Shotgun

by Courtney Joyner

  Chaney offered, “Then I’m obliged.”

  Lem said, “See? It’s a good thing you’re here.”

  Howard looked to Chaney. “Yeah, so why are you here?”

  Lem countered, “Come on, we talked that through. It never hurts to have an extra gun.”

  Howard said, “Or target—what you got painted on your back?”

  Lem finished the coffee. “It’s all going to depend on Beaudine, and if we want to carry on.”

  Chaney said, “I thought that was Bishop’s call. He raised the stakes by coming for your bunch.”

  “That’s true, and if I had more than forty dollars to my name, I’d say the hell with Beaudine, the hell with Bishop, the hell with it all.”

  “But now you’re thinking about the chance of that gold.”

  “I’m thinkin’ about death, and the money. And wondering which we’re going to find first. Just wondering.”

  Howard drank some coffee, then spit it into the fire and said, “You’re not all in, Lem?”

  “Hell, yes, I am. But I’m feelin’ better now that there’s three of us.”

  Howard said, “And the law.”

  Chaney looked to Lem, who was grinning. “What do you mean?”

  “He means this.” Howard took a bent deputy’s badge from his pocket, and pinned it on his torn vest, directly over his heart.

  Lem snorted a laugh. “He got it when he was leg-breakin’ agitators for the railroad, just to keep things nice and legal.”

  Howard said to Chaney, “See, I’m not just some big, dumb, son of a bitch. I’m the law.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Into the Storm

  “You gotta be shittin’ me!”

  Hector was propping Fat Gut by his shoulders as Bishop pulled the chrome instrument from his med kit. Gut winced when he saw the thing: it was tong-shaped, with a metal clamp mounted between curved scissor blades that opened wide enough to fit around the top of Fat Gut’s leg, while the clamp extended to grab hold of the arrow shaft that protruded eight inches out of the calf. The snow was falling heavier now, sticking to the open wound.

  Bishop said, “This instrument’s designed for removing bullets, but it’s adaptable. Unfortunately, I only have this left hand, and can’t perform the procedure myself.”

  Fat Gut “what the hell” squinted, and then Bishop added, “It won’t work without two hands.”

  Fat Gut yelped, “Then who in tarnation’s gonna do it? And I don’t get no painkiller or nothin’? I know you got powders!”

  “Your ambush broke everything we had. Maybe one of your buddies has a bottle in his saddle?”

  One of the hired guns wiped his nose and said, “Creed don’t allow nothing. Thinks it keeps us sharp. Bullshit.”

  Creed called out, “Where’s the boy? Where’s Hector?”

  Hector made some noise, his nose buried in Fat Gut’s shoulders, propping him up for surgery, as Bishop tightened the metal clamp around the arrow. His moves were left-hand clumsy, but the instrument locked into place. Hector strained against Gut’s rolling weight, “I’m here, sir!”

  “Front and center.”

  Bishop countered, “I need him, Creed, if you want your wounded tended. I’d bet you still have that bottle.”

  Creed took a bottle of Evan Williams pre-conflict bourbon, wrapped in oilcloth, from his saddlebag. The hired guns spit and grumbled, as White Fox stood directly in front of Creed, fixed on his amber glasses as they were being dotted with fresh snow. “Eó’ó’éne vo’ êstanéhotame. Do you know its meaning?”

  Creed sniffed the air, then handed her the bottle. “Dr. Bishop wanted this. For medicinal use only.”

  Bishop took stripped bandages, antiseptic, and scalpels from his bag; suddenly he was a field medic again, prepping, but with only his left hand. White Fox sat next to him, holding the bottle just out of Fat Gut’s reach, as she waited for Bishop to give the nod.

  Fat Gut said, “That bottle’s for me!”

  Creed said, “That’s not coffin varnish, it’s fine sipping whiskey, with a history.”

  “You claim that about everything, ’cuz.”

  Dr. Bishop checked the clamp, the tongs on the instrument, the leg’s torn muscle and flesh. Fat Gut grabbed for the bourbon again, but got nothing. White Fox fought her smile.

  Fat Gut let it out again, “Come on! I’m dyin!”

