I—I said those words. That story paid us the most.” Hector put a hand into his saddlebag, finding a small cotton pouch. “Doctor, I owed the captain. He took care of me, and I promised I’d see him buried. It wasn’t the best, but it was with his friends. I did it.”
He pulled a pair of blue-paper sunglasses from the pouch and held them out. “He hated you so bad for needing these, being blind. He figured a way to kill you and get your brother to take us in.”
Bishop said, “You have reason to help me.”
Hector drew himself in, finally standing straight. “I listened to revenge talk for years. I don’t want to hear nothing like that no more.”
“I’m not saying it’s right. It just is.”
Hector gathered up the things from the bed and filled the rest of the bags. “You remember Mr. Fuller? He’s in Oregon with his family, offered me a job working timber. Or maybe I’ll go Virginia way. Find a good school. Everybody I’m around, since before I was a shaver, is shot and broken. I’m sick of it. There’s a lot more going on in this country than folks killing each other.”
Hunk said, “That boy, going to try for president?”
Hector looked to Bishop. “Don’t you just want to be a doctor, again?”
Bishop took a step toward Hector, the rig still in place, his words measured, even and quiet. “I’m settling accounts.”
“You figure on me riding in, so you can get killed? And me with you?”
Hector pulled down the washing line. “No, sir.” He looked to the pistol lying on the bed, then to Bishop. “If you’re going to kill me, let’s get it done.”
“Hector, all I want from you is some information. I’m on my own business, and you’re not part of it.”
“They’re having a town meeting just down the street in an hour. Forming a vigilante group to protect us against any more Fire Rider raids. If they knew who I’d been with, they’d hang me. This gentleman, too.”
“You claimed to know secrets.”
Hector buckled the saddlebags. “There’s explosives buried all along the outside walls and in some old tunnels. If Mr. Bishop hasn’t used it, it’s still there.”
Hunk said, “I never heard of nothing like that.”
“There’s tunnels all through the prison. Some your brother had built, others been there forever.”
“These tunnels, he hid money there?”
Hector said, “Maybe. The captain, he gave me a book on mapmaking so I could study up. I figure I can draw it out for you.”
Bishop said, “Do it. Please.”
Hector sat at the small table, tearing the back page from the prayer book, and using a flat-lead pencil to sketch a diagram of the prison fortress. His lines were precise.
Hunk watched, then approved with a belch. “The yard has one side that’s nothing but guns.”
“That’s different from before.” Hector made the adjustment. “You’re not riding with them anymore, sir?”
“Not no more.”
Hector indicated the locations of a tunnel running the circumference of the main cell block and a series of false walls on the upper floors—places where he used to hide. “I don’t know about now, but one day I found some guns, and cases of ammunition in a couple old closets. They said the guards would sell them out of the back to the Indians, but I don’t know what’s left, if anything.”
He handed the map to Bishop. “When you get inside, Doctor . . . well, I wish you both luck. Honest and true.”
They walked outside to a stable. With canvas topping nailed down to one side, it was barely a shed.
Hector took a saddle with hand-tooled scrolling and Creed’s insignia and cinched it to a solid, well-built mare. “When we sold the captain’s horse, I think that’s when he started dying. But I’d never let him lose the saddle.”
Bishop said, “I was always sorry about his eyes.”
“Now I know it was his own fault, for not taking care. But I couldn’t never tell him.”
“Hector, I wanted to settle accounts with you and the captain. No matter why, you didn’t leave me for dead.” Bishop handed him the sack of Chisum gold. “It’ll help you get where you’re going.”
Hector took the sack, almost dropping it because of the weight. He didn’t look inside, putting it directly into his saddlebag. “I’m thanking you, Doctor. Feels like quite a bit.”
“I thought you and the captain deserved something.”
“Maybe I should stay and get the captain reburied proper, not planted like a potato the way his buddies did it.”
Bishop shook his head. “You said you were leaving. That’s best.”
Hector pulled himself onto the horse, then slipped on Captain Creed’s sunglasses and looked to Bishop. His eyes were blue-masked discs. “The captain would have hated that I read from the Confederate Prayer Book, but I couldn’t find our Union one.”
“You did fine, son.”
“I meant it when I said good luck.”
Bishop watched the young man take his horse with Captain Creed’s saddle down the alley and around the stock pens. He let him ride out of sight before stepping from the stables to where Hunk was waiting with their mounts.
Hunk said, “Think I’d be running out?”
Bishop got on the bay. “No, now you’ve got your own reasons for going back.”
“That’s a truth. Besides, I don’t get far with this knee. Rawlins, now? We could do it in two days.”
“Not without weapons.” Bishop angled himself, and the rig adjusted with barrels down close to his knee, then locked for the long ride. He brought the bay around to one of the side streets.
* * *
The ferryman cranked on the rope that secured the flatboat to the other shore, pulling it closer to the other side of the river, a calm offshoot of the Colorado that split into smaller rushes of water along a wooded bank.
