Shotgun Riders

by Orrin Russell

  “I’m hungry,” was the first thing John Boy said.

  “Shoot a goddamn squirrel,” said Connor.

  “There ain’t none.”

  “Then shut up and saddle your horse. Sooner we find that stage, the sooner we eat.”

  Two hours of riding brought them to a dead campfire still warm beneath the ashes. Connor stuck his fingers in. He blinked twice, sniffed the ashes, then pulled his hand out and wiped his fingers on his legs. “Ride with your guns out,” he said. “They’re close.”

  The land was studded with dips and rises, small hills covered in aspen and pine. The wheel ruts wove through it all in such a meandering path it seemed to Connor that the driver was drunk. He hoped it was true; it would make things a hell of a lot easier. He rode with his ears peeled for sound and suddenly, topping out over a small rise, they came within view of their quarry.

  Connor jerked his horse’s reins back. One corner of his mouth curled up. He cocked his head sideways as if this would give him a better view of what he was seeing out on the flat ground below. It was no stagecoach, rather a rickety wagon with a tarp strung over the back. The horse pulling it looked to be on the verge of death. The man sitting atop the driving bench, a chubby slob of a man, had a bottle tipped to his lips.

  “I know that horse,” Donny said behind him.

  “I know it too,” said Connor. “Alright boys, keep your guns out, but don’t go shooting him straight away; I want to ask him if he’s seen the stage.”

  They rode down the hill in a loose cluster, their revolvers catching rays of sunlight through the clouds. Not until they were nearly upon him did Shane Carly turn around, the bottle still at his lips. He drew it away and stared open-mouthed while Connor pulled the yoked-up nag to a stop. His brothers had already begun to untie the cordage and lift the tarp covering the wagon bed.

  “Well look what we got here,” said Connor. “The fat bastard that got us into this mess.”

  Shane Carly’s face had gone white, but it was hard to notice the difference. The whiskey peddler’s face was always white, often times splotched with red, and almost always in a state of hangover or general ill-health. At least that’s the way Connor had always seen it. The last time he’d laid eyes on the fat bastard was at the Triple B Ranch, tied up to the bunkhouse and sniveling like a scared schoolboy.

  “I haven’t done anything,” were the first words out of his mouth.

  “Bullshit,” said Connor. “You’re the one who led Balum and the Marshal to us. Got us drunk, landed us in jail.”

  “They were coming for you anyway,” said Shane. “You aren’t in jail now though, are you?”

  “Only cause we busted out. Not Buford though. He’s on a stage headed to Texas where they’ll be wanting to hang him.” Connor leveled the stolen Colt .45 so its barrel pointed between the whiskey peddler’s eyes. “Now you gonna tell me if you seen that stage?”

  “I ain’t seen nothing,” Shane’s voice sounded on the edge of tears.

  “You ain’t seen Balum? Or that halfbreed Apache, or the stage, or their tracks or nothing?”

  “Nothing, I swear.”

  “Alright,” Connor pulled the hammer back. “Then I might as well kill you.”

  “No!” Shane yelped. He swung his neck around to the Bell brothers rummaging through the wagon.

  “They ain’t gonna help you,” said Connor.

  “Just shoot him already,” said Floyd.

  “Yeah, shoot the bastard,” said Delmar.

  “Please,” said Shane. “I’ll give you everything in the wagon. Just don’t kill me.”

  “We’re gonna take what’s in the wagon regardless, you dumb son-of-a-bitch,” said Connor. “Where you going with this anyway?”

  “To the state penitentiary. It’s only a couple days further on. The guards there are good paying customers.”

  “Bullshit,” said Connor. “I’ve tasted your whiskey and it’s enough to make a mule piss blood.”

  “I like it well enough,” mumbled Shane.

  Connor glanced at his brothers who had stripped the tarp off and thrown it to the ground. “You find anything good back there?”

  “He’s got jerked meat and bacon!” shouted Donny.

  “And flour,” added John Boy.

  “You got water?” said Connor.

