Shotgun

by Courtney Joyner

  “Unlikely, but not unheard of.”

  “You’re a woman of fine character.”

  “Not all would agree.”

  “Because you’re consorting with the enemy?”

  “You’re teasing this Pennsylvania girl.”

  “Victory was yours.”

  Beaudine heard her quiet laugh as she pressed herself against him and said the words, “The more I know about who you are, the more I’m fascinated.”

  “I don’t want to be another object of curiosity for the unwashed.”

  “What you tell me in confidence remains so; what you want the world to hear, I’m honored to help you.”

  Her hands stayed on his shoulders, massaging them, while her breath kissed behind his ear. “Tell me.”

  Beaudine shut his eyes and said, “I’ve been torn by conflict; seen too many men die, too much blood. It changes you forever, from what you were.”

  “What were you before?”

  “I recall mopping the floor in a house of ill repute. Can you even dream such a thing? A sensitive lad forced to associate with that kind of society, then becoming a decorated officer, commanding troops in the field? It amazes me still.”

  Without being asked, she handed Beaudine his bourbon and branch and let him sip. “You’ve done yourself proud.”

  “You have to send men to their death. It’s a Godlike burden, but I feel I wore it well. Every man in my command snapped to his feet when I approached. Once a young private whose weapon misfired, his eye destroyed, stood to salute me. His head wrapped in bandages, but he had to show that kind of respect. He’s with me still.”

  “You have a quality that your men respond to.”

  “Only the best. I won’t abide a liar or ne’er-do-well. The orders I give come from heart and experience, which is why I expect them to be obeyed. It’s for their own good, but I’ve met the defiant, and taught them this lesson.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone defying you.”

  “One did. Only one.”

  Her voice was like distant music to him. “You can tell me if it will lighten your heart.”

  Beaudine allowed himself another cool sip. “It was a man who had committed a crime and had never been brought to justice. I’d been entrusted to see that he paid for his wrongdoing, but he defied me. Wouldn’t acknowledge the wrong, and put his family in harm’s way. Disgusting.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I took a part of him. It was important that he bleed, hover near death, so he could reflect on his circumstances, and how he brought it all on himself.”

  Beaudine said that the first shots fired were like thunder claps in the dining room, and had to be shouted over to restore order. His men obeyed commands, dragging John Bishop and his family outside, and waited in the snow for his next instruction. It filled his chest, that power. He remembered stepping on a crystal flute that had fallen to the floor, he could still feel it under his feet, and thought what good taste Mrs. Bishop obviously had.

  Beaudine had complimented her, even as she was dying, “I don’t know if she heard me, but if I had been in that home for another purpose, we would have had a lovely talk, I’m sure.”

  “What was your purpose that night?”

  Beaudine said nothing about the liberated gold bars, but only spoke of the weight of punishment, the cleaver in his hand, and the force greater than himself that had brought it down on John Bishop more than once, separating him from his right arm.

  Beaudine said, “I admit I let loose the beast.”

  “Did this Bishop die?”

  “He met his god that night, yes.”

  Widow Kate pounded on the door with bear-size fists until it swung open. She came in, coughing back dust-thick air and trying to clear her painted eyes, “Beaudine, you’ve been doing a damn poor job of clock watchin’. Find your pants.”

  Beaudine was sitting on the edge of the cot, its knotted-rope center giving way, his eyes fixed on the pages of the Sears catalog that papered the slat walls and ceiling of the room. Ads for lady’s corsets and iceboxes for a fair price surrounded him, their edges curling yellow. There were no windows in this place, just an opening for a stovepipe, and the only light came from a small oil lamp that smoked acrid brown.

  Beaudine said, “I’ve asked that you refer to me by my officer’s status.”

  Kate snorted. “I’m not playing games with you. This place is a trash pile.”

  A bourbon bottle, neck snapped off, lay empty by his feet, which were laced with blood from stepping on the broken glass. Behind him, a redhead of some age was curled into a corner, her stained nightshirt bunched around her. She didn’t utter a sound through her frozen smile.