Colby stood by the ferry railing, his horse tied and his arsenal blanket-wrapped behind the saddle. He watched a kingfisher dive, miss, and fly off. “Those boys told me their father helped you with the building of the dock.”
“I’m just the ferryman.”
Colby was watching a bird arcing toward the trees. “And a fine one, too. You know everyone on the other side of the river? A little beyond the trees?
Ever heard of a crazy white man, lives by himself making guns and bombs? Kills the Indians, then dances with the corpses?”
The line was taut, the ferryman cranking it through, taking them to the shore half a foot at a time and giving no heed to a word Colby was saying.
Colby pressed. “That’s quite a legend, if it’s true. Is it?”
“I’m just the ferryman, mister.”
The kingfisher dove again, snapping up a minnow just under the surface.
“That’s one of the largest of the species I’ve ever encountered. I envy you, my friend. You see and hear all kinds.”
The ferryman stepped to open the bow railing, pulling it aside for Colby and his horse to get onto the bank. “How much money you got?”
* * *
The Fire Riders were two over the saddle, one of them shot in the face and the other with two bullets in the chest. Their horses were tied together and being led by a Rider with a wild gray beard, who’d been shot in the shoulder.
Hurricane was at the water trough, April Showers brushing him down, gently singing “The Little Old Cabin in the Lane.”
Dev Bishop stood by, arms folded, smiling. “He likes you, girl.” He turned at the screams in the yard.
Smythe crutched his way toward Gray Beard dropping from his red-spattered horse.
“They wouldn’t buckle. None of ’em.” Gray Beard said, shaking off his tunic. “I never been shot before.”
Smythe said, “You did better than them, boy-o. What happened?”
Dev patted the little girl’s shoulder before making his way to the middle of the yard as other Riders gathered round.
Gray Beard said, “We stopped a freight wagon on the old coach road, told them to give up part of their load to cross through, and they opened up on us.” He swung his arm in circles, trying to find some comfort. “Sweet Mary’s backside, this hurts.”
Dev said, “Did you get anything out of them?”
“Just these two dead. And Phil, he owed me five dollars.”
Smythe said, “Get to the medic. Take care of yourself.”
Gray Beard started walking to the medical tent beyond the gunsmith. “This ain’t supposed to happen. Folks are too afraid to go against us. These boys weren’t afraid of jack.”
Dev frowned. “We can’t have this.”
Smythe said, “Paradise is almost done. Just the way we want it, and run right. That’ll be more money than any of the bloody hijackings.”
Dev said, “Not if people think nothing happens if they don’t pay.” He raised a hand, catching the eye of an eager Rider, a kid with a Winchester.
Three shots were cracked off as one, and Gray Beard was done. Hurricane stirred at the sound, but May kept brushing, kept singing.
Smythe said to Dev as Riders picked up the body, “These men aren’t the problem, right? Jesus, we’re killing off more of our own than anyone!”
“He failed. There’s been too much of that.” Dev went to Hurricane, took a brush, and ran it over the horse’s back and sides.
May was still humming and smiling.
Smythe said, “It’s your brother, boy-o. They’re making everyone defiant, taking their cue from him. ‘The dead man who came back to life.’ To wipe us out!”
Dev kept combing. “Are you quoting?”
Smythe nodded. “The Police Gazette. He’s got the cover again.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Three Talons
The woods along the slope were dense, the thickest pine branches overlapping each other from tree to tree, forming a dark green barricade. Moisture in the air mixed with that bit of cool drifting from the running creek a few yards away. All that should have let Bishop sit back in his saddle and take it in.
It was a natural calming place.
But Bishop lurched forward, keeping the bay very deliberately along the small cleared trail. He stopped once without speaking, then continued on. Hunk was nearly alongside. If he slowed, Bishop did as well, keeping the shotgun rig ever present within Hunk’s eyesight.
Hunk said, “You’re riding like we’re going into the worst battle. I don’t see it.”
The trap sprung, the first pine crashed across the trail in front of them. Blocked, the horses chopped back. Bishop and Hunk tried for a run, but a trip wire snapped, propelling large pine branches from either side of the cut into their chests with cannonball force. Both men were knocked from their saddles.
Hunk crashed onto his jaw, then his knee, the pain bolting him. Bishop landed on his back, a huge boot pinning both barrels of the shotgun against the ground. A hand clamped instantly around his throat. The fingers were slippery with blood.
“Let’s go, dead man.”
Bishop knew the voice and brought up his knee, pounding into some bulging kidneys and forcing the bloody fingers to let go. He rolled away and sprang to his feet, slamming the shotgun up under the bearded chin of Noah Crawford.
Crawford yowled. “Jesus, Doc, if I had any teeth, you woulda knocked ’em all out!”
Bishop said, “Show me where you’re cut.”
