Schulze, Dallas

by Gunfighter's Bride

  Not that Gavin appreciated that any more than Lila did, Bishop thought, looking at the boy. Gavin had treated him to an exhibition of sullenness possible only in a twelve-year-old boy. He hadn’t been talkative before but now his conversation was reduced to monosyllabic answers given only in response to direct questions. Bishop remembered Lila’s comment that he was going to drive the boy away and wondered if maybe he’d already done just that. Gavin’s body was still in sight but his spirit seemed to be somewhere else.

  The only member of the family who was still speaking to him was Angel, Bishop thought, his expression softening as he looked at his daughter. While Bishop didn’t blame Gavin for the resentment he so obviously felt, he had to admit that Angel’s easy acceptance was a welcome relief.

  Across the street, Lila and Dot finished their talk and she and the children continued down the boardwalk. They disappeared into Fitch’s and Bishop returned his attention to the report he was trying to finish. He hated paperwork. He’d damned near rather dodge bullets than have to pick his way through the bureaucratic mess of forms and reports that accompanied even the simplest arrest. He might have considered making paperwork part of his deputy’s job, but Bart Lewis had never made it past second grade and could barely read and write his own name.

  He stared at what he’d already written, but his mind was elsewhere and no matter how many times he read it, it didn’t seem to make sense. He dropped the pen with a disgusted oath and glared out the window at Fitch’s. He’d never, in his entire life, known anyone who could cut up his concentration the way his wife could. When he’d been married to Isabelle, he’d never had any trouble putting her out of his thoughts and concentrating on whatever task was at hand.

  Irritated with himself, with Lila, with the world in general, Bishop pushed his chair back from the desk and stood up. Life had been a hell of a lot simpler when all he had to worry about was getting killed.

  Bishop was reaching for his hat when the door opened and Bart Lewis came in. “Afternoon, Bishop.”

  “Afternoon, Bart. Everything quiet?” he asked, half hoping to hear a denial. Quelling a brawl would go a long way toward improving his mood right about now.

  “Pretty much.” Bart set his battered hat on one of the hooks and ambled over to the stove. After lifting the battered enameled steel pot, he poured himself a cup of coffee, black as ink and thick as molasses from having simmered most of the morning. “I was at the station when the train came up from Denver.”

  “Anything interesting?” Bishop made it a habit to keep an eye on who came and went in the town. Sometimes it was possible to stop trouble before it got started simply by making his presence known.

  “John Sinclair come back from seein’ his kinfolk in Virginia.”

  “Yeah?” Bishop turned his hat between his fingers and wondered if he should go across and say hello to Fitch. He hadn’t seen the old man to talk to in a while, and now was as good a time as any.

  “He spent a night or two in Denver and said he heard tell of a fellow asking round about you. Fellow name a Dobe Lang.”

  Bishop had been looking out the window, but now his eyes jerked to Bart’s face. “Lang?”

  “That’s what John said.” Bart’s thin face looked worried. “Didn’t I hear tell of you havin’ a run-in with some fella named Lang somewhere in Kansas awhile back?”

  “Dakota Territory,” Bishop corrected automatically. “I guess you could say we had a run-in. He braced me and I shot him.”

  “Self-defense?”

  “So they said.” Which didn’t make Augie Lang any less dead.

  The two men were silent a moment.

  “You reckon this Lang fella askin’ about you is some kin to the one in Dakota?” Bart asked, articulating the question in both their minds.

  “Odds are.”

  “There’s quite a few folks know you’re sheriff here in Paris,” Bart pointed out.

  “Then I guess he’ll find me sooner or later, won’t he?” Bishop felt the familiar mixture of anger and frustration at the thought. When was it going to stop? All he wanted was to be left in peace, but apparently that was too much to ask.