  Beaudine said to Kate, “Madame, do you think I owe you an apology?”

  “Forty more dollars. At least.”

  “Speaking of money in front of a lady like Miss Bly is a true insult. You’ve interrupted us. Miss Bly and I were having an interview for an Eastern newspaper. She’s come a very long way to talk to me, and she deserves my full attention.”

  “Nellie Bly again, huh?”

  The redhead sucked her thumb, while playing with her curls with her other hand. Her eyes were vacant spaces in her wide-white face, and she giggled when Kate asked her if she was hurt.

  Widow Kate said, “Whatever he did, you didn’t feel it. How much laudanum did you soak?”

  The redhead came back with a blank grin. Beaudine said, “If you leave us now, you won’t incur my wrath. We have important work yet to do.”

  “Where the hell do you think you are?”

  “The sanitarium at Milledgeville. And again, please show respect for my rank.”

  Widow Kate held back a slap and said, “You’re in the attic of my house, Major! With one of my public girls. You got that?”

  There was a moment of thought, and then Beaudine met her glare, saying, “This hospital, and the way you treat a decorated Confederate officer, is a disgrace, and Miss Bly is here to expose these conditions. When her articles appear, there will be a clean sweeping, including you, Madame.”

  “At least you got that right.”

  Widow Kate put one of her giant hands on the redhead’s face, gently wiping her nose with her thumb. “Look at me, honey. Anything happen that I should charge extra for?”

  The redhead settled for a moment with her thoughts. “No. He just talked like a genteel man—and I didn’t say nothin’ at all. He’d ask a question, and then answer it his own self. Carried on like he was two people.”

  Her words slurred together, but she made a point of saying “genteel,” and was proud of the choice, before slumping back into the corner of her own world.

  “So just the forty.” Kate turned to Beaudine. “You’re crazier than a shit-house rat. How’d they ever let you out of anywhere?”

  Beaudine covered his face with his palms. “You’re pressing me to an edge. Madame, you do not want to incur my wrath.”

  Widow Kate grabbed Beaudine’s uniform jacket from a hanging peg. “That goes both ways. Downstairs. You know what happens when you owe the house.”

  “When my release is secured, my men will be coming for me.”

  “We’ll wait downstairs for them, and if they bring cash, they’re as welcome as spring.”

  Widow Kate held up the grey tunic, seeing that it was pieces of two or three Confederate uniforms of different rank sewn together. The brass buttons across the front were mismatched, and the epaulets looked to be an afterthought. Blood spatter stained one side.

  Widow Kate said, “Honey, you need someone who knows what they’re doing to take of this. You want to appear your best, don’t you?”

  Beaudine looked at Kate with calm eyes, “That’s part of my battle dress. Every spot of blood is a badge of honor.”

  Kate took a Bowie knife from the inside pocket before handing back the tunic. She said, “I’ll put this in the office with your guns, and they’ll stay safe, until you get right with the house.”

 
“You’re putting me in jeopardy, Madame. How am I to properly defend Miss Bly and myself ?”

  Kate took Beaudine’s hand, her palm smothering his. “Against what, Major? Against what?”

  Beaudine said, “The traitorous enemies who’re plotting against us.”

  The trickle of water from the morning-melted snow laced along the bites of the cave roof, before finding a place just above John Bishop’s head, where it rained into his mouth. Bishop leaned back, took a drink, and then stepped away from the cave wall, all the time holding his right half-arm in front of him as an exercise.

  Two pieces of heavy scrap iron were laced together with a leather thong, where White Fox had tied them to his arm, just below the elbow joint. The pieces dangled free, clanking together with every move. Bishop strained. The leather gutted tight, as he lifted the weights with the small section of arm that Beaudine had allowed he could keep.

  Bishop straightened his elbow, fighting the iron as if he were leveling the shotgun. “You counting?”

  White Fox gave her answer with her deep, black eyes: she was.

  Bishop lifted again, drawing his arm as close as he could to his shoulder. He lowered it slowly, stopping waist-high and holding. He stole another drink from the ceiling.