Crawford pulled back the deer hide to run his hand along the rolling folds of his scarred belly, trying to find the knife wound. Blood had already soaked through his Union suit, but the injury was invisible to him.
“It was along in here. Mealy bastard used one of my own against me.”
Bishop said, “Move your stomach.”
Crawford used both knotty hands to hold up the flesh. “Knife I was making for years, recognized the handle. Goes in real smooth, fine edge. Whoever you stick don’t know he’s dead till he drops. Sold a lot of those.”
Bishop traced small red streaks to a deep slice in Crawford’s abdomen, the skin folding in on itself. “That’s a good incision. Might as well have had you in an operating theater.”
Crawford took the knife from a pocket, his blood drying on the long blade. “Told ya it was a good edge. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s got the deadeye for both of ya.”
Bishop said to Hunk, “Get my kit.”
Crawford stopped Hunk from the horses with a bloody hand as large as a grizzly’s paw. “I’ll take care of myself.”
Bishop was settled by a rusting steel grave marker, the last in a small row among four others in the clearing of the pine woods just down the trail from Crawford’s dugout. The wet grass around the Dr. John Bishop marker was tall, curling against the name.
Crawford said to him, “Sorry you ain’t down there for real?”
“Yeah, most days I am.” Bishop stood, his left hand on his marker, the shotgun rig automatically shifting into place with his movement.
Crawford nodded to the rig. “Still workin’ fine. I hear the tales, take pride in that gun. It was a good job I done.”
Hunk, bandaged fists clenched, stood into Crawford, thinking of a move. “Why you attack us?”
The mountain man was actually larger than Hunk, and looked down at him. Swathed in animal hides stitched together like an insane quilt, he wore a dead man’s boots with blades cobbled to the toes and bearskin half-gloves on hands that were also clenched into fists.
Bishop answered the question. “If you’d reached my place, he’d have popped you off like turkeys in a run.”
Crawford’s beard was a thick tangle, crusted around the eyes, and didn’t move when he spoke. “I don’t know who you are, friend”—he shoved Hunk back—“but getting me riled is a big mistake.”
Bishop said, “He’s with me, Noah. That’s enough.”
“For now.” Crawford dropped his paw. “That Colby wanted to know when you’d be along, then stuck me to see what I’d give up. Clamped my mouth. He said didn’t matter; you’d be here sometime. Was real cocky about that, too. Left the blade in, said something about ‘preparing.’ Didn’t care if I knew his name, thought I crawled away to die.”
Bishop said, “You see a sniper’s rifle?”
“Hell, he’s got an arsenal with him.” The voice burst through the hair again, pointing to an oak
that had been split by lightning. “There’s four bottles of bug juice Crows left to appease me. Bring one.”
Bishop said, “So, you’re still called Vóhpóóhe?”
“I’ll always be White Claw. Among other things.”
Hunk knelt by the split tree, finding the bottles and some leatherwork and necklaces of hanging bear’s teeth all tucked into the trunk’s scorched openings. He took a bottle, pocketed a necklace. “The Indians, they set all this out for you?
“So I’ll leave ’em alone.” Crawford grabbed the bottle and splashed some white whiskey on the wound. He took a deep breath at the searing pain. “That’ll wake up your guts for sure!”
Bishop said, “Where was the claw when you got stuck?”
“On the kitchen table next to my coffee. A jackass mistake. He got me from behind while I was feeding the horses. Took a good Colt Lightning off me, too. I’m gettin’ that gun back. How much ammo you got on you?”
“The bandolier’s it. I was counting on you.” Bishop went to the one grave set off from the rest. A wooden cross with a name long weathered away marked it, but its dirt was freshly turned. “I recall reading about a coffin full of weapons.”
“What the hell you talking about, recall?”
Bishop said, “He could have a Gatling gun down there, and I know you got traps and gun stashes everywhere.”
“Better take a drink ’cause you’re damn out of luck. Business been draggin’ for a year. There’s nothing in that grave but an empty box.”
Hunk stiff-walked to the bay and took the canvas sack with the Adams grenades from the saddle. “We have these two.”
Crawford said, “You allowed them damn things to clank around like that? Could’ve lost a good horse.”
Bishop said, “That’s what we’ve got.”
Crawford said, “I watched him set up in the trees behind the corral. Wait till the sun drops, and we’ll Crow-pounce. Close in, hang his insides like the warriors do it.”
“If he said he was prepared, he means it.” Bishop’s words were quiet. “He wants to face me down. You don’t have to get between that.”
Crawford took one of his giant steps to the graves, stepping to the other side of the markers. “Doc, we’ve got history, and both hate this bastard. Being stabbed don’t bother me, but don’t be actin’ high-toned about it. Supper’ll taste a lot better knowin’ he’s bled out.” He turned to Hunk. “I take it you’re in on this, since you’re riding together.”
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