  Six months ago, Augie Lang had been on the losing side of a poker game. Bishop had been lucky—which had made him the obvious target when Augie was looking for someone to blame for his losses. There had been a moment, when the other man found out just who it was he’d accused of cheating, Bishop had thought his reputation might work in his favor for once, might convince the kid to back off. But Augie was young and far more conscious of his pride than his mortality. Worse, some fool had probably told him that he was faster than most and he’d seen a way to save face and achieve fame, all with one bullet. Unfortunately for him, the bullet that found its mark was not his.

  Lang had been a belligerent young man who’d seemed unlikely to endear himself to anyone, but Bishop supposed that even the most obnoxious man had family who objected to someone shooting a hole in him. Leastways, it seemed Augie Lang had someone who’d been interested enough to look up his killer. A brother maybe? His father? Someone intent on revenging his kin’s death. And maybe hoping to grab hold of a little of the fame that had slipped through Augie’s cold, dead fingers?

  “There was a couple of fellas got off the train that

  I didn’t recognize,” Bart said, looking worried.

  They looked at each other. Either of the men could be Lang. Or he could arrive on tomorrow’s train or the one the day after that. Bishop felt the familiar tension settle between his shoulder blades. Everything that had happened these past couple of months had almost made him forget who and what he was. He’d been so busy getting used to being a family man that he’d stopped looking over his shoulder quite so much.

  “You see where either of these fellows went?” Bishop asked as he set his hat on his head.

  “One of them went to the hotel. I didn’t see what the other one did,” Bart said apologetically.

  “No matter. If it was Lang, he’ll find me soon enough. I’m going to go take a look around.”

  “You want me to go with you?” Bart asked as he pulled open the door.

  Bishop glanced back at him, surprising a look of genuine concern in the younger man’s eyes. Damned if the kid wasn’t worried about him. “Thanks but I think you’d be better off holding down the fort here.” The last thing he needed or wanted was for Bart Lewis to end up caught in the line of fire. He stepped out on to the boardwalk, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright sunshine. If Lang had come to kill him, he’d certainly picked a nice day for it, Bishop thought as his eyes scanned the street from under the brim of his hat. It had rained the day before, a light, early-summer shower that had served to settle the dust without leaving mud behind. Today the mountains shouldered their way up to the pale-blue sky, only a few tattered remnants of clouds catching on their peaks.

  Assured that there were no unfamiliar faces among the people he could see, Bishop stepped off the boardwalk and into the street. If Lila and the children were still in Fitch’s, he was going to send her home. No doubt she’d argue. She argued about damn near everything, but this was one argument she was going to lose. If Lang was one of the men Bart had seen get off the train and if he was looking for a fight, which seemed a near certainty, he wanted his family well out of the way. Whatever the outcome, he needed to know that they were safe.

  He was almost across the street when he had the sudden sensation that he was being watched. Slowing his stride, he brushed his coat back from the butt of his gun in a casual-seeming gesture. His every sense was tuned to trying to locate the source of his uneasiness. If Lang was watching him, would he make his move now or wait for a time when there were fewer witnesses? The answer might depend on whether the man wanted to avenge Augie’s death or make a reputation by being the man to outdraw Bishop McKenzie.

  “McKenzie!” The voice came from behind him, loud and booming, holding a blatant challenge, demanding attention from all within earshot and answ
ering Bishop’s question in a single word.

  ***

  Lila and the children had been on their way out of Fitch’s when she’d seen Bishop crossing the street toward them. She’d hesitated a moment, not anxious to see him. She was still annoyed with him. It wasn’t just his harshness with Gavin, though she certainly thought he’d been rougher on the boy than circumstances warranted. But she was also still angry over the way he’d ended their conversation. She was not accustomed to people simply walking away from her without so much as a by-your-leave.

  But, annoyed or not, she could hardly avoid him forever, and she certainly didn’t want to give the children the impression that she was angry with their father. Bridget could say it was a good thing for children to know that their parents sometimes disagreed, but it went against everything Lila had been taught. Pinning a cool smile on her face, she reached for the door. Before she could open it, she heard someone call Bishop’s name, the voice coming easily through the door.