  White Fox said, “Too much water.”

  “Who’s the doctor, huh?”

  She settled cross-legged between the ammunition and medical supplies, wiping the dried blood from inside the leather cup that held the shotgun rig. She soaped the cup, kneading it with her fingers, before folding a small piece of tanned deerskin around the edges. She put her hand inside the rig, gauging its comfort, while keeping a watch on Bishop. Always keeping watch.

  Sweat beaded his face, as he held out the scrap iron, his body shaking. Finally, he exploded, “God almighty!”

  Bishop and the iron banged to the cave floor. White Fox moved to him, untying the leather thong with a quick pull, releasing the weights.

  White Fox smiled and said, “Koké’ahe.”

  Bishop leaned back, catching the stream from above, “I thought my arm was going to come off, ’least what I have left.”

  “Beaudine is with you.”

  “Always.”

  “O’osó.”

  “I’m not wrong. The bastard’s the reason we’re here.” Bishop smiled. “Amaryllis’d be so angry that I cussed.”

  Bishop took a small mirror from his field kit and examined the deep slice on his face, which was now purple with healing. He said, “He cut everything I had to pieces.”

  White Fox stood, opening her blouse to reveal a scar that snaked from the edge of her rib cage to just above the curve of her right hip. The raised tissue was ten inches long and a quarter of an inch wide, with the jagged pattern of sutures now flesh-permanent. She ran her fingers over the area, which was still dead to the touch.

  Bishop said, “I did a sloppy job there.”

  “You saved me.”

  “But that’s the reminder of your husband and that night. You can’t forget.”

  “Tóxetanó ?”

  “You haven’t taught me that one.”

  “Good memory—what makes you sing. Bad memories are a fog.”

  Bishop shook his head. “You act like you don’t understand,” he said, then held out his right while White Fox fitted the shotgun rig onto him.

  “I killed a man last night and I’m ready to go after a hell of a lot more. A year ago such a thing would have been unthinkable. Everything’s changed.”

  “Not changed, changing.”

  With the deerskin lining, the cup fit snugly over Bishop’s arm, cradling it instead of rubbing it raw. He leaned forward without being asked, as White Fox fastened the straps across his shoulders before tightening the slack of the line to the shotgun triggers. The rig felt good this time.

  White Fox said, “You’re not clear. Not yet.”

  Bishop would have started his old argument, but stopped when White Fox pressed her hand against the back of his neck, just two fingers squeezing, as a signal. He turned as she tilted her head in the direction of the cave entrance, listening.

  The wind outside was a low whistle, but someone’s words were carried on it, and then lost. They sounded close, though. Bishop thought he heard the nickering of several horses; White Fox was sure.

  She leapt to her bedroll, lifted the blanket, and grabbed her short bow and beaded quiver, which she slung over her shoulder. She moved along the cave wall, staying on the balls of her feet as she worked her way to a small outcropping of rock by the entrance. The quiver was tight with arrows as she pulled one, fitted it to the bow, and drew back, waiting.

  She threw Bishop a nod; the look told him there was no more time for doubt.

  Bishop understood. “Maybe I should forget about Beaudine, my brother, all of it.” He spoke loudly enough for his voice to echo through the cave, and to cover the sound of his dropping two shells into the Greener, locking the double barrel.

  Bishop stood, bringing the weapon up. “That is the best way to find peace.”

  He moved his shoulders, adjusting the strap to tighten the slack on the line to the two triggers. He started for the cave entrance, then planted his feet, with the rig waist-high. Whoever was outside was sure to see him.

  White Fox approved with a blink of her eyes, keeping her bow and breathing tight.

  There was more low speaking from outside, and a few heartbeats. Bow and triggers were ready, when a ragtag soldier charged the cave entrance, brandishing a torch in one hand and a Navy Six in the other.

  Ragtag screamed, “Welcome to Hell!”

  White Fox let go, and the arrow tore through Ragtag’s jawbone, shredding his cheek. His scream choked into a gurgle.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dead Man

  Just ten minutes earlier, and Captain Creed brought his tall chestnut around to face the men riding with him. He threw an arm toward the cave. “Bishop’s hole up with that dog-eater. I can smell ’em. Earn your pay.”