  “I got water. It’s right in that barrel there,” Shane pointed to a five gallon cask in the corner of the wagon. “I’m telling you, you can have it all. Just don’t kill me, please.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” said Connor. “Maybe if you told me which way Balum headed with my brother, I’d let you go. But you already said you don’t know.”

  “He’s going to Texas!” blurted Shane.

  Connor reached up and popped Shane in the mouth with the butt of the Colt. “You think you’re smart? I know he’s going to Texas. I aim to catch him before he gets there.”

  Blood ran down Shane’s lip into his mouth. His chin trembled. When he opened his mouth Connor could see the small white nubs of Shane Carly’s teeth coated in blood.

  “Just shoot him already,” said Delmar from the back of the wagon.

  “You got any information that might save your life?” said Connor.

  Shane licked the blood from his lip. His eyes flitted about, but no words came to his mouth.

  “You know Balum better than we do,” Connor prodded him. “You know where he might go? All I know is he has a bad enough grudge against Buford for stealing his cattle and beating up his woman that he’s willing to ride clear to Texas just to turn him in.”

  Shane Carly looked past the gun barrel and into Buford’s eyes. Connor could see the man’s mind working it over, fighting through the half-bottle of whiskey he’d drunk. He watched the whiskey peddler’s eyes for some sign of what lay behind them. When he saw them stop their flitting and meet his own, he wiggled the gun.

  “Alright,” he said. “What’ve you got?”

  “Balum isn’t going to Texas because of Buford,” said Shane.

  “The hell he isn’t. He’s taking him there right now!”

  “That’s not the real reason. Sure, he’ll collect the reward money, but he’s going because of the Sanderson girl. Don’t you know about her? All of Denver is talking about it.”

  Connor looked at his brothers, but only got blank stares in return. “What Sanderson girl?”

  “Sara Sanderson.”

  “What about her.”

  “Oh,” Shane wiped the blood still collecting in droplets at his lips with the back of a hand. “You’ll want to know this.” He gave the story in its entirety, generous with the details all the way from who she was related to, to how she had stolen ten thousand dollars from Balum and fleeced a good number of young men in Denver, and finally murdered them and fled to Texas. “That’s why he agreed to ride shotgun on that stage. It’s not about Buford-- it’s about Sara.”

  Connor lowered the gun. He considered the new information. It was a lot to take in, especially with the hunger gnawing at his belly and the knowledge that as they stood there talking to Shane Carly, his brother was being led farther away. Suddenly he raised the gun back up. “That don’t change nothing,” he said. “What the hell are we supposed to do with that information?”

  “Don’t you see?” said Shane. “If you get to Sara first, you can trade her in for your brother. Just swap her out.”

  “That’s the damned foolest idea I’ve ever heard. We ain’t trading horses you dumb bastard.”

  “Shoot him!” said John Boy.

  Connor held the gun not two feet from Shane’s face. He saw the lips tremble, and watched as Shane Carly moved his hands over his crotch in a pathetic attempt to cover up the fact that he was wetting himself.

  “Hey look!” said Donny. “The fat bastard just pissed himself!”

  The brothers swarmed in to look. They burst out in laughter at the sight.

  Connor let the hammer up and holstered his gun. “I ain’t gonna shoot you, Shane. You’
re such a miserable piece of shit, it’ll be a worse punishment to let you go on living.” He turned to his brothers. “Load up all we can carry on horseback, boys. And be quick. We need to get moving.”

  They took all the jerked meat, bacon, butter and flour out of the wagon and loaded it behind their saddles. They filled Shane’s canteen with water, grabbed a half dozen bottles of whiskey, and went through his supplies for matches, a pan, blankets, and a knife. They rolled all this in the tarp, which Connor tied to his saddle. Then they rode out, leaving Shane Carly sitting on a near-empty wagon, the stain in his crotch still visible when Connor turned for a last look a half-mile out.