  Something in the tone as well as the way Bishop’s shoulders suddenly stiffened had her hesitating again. She saw him turn slowly, his hands held slightly out from his body. Voices carried easily in the still, clear air, making it easy to hear what was said.

  “I’m McKenzie,” Bishop said, his voice cool as a mountain lake.

  “Thought you might be.” Lila located the speaker as he stepped off the boardwalk in front of the Red Lady Saloon, he was shorter than Bishop but had the kind of barrel-chested build that generally denotes a man of considerable physical strength. He wore blue denim pants that looked as if they could use a good wash and a faded blue shirt. A red kerchief was tied around his throat and a battered tan hat was pulled low over his face. Two guns sat low on either hip, and she could see that he had the holsters tied down to his leg. He looked tough and dangerous, and Lila felt a twinge of uneasiness. There was something about the way he was walking toward Bishop ...

  “I’m Dobe Lang,” he announced, his tone making the name a challenge. “I understand you killed my brother up Dakota way.”

  “Could be.” Bishop shifted toward the middle of the street and the other man followed suit.

  “I heard tell you cheated him in a card game and then shot him down when he called you on it,” Lang said This time, there was no mistaking the taunting tone of his voice. Lila’s hand dropped away from the doorknob. She didn’t completely understand what was going on but she was suddenly afraid.

  “Your brother’s death was of his own choosing,” Bishop said. He was now standing in the middle of the street, facing his opponent. “He had a run of bad luck and thought killing me might change it. He was wrong. You don’t have to make the same mistake.”

  Lila thought the other man looked less sure of himself, but if he did, it was only a momentary doubt. His teeth gleamed white beneath the brim of his hat. “The only mistake Augie made was thinking he was faster than he was. I always did say he was going to get hisself killed one day.”

  “You were right. There’s no reason for you to do the same.” Bishop’s voice was level, quiet, and almost soothing. “Just walk away and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

  Whatever hesitation he might have felt earlier, Dobe Lang was clearly set on his chosen path now. “I don’t reckon I’ll do that. I figure your luck has done run itself out, McKenzie.”

  “It’s your funeral,” Bishop said, sounding more weary than angry.

  Still only half comprehending what was happening, Lila pulled Angel closer against her, turning the child’s face into her skirts. She reached for Gavin but the boy was just beyond her grasp, his nose all but pressed against the glass on the door, completely absorbed in the drama taking place in the street outside.

  Fitch spoke from behind her. “I’d move away from the window, if I was you, Miz McKenzie. Bullets ain’t always real precise about where they land.”

  His words gave a name to her fear, made her realize what was happening outside. Bishop and the other man were about to start shooting at each other. Though it seemed incredible that such a thing could happen in the middle of the street in broad daylight, there was no doubt that that was what was happening.

  “Gavin! Come away from the window.” She didn’t know whether he chose to ignore her or whether he was so absorbed in the drama about to take place that he didn’t hear her. Without taking her eyes off the men outside, she reached for the boy again, intent on pulling him out of harm’s way, but it was too late.

  Dobe Lang’s hand dropped to his side, coming back up with a pistol in a move so fast, it was almost a blur. Expecting to see him fire and then see Bishop fall, Lila cried out. Or she tried to. No sound made it past the knot in her throat. She took a half step forward, the danger forgotten, her only thought to stop what was happening.

  Bishop hardly seemed to move but there was suddenly a gun in his hand. Lila saw the weapon jerk, heard the solid report as he fired. Dobe Lang froze in place for a long, slow moment, his pistol raised but silent. Lila had the ridiculous thought that the sound of Bishop’s gun had frightened him into stillness, that this was all going to end right there and then without bloodshed. A red stain suddenly blossomed on Lang’s shirt front, turning the blue fabric an odd shade of purple. He stared at Bishop with an expression of shock on his face, as if amazed to find himself dead, and then his knees buckled and he dropped to the dusty street, silent and unmoving.

  Lila stared at the body through the wavery glass of Fitch’s front window. Her mind refused to absorb what she’d just seen. It was the first time in her life that she’d been witness to violence. It didn’t seem possible that a man was dead and she’d watched it happen. Even more impossible was that her own husband had been the one to kill him.