  Ragtag, in Union blues, grabbed Creed’s reins to lead him to a small slope, just to the side of where the cave split the mountain face. Creed kicked at Ragtag from his stirrup, keeping his voice low. “Their horses!”

  Ragtag quick-stepped to the tree where the painted and the bay were tied, while Creed’s other men cleared the snow in four small areas about ten feet from the cave entrance. They worked in joined silence, their leathered faces covered by rough wool scarves and with collars turned up. Ragtag led the painted and bay away, the horses nickering.

  It was a bright, clear morning with no warmth to be felt, just bitter cold, even as the sun threw diamonds off the snow and ice. This was the kind of February that had strangled everything on Creed’s place, with no hope of resurrection in the spring. But Creed didn’t blame the weather or the Almighty for his plight; he blamed the man in the mountain.

  Creed eased back on the cantle of his hand-tooled saddle, taking off his amber-lens glasses to rub his sightless eyes and saying to no one, “I know this country just by its feel.”

  One of the men, with a Colt double-action pistol tucked in a belt loop, moved to Creed quietly. “We got her the way you wanted.”

  Creed responded, “You better.”

  The man with the Colt whistled a bluebird’s song, and two others cut a bulging canvas sack from the back of a horse, and hauled it over. They slit the sack as they would a hog’s belly, then pulled out a scorched red, white, and blue flag of the Tennessee Volunteers.

  The burned tatters were held with respect, even as others were yanked from the canvas one after another: shredded sections of the Stars and Bars; the Georgia “Cummins White Cross,” with its field of red now torn in half; bloody shreds that had once been infantry banners.

  Creed said, “Whatever you’ve got, bring it here.”

  Colt unfurled a dark blue flag that had been punched with bullet holes, and held it up to Creed, who ran his fingers across the large white star in its center.

  “Bonnie B
lue.”

  “You don’t have to do this, sir. We can cut some branches.”

  Creed said, “Burn them.”

  His men heaped the battle colors and banners onto the cleared areas of frozen ground. Jugs of kerosene were tossed from a pack mule, and the fuel was poured over the piles of torn cloth. The air bent with the smell of the kerosene, and the men fought their hacks. A boy choked and spit. The last bit of fuel was dribbled onto the old flags, but the men said nothing as they looked to Creed for his reaction. Colt almost spoke, but held back.

  Creed adjusted his glasses, pushing them up on a nose that had been deformed by frostbite, and finally said, “At your ready.” Colt lit a torch, then passed the flame to the others as they checked their weapons. A fat gut with a plaid kerchief, who’d always crowed that he was Creed’s cousin, pumped a shell into the chamber of a Winchester and took position to the side of the others. Ragtag almost danced in place, ready for Creed to give the signal.

  Creed waited, his blind eyes fixed on a memory, and then he ran his hand across his grey beard, lightly tugging on his chin.

  That was it. A torch was put to the fuel, the flames sputtering in the chill before catching and racing along the kerosene trail to each pile of flags. They burst into flames.

  Fat Gut, his stomach sucked in, shouldered his rifle while the rest of Creed’s men stood as a firing squad, pistols aimed at the cave.

  Creed said, “Bring him to me.”

  Ragtag threw his head back with a wild howl, before charging the cave, a Navy Six in one hand and a torch in the other, screaming, “Welcome to Hell!”

  Ragtag’s cry was cut dead short. Then, the echo of him from the cave died, and there was no sound from anywhere except for the sizzling of the kerosene pools.

  Creed backed his tall horse a few steps, which was the cue for his men to move away from the flames, but to keep their guns aimed beyond them, into the cave’s mouth. Fat Gut let out his breath and then dropped to one knee, his Winchester steady on some shadowed movement.

  Creed called out, “Dr. John Bishop, this is Captain Dupont Creed! Don’t come out? You’re going to roast alive! I don’t give a rat’s ass about the squaw. She can cook.”