  That night they spread the tarp over the ground and built a fire over which they fried bacon and grilled hotcakes. Even though he knew it wasn’t the best idea, he allowed his brothers to uncork a bottle of whiskey. It tasted no different than he imagined badger urine would taste like, but he said yes anyway. Buford had always been strict about not drinking when they were on a job, but Connor found it hard to deny his brothers this satisfaction. After a couple days without food, Shane’s stolen supplies were a great lift to their spirits. He threw back several drinks, and in the morning they set out in search of the stage.

  When they found the tracks, this time certain they were the right ones, Floyd suggested they uncork a bottle and have a sip in celebration. Again Connor allowed it. They followed the tracks all that day, drinking whiskey in the saddle. As they came within a day’s ride from the state penitentiary just a few hours before dusk, they spotted the stagecoach far out on the plain.

  Connor felt a surge of adrenaline course through his lungs. The whiskey he’d sipped on all that day clouded his mind. He shook his head as if to clear it.

  “What do we do, Connor?” said Delmar.

  The answer seemed simple enough. The stage was making its way through a clearing that offered no cover to the two men on the driving bench. There were no houses or towns close by, no one to witness the attack. And there was the whiskey, burning like kerosine in his veins.

  “Simple,” he said. “We ride down there and kill those bastards.”

  8

  Balum adjusted the Winchester over his lap and tilted the canteen to his lips. In only three days he’d adapted to the rocking of the stage the same way a man develops sea legs on an ocean voyage. Far from disturbing, the jerking and bouncing took on the cadence of soothing rhythms that paired as well with Balum and Joe’s conversations as spurs pair with boots. They talked about the CW Ranch and speculated on the local gossip of Cheyenne. They reminisced about the cattle drive that had brought the four CW Ranch partners together. At the memory of Dan they shared a respectful silence. Joe told Balum a story of how, as a young boy, he’d once found a Mexican tied to a stake in the Sonoran desert. Not a soul around, and the man half dead from heat stroke. After Joe untied him and gave him water, the Mexican told Joe his story through a mix of Spanish, broken English, and hand gestures. It had been a Yaqui raid. He’d fought well enough that the indians decided to grant him a slow and painful death. It was his knives they admired. He’d killed two warriors and almost a third before they finally restrained him. The man could handle a blade like it was an extension of his arm, and for the two months that Joe traveled with him the man would give Joe lessons on a daily basis. He showed Joe how to move in close to his adversary, how to bounce back. How to hold the knife for defense and how to grip it when attacking. When to slice, when to stab. When the story was over, Balum only nodded and took a drink of water. He’d seen Joe work a knife more than once and he knew of no other man with the skill to match.

  They talked of women. It was only natural; two men with long days to kill. The story of Maxine in the washtub was soon recounted. Balum told Joe about his brief stay in Bette’s Creek, how he’d become entangled in the DeLace’s crimes, and how he’d wound up shooting it out with Lance Cain. Most importantly, he told Joe about Charlise and Cynthia.

  “Words fall short of describing them,” he said. “But what I wouldn’t give to have one more run in with them. One more night.” His eyes glazed over at the memory. The mother and daughter were near replicas of one another; skin as smooth as worn ivory and breasts larger and more buoyant than any he’d seen in all his life. He thought about them most of that day and all the next.

  Two days later, the stage not far from the state penitentiary, he was still thinking of them. The draft horses were plodding over a slice of treeless country. Joe had stuck a wad of tobacco in his lip and fallen silent. Buford mum in the back. Balum steadied the Winchester over his knees. He wondered if he would fall asleep right there on the driving bench if things got any more peaceful. The plodding of the horses in their traces was hypnotizing. He yawned, then jerked upright when the sound of approaching hoofbeats rose above the creaking of the wagon.

  He swung the rifle with him as he turned. Five riders came on cantering horses, a hundred yards out and closing fast. He slapped Joe’s arm, returned his hand to the rifle stock, and raised it to his shoulder. The Winchester could pick a man off a saddle at one hundred yards so long as the gunman’s aim was true. Balum waited for the stage to come to a complete stop, his eye sighting down the barrel, the bead placed square on the lead rider.

  The five riders waved revolvers in their hands. Not a rifle among them. Balum held his aim, not wishing to shoot on unknown men, yet growing more certain by the second that whoever they were, they’d come for violence.