  Lila pulled open the door of Fitch’s and stumbled out onto the boardwalk, only half aware of Gavin following her out. Her attention was all for Bishop, who was kneeling next to the fallen man—the man he’d just killed.

  Bishop heard the bell over Fitch’s door ring, the cheerful jangle harsh in the unnatural stillness that had descended over the street. He lifted his head and saw Lila standing on the boardwalk, her face stark white, her eyes wide and shocked. Angel clung to her skirts, looking uncertain and scared. Gavin stood beside his sister, staring at Lang’s body, his face as white and shocked as Lila’s.

  “Look long and hard, boy,” Bishop told him as he stood. He gestured to the body at his feet. “This is what you think you want. And this is where you’ll more than likely end up.”

  Gavin swallowed hard, his complexion turning slightly green. Angel, frightened by the tension in the air as much as by the shooting, which she only half understood, began to whimper and turned her face into her stepmother’s skirts. Lila shot Bishop a look of loathing before scooping the little girl up. Balancing Angel on her hip, she put one hand on Gavin’s shoulder, pulling him with her as she all but ran from the scene.

  Bishop stood and watched them go, aware of a hollow emptiness in his chest.

  ***

  It was late afternoon when the shooting took place. It was long after dark before Bishop made his way home. There had been arrangements to be made and reports to fill out. Half the people in town had felt it necessary to give him their versions of what had happened, just in case he was unclear on any of the details.

  He’d listened to each and every one of them, nodded in the right places and thanked them for their insights. And all the time, he was thinking about the horror in Lila’s expression, the loathing in her eyes. Despite all his warnings about the violence that was often a part of life on a frontier that was barely even half tamed, it was obvious that she’d had no real comprehension of what he was telling her. She’d still believed that Paris was just a slightly rougher version of Beaton. The shooting had given her a painfully graphic demonstration of how wrong she was. He’d have given a great deal for her to be able to hold onto her misconceptions.

  Bishop let himself into the house through the back door and stood in the dark kitchen for a mom
ent, absorbing the quiet. He hadn’t had a moment alone since the shooting and his head was filled with the babble of voices, all of them saying the same things. It was self-defense, Sheriff Seen it plain as day. You didn’t have a choice. Man musta wanted to die something fierce, bracing Bishop McKenzie like that. Damned fool.

  Damned dead fool, Bishop thought. He reached up to take off his hat, his movements slow. Damn Dobe Lang and all the fools like him. He dropped his hat on the table and thrust his fingers through his hair. He was tired—bone-deep weary, a weariness of soul more than body. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed a man and it might not be the last, but each time it happened, he felt a little less human, a little less alive.

  Dobe Lang hadn’t been a particularly appealing example of humanity. Nor had his brother. And both men had walked into their own deaths with their eyes open. They had, as had been pointed out to him repeatedly, given him no real choice. It had been his life or theirs. He sure as hell couldn’t pretend that he’d rather be lying in a pine box in the back of the blacksmith shop, awaiting burial tomorrow. But that didn’t mean he didn’t resent the fact that he was left to five with the results of the choices they’d forced on him.

  “Hell. I’m getting too damned philosophical in my old age,” he muttered. Thrusting his fingers through his hair again, he left the kitchen, moving quietly through the house. The children had probably been in bed an hour or more ago, but he was a little surprised that Lila had gone to bed, as if nothing had happened. The way she’d looked at him this afternoon, he found it hard to believe that she had nothing to say about the shooting.

  A glimmer of light beneath the bedroom door told him she was awake. Bishop hesitated a moment, half tempted to turn and go back the way he’d come. He was in no mood for yet another postmortem. He didn’t want to hear that the shooting had been his fault or that it hadn’t. He just wanted to put the whole blasted incident behind him. On the other hand, if he’d learned one thing about his wife, it was that she was not easily discouraged. If she had something to say, she’d say it, if not tonight then tomorrow. He might as well get it over with.