  Bishop said, “Well, you were trying to kill me.”

  Fat Gut snorted like White Fox wasn’t there. “Just her. We had orders to take you, but you ain’t the one who shot me.”

  Creed said, “Doctor, I expect you to do your duty.”

  Fat Gut wiped his mouth and said, “There’s your orders, Doc,“ before nodding toward White Fox. “I’ve left ’em dead and wishin’ they was dead. Had some fun, too. But not this time, huh? Not with you?”

  White Fox looked to Bishop, her eyes solid, black pools with blood red around the iris, a circle of fire. This only happened in moments of rage, just before exploding. Just before.

  Bishop watched the moment pass, White Fox never looking away from him. Then he said to Fat Gut, “You’re damn lucky.”

  “Quit stallin’! Fix me up!”

  Creed said, “Conduct yourself properly, or I’ll order the doctor to let your leg rot.”

  Bishop said, “Give me a Winchester shell.”

  “Spent. More in my pocket. Can’t move my arm.”

  “Boy?”

  Hector reached into Gut’s pocket, pulling out two cartridges. White Fox took the bullets, pulled away the brass and emptied the black powder around the shaft of the arrow, just below the clamp. The arrowhead wasn’t barbed, but it had sliced beneath a muscle and had to be cut free from the tissues before removal. Fat Gut grabbed the bottle of bourbon like he was wringing a chicken’s neck.

  “Drink. Your captain got that bottle from Ulysses S. Grant.”

  Hector gulped air. “Is that a true fact?”

  Fat Gut took three long pulls, wiping the rest from the scraggle of his beard. “He’s told me a hundred times.”

  Bishop said, “That’s a true fact. Creed knows Grant.”

  One of the guns fashioned a cigarette, lit it. Bishop looked up just as he flicked the match away. “Got another light?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Then come over here.”

  Creed said, “Whatever needs doing.”

  The gun sauntered over, a Morgan-James longsighted rifle slung on his back. He stood by Fat Gut, snickered, and blew smoke into the light-falling snow.

  Bishop looked up at the gun. “What do they call you?”

  “My given name’s Epiphany. My Christian name’s Fuller.”

  Bishop said, “Mr. Fuller, when I tell you, put the cigarette to the powder on his leg. It’s going to pain.”

  Fuller said, “I never cottoned to this son of a bitch anyway.”

  Fat Gut screamed with spittle, “I ain’t lettin’ that darkie do nothing to me!”

  White Fox grasped the tongs, Bishop positioned the scalpel and said, “Now!”

  It all happened at once. Fuller put his cigarette to the black powder, flaming it around the wound, as Bishop cut the arrowhead free. White Fox threw her weight against the clamp, forcing it to pull the arrow from Fat Gut’s leg in a single motion. Blood was a fountain, spraying her, before the powder burned over the wound, sealing it.

  There was a meat-sizzling, even as snow cooled the wound, and Bishop swabbed it with iodine. Hector grunted as Fat Gut slumped back, unconscious.

  Fuller pulled Hector from under Gut’s massive weight. “Come on, tadpole, before he crushes you.”

  Fat Gut’s head hit the ground, his mouth sagging.

  Bishop said, “He’ll be out for a while.”

  Creed said, “Take care of these other men, then we’ll get him on his feet. We’re moving before the sun sets.”

  “The snow’s going to get worse.”

  “Then you and the dog-eater better work as fast as you can, becaus
e you’ve got a long walk.”

  The gun known as Fuller rolled the last of his makings and popped it in his pocket before untying Bishop’s bay and White Fox’s painted stallion. No matter how he moved, his sniper’s rifle stayed perfectly slung across his broad shoulders.

  The snow was a straight curtain now, still light, but not melting when it reached the ground. The kerosene pools and bloody slush around the mouth of the cave were again pristine white, and the dead were in a neat row beside the tree line. Lariat was face down, to hide his twisted expression.

  Fuller led the two horses to where Creed was now sitting atop his chestnut, away from the few men who were still being bandaged by White Fox, as Bishop guided her. The doctor inspected every dressing, and Creed listened for his approval.