  At seventy yards out he let a shot boom over their heads. A warning shot that was answered back by five raised arms and five discharged weapons. Balum flattened down on the driving bench. Joe dropped straight to the foot rest. Bullets smashed into the stage with fat whumping sounds, sending splinters flying in all directions. A couple missed completely, whistling out into the open prairie.

  “Who is that?” said Joe.

  Balum lifted himself in time to see the rider in front let off another shot. He ducked back down, grabbed Joe by the sleeve, and jumped down from the stage and into the grass. They landed with the stage between themselves and the riders, and in two quick steps Balum was at the door, unlocking the bolt and sliding it back.

  “It’s the Bell brothers,” he said. “All five.”

  Inside, Buford had dropped to the ground between the seats. Balum stepped over him. He slunk the barrel of the Winchester through the window bars of the opposite door and dropped behind the stock. Lodged between the irons, the use of the shotgun was limited. He sighted down the barrel anyway and heard Joe slam the door closed behind him.

  Out on the open plain the Bell brothers had split into two groups and were charging the stage like men bent on suicide. Balum tightened his finger over the trigger. He let slip a shot, though not before Joe fired his own through the other window. The blast of Joe’s gun in the small confines of the stagecoach was enough to make Balum flinch. His shot whiffed past the rider he’d aimed at. When he drew himself back into the stage to lever another round into the chamber, a bullet struck the window bars and whined out in a painful squeal of lead on iron.

  At Balum’s feet lied Buford, his hands covering his head. Without putting much thought into the matter Balum dropped the Winchester on the seat and heaved the convict up by the shirt collar. He slammed him against the stage door, and smashed Buford’s face into the bars.

  “You best tell your brothers to quit firing unless you feel like taking a bullet,” Balum shouted in his ear.

  Buford needed no prodding. He screamed through the bars in a voice he’d chosen not to use the past six days. “You idiots! You’re shooting through the damn stage!”

  Balum heard the horses come to a stop. In the relative silence outside he heard Connor Bell shout back.

  “Buford? That you?”

  “Of course it’s me you idiot. Now stop shooting, goddamnit, or you’re gonna kill me!”

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Wait until night time. Sneak up on ‘em while it’s dark.”

 
Balum jerked Buford from the window. “Tell them to ride east three hundred yards where we can see all five.” He threw Buford back to the bars. When the man had delivered the message to his brothers, Balum dropped him to the floor again and watched the five outlaws regroup and ride out. When they turned their horses around at the agreed upon distance, Balum pulled away from the bars and looked at Joe.

  “You hit?”

  “No,” said Joe. “You?”

  “Just a few splinters in the face.”

  “If we get back on that driving bench they’ll ride down on us again. They can chase us back inside any time they please.”

  Balum held the Winchester up. “Not if I swap this out for the Spencer. That old cannon has a range of five hundred yards. We give ‘em a taste of lead at that distance and they won’t bother us. Not in the daytime anyway.”

  The two men stepped out of the stage. Joe slid the bolt and locked it, and Balum climbed up to the roof and slid the Spencer rifle out. He dug out a box of .56-.56 rimfire cartridges and climbed back down with the rifle in one hand and the box in the other. Standing at the rear of the stage he checked that a round was in the chamber, then squeezed up against the rear boot and propped the barrel over the wheel. With his thumb he flipped up the sighting device. He laid his cheek close to the wood stock. Before he fired, Buford screamed a warning through the bars. The sound carried over the plain, followed by the bullet hurtling into the dirt at the five Bell brother’s feet. The nasty crack of the explosion followed after.

  Balum rose up to adjust the sight with thumb and forefinger, but by the time he crouched down for another shot, the Bell brothers had scattered. They rode a good thousand yards off to where a few clumps of pines grew and sat their horses under the boughs.

  Back on the driving bench, Joe took the reins in his hands. He looked at Balum before clucking the horses forward. “You think they’ll keep that distance?”

  “If they don’t I’ll give ‘em another dose of fifty-six shot.”