Howard lunged, grabbing Chaney by the lapels. “You’re cheatin’ me!”
Lem eased the giant back. “How can he be cheating you when there’s no money bet? You didn’t lose nothing!”
Howard settled back, wiping the sweat from his face.
Beaudine threw the last bit of coffee into the fire. “When you go into battle, you better bring more than card tricks.”
“I got more.” Chaney spit out a chunk of hard gristle, and then drank deep from his canteen. Deadeye Lem laughed without making a sound.
Howard said, “I guess this ain’t your style, is it?”
Chaney coughed. “I’ve done my time on the trail, but we’re supposed to be eating better than this. Isn’t that what you said?”
Beaudine took the long cleaver and a small wooden box from behind his saddle, and sat by the fire. He looked at Chaney as he opened the box, removing a Carborundum sharpening stone, and began running it against the cleaver blade. The sound of the stone against metal seemed to be Beaudine’s answer.
Lem said, “You can’t ask questions like that, gambler. You have to have faith, like the next card you draw is the one that gives you the winning hand. Only you can’t cheat.”
Howard snorted. “Winning hand. That’s almost funny.”
Beaudine didn’t stop sharpening. “The troops are always impatient before the attack.”
Chaney said, “We’re not a troop. I’ve never been in any army, and they say you haven’t neither.”
Beaudine kept sharpening. “We were all denied that glory, but we won’t be denied this. Chaney, if you’re not a coward—”
“Coward has nothing to do with it.”
“If you’re not a coward, when we find that Bishop gold, you’ll eat like a king for the rest of your life, however long it lasts.”
“We got the extra rifles, ammo, and dynamite from that dry goods store.” Chaney looked to Howard, who was tightening the cinch that held the crates of dynamite on a small pack mule. Two rifles were bound in cloth, and fit tight between the cases.
Chaney wiped his mouth. “But you didn’t let us take any extra food.”
Beaudine gave his response some pause. “You mean more whiskey, and that cake. A captain, a brother in arms, advises that a fighting unit runs best when it runs lean. I agree. You have a full belly and a purpose. That is doing better than most.”
Lem raised his one good eye, tickled that Chaney had gotten caught up in Beaudine’s obscure logic. He took a drink of Clinch Mountain whiskey and offered some to Howard, who shook his head. Lem had a little bit more, before: “When this Creed delivers Bishop, I don’t know who the hell you think you’re getting. The doc isn’t the same man he was that night.”
Chaney, under his breath: “No bullshit.”
Beaudine held the cleaver out, inspecting the edge by the firelight. “You failed in your mission before, so I pray none of you are the same.” Then he laid the cleaver by his side. “I know I’m not.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bloody Dawn
They were running like hell.
White Fox leaned into the painted, her belly almost flat against his back, her face aligned perfectly to the side of his neck, holding on tight as they cut through the first row of pines and frost-bare shrubs that bordered the deeper woods. With her ear pressed to him, White Fox could hear the pounding strength of the painted’s heart and lungs.
If White Fox glanced over her shoulder to check Bishop behind her on Creed’s Pride, a