  Fuller said, “They’re almost done. I’ve got the horses. The snow makes it look like nothing’s happened here. It’s all brand new again.”

  “What about the boy?”

  “Helping your doc friend.”

  Creed said, “That’s a prisoner.”

  Fuller reached into Creed’s saddlebag, found a match to go with his last cigarette. He struck it against Creed’s stirrup. “He’s gold to me, Creed.”

  “You’re forgetting yourself, Fuller.”

  “I ain’t forgetting nothing. I’ve been with you since Richmond, and I always appreciated that you saw my blue uniform, instead of my black skin. You were always blind to that, now you’re blind for real.”

  “But still in command, here.”

  “You’re not an officer anymore. We’re just trash the army threw away, the ones who should’ve been killed, but weren’t. We’re the walking dead, and now we got a shot at real money? This ain’t about loyalty, Captain—it’s about leaving my kids something. Without my uniform, I’m just another runaway slave with a gun, so this better work out.”

  The acknowledgment of rank pleased Creed. “You’ll always be a soldier; a fine sniper with a good eye. Maybe I can’t see it, but I know your skills. Conduct yourself with discretion, and you’ll be rewarded.”

  “I can keep my mouth shut, but one way t’other, I’m getting mine.”

  Creed finally said, “We all will.”

  The colorless sky and white earth met somewhere, forming an empty void, barely broken by the distant sketch of a mountain or the dot of trees, all obscured by blowing snow. A hanging fog turned any landmarks into grey-blue ghosts, as Creed’s prisoners trudged through the building cold.

  Behind them, they left hoof prints in furrows of snow that were being filled in from the sky, while ahead there was only blinding white.

  Bishop and White Fox led the group, the bay and the painted stepping high out of the snow and coming down through a frozen crust, almost to the knee. White Fox’s hands were tied at the wrist behind her back, while Bishop’s left was knotted to his saddle horn.

  Creed and Fuller rode side by side, the painted and the bay tethered to Fuller’s horse so Bishop and White Fox couldn’t break away. Fuller’s Morgan-James hung in a scabbard by his leg.

  The rest of Creed’s men followed in line, some bandaged, their weapons casual on their laps, ready to shoot Bishop or White Fox, or anyone, between the shoulders. Hector was the last rider, sharing his horse with Fat Gut. Gut was still dazed from the surgery and heaving into the frosty air. Even when he waved in the saddle, he held onto his Winchester like it was precious treasure.

  Everyone kept their faces low, the horses angling slightly to the side, against the beating wind as they trudged. Bishop pulled up, and the other riders stopped behind him, the animals bobbing their heads, snorting. Hot breath hung in the air.

  Bishop called out, “Why are we setting the pace? We’ll freeze before we get anywhere.”

  Creed said, “When I want us to move faster, we will.”

  “Then where the hell are we going?”

  “You’re heading in the right direction, Doctor. That’s all you need to know.”

  “You can tell?”

  “I can tell.”

  Bishop said, “Then how about this: are we wanted dead or alive?”

  “There’s a price to be paid. Now move.”

  Bishop looked to White Fox, who kept her gaze straight ahead, seeing something beyond the yawning white. Snow hung on her eyelashes and lips, and she didn’t meet Bishop’s face when he asked if she was all right. She just gently heeled her painted, starting the trek again. Bishop did the same.

  The group followed in line, with the hired guns muttering. Fuller looked back from his saddle and said, “You boys want to see some shares, I’d keep my opinions quieter than that.”

  One of the guns said, “The house slave never has to worry about nothin’.”

  Fuller cocked the Morgan-James, the metallic click of the hammer hidden by the howling wind, and was drawing it from its scabbard when Creed said, “Rise above it.”

  Fuller regarded the blind man who’d heard the weapon, and said, “You’ve been grinding about the doc for years.”

  “But I waited, and now is the time. Be patient, and you’ll have your time, too. Should I make that an order, Fuller?”

  Fuller glanced over his shoulder at the seven men behind him—bloodied, bandaged, with guns instead of sense. The ones Bishop and White Fox hadn’t killed. He’d ridden with some of them for years, knew who they were inside, and usually let their talk pass right over. But now he was going to have to share money with this bunch, maybe a lot. He threw them a strained grin that one of Creed’s men returned, full-tooth. Easy target.

  Fuller’s eyes narrowed, even as his grip relaxed on the Henry, letting it slide back into its place. “No need.”

  Bishop said, “Sounds like trouble in the ranks.”

  Creed didn’t raise his voice. “It’s handled.”

  “Like the time we crossed into the Ohio Valley? You’d been pushing the men for days, they could barely stand, and that’s when the attack came. We lost a lot that day.”

  “You lost a lot.”

  “Most were passed saving, Creed. And none died by my hand.”

  “You mean the one you have left?”

  Bishop said, “We’ve both seen miracles on the battlefield, but there sure weren’t any that day.”

  “I don’t need your voice of conscience. I learned a long time ago that doctors aren’t gods.”

  “Neither are officers.”

  Creed let the words settle before he said, “Even a blind man could hit a target as close as you are to me.”

  “Wouldn’t that lessen our value? Or is it ‘dead or alive’?”

  Creed chose his words. “I haven’t decided.”

  Creed felt Fuller’s hand on his shoulder for a bit of reassurance, and said nothing. They all rode on for a few minutes, the snow cutting harder, before Bishop said, “In case nobody’s told you, the sun’s going down.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Reunion

  The three-story house, with the lattice protecting each floor, looked as if it had been plucked from a tony street in St. Louis and dropped in the middle of nowhere. Years of weather and living in the hard country had left their mark on this beauty, but she still stood tall, the lamps in each window welcoming strangers as they approached.

  A soiled dove, with tight, blond curls pulled the Navajo blanket closer to her shoulders as she watched the three riders tie their horses to the hitch rail in front of Widow Kate’s. The night was damn cold, with her unmentionables sticking to her skin, but at this moment she liked it better on the porch than being curled up in her warm bed, with nowhere to run.

  She seemed to Lem Wright to still be of schooling age when she asked, “Is you the law or customers?”

  Howard said, “The law.”

  Soiled Dove dropped a pinch of snuff behind her lower lip, sticking it out while she thought, then said, “Good. There’s been too much trouble tonight.”

  Chaney took out his small-handled Colt, and Howard sniffed, “Borrow that from your granny?”


  Howard pushed around the horses and opened his coat so the Dove could see his deputy’s badge pinned over his huge belly, “Look at me, little girl. What the hell’s the problem?”

  She blinked twice at Howard. “That crazy man killed Miss Kate. I had to get out.”

  “What crazy man?”

  “The one who never pi-roots, just talks. He was a general or somethin.’”

  “What room’s he in?”

  “He was in Miss Kate’s office, but I dunno now.”

  Lem smiled at the girl. “You forgot your shoes. Your toes’ll freeze off.”

  The Dove moved the snuff with her tongue, wiggling her grubby feet. “I guess I wasn’t thinkin’.”

  Lem Wright tucked the blanket around the Dove’s feet, then held open the large door with the stained-glass Chinese symbol for “love” in its center, keeping his gun hand ready over his Remington New Model.

  Lem’s deadeye fixed on Howard and Chaney. “Time for the reunion.”

  They went inside, while the Dove rubbed her toes and started a song she didn’t know all the words to. Lem drew his pistol, and was careful not to let the door slam behind him.

  The blood pooling around Widow Kate soaked the Persian rug, casting it purple where she was lying. Her body was balled together next to her comfortable chair, hands clamped against the side where the blade had slit deep. Kate’s eyes were closed, and there was no reaction when Beaudine nudged her with his boot. A few of the line girls peered silently from the office doorway, while the only one saying anything was doing it in shrill Chinese.

  Beaudine was unfazed as he wiped the blood from the ivory letter opener before slipping it in his pocket; the staring eyes, the Chinese accusations, weren’t reaching him at all. He moved quickly, snatching up carved jade and cast-gold trinkets, then stuffing his coat until it bulged. He gave Kate’s pipe a deep sniff, tasting the opium residue in the back of his throat, before noticing Howard, Lem, and Chaney standing just feet away.

  Beaudine waited for a sign of respect from his men until Howard offered, “Still crazy as a shit-house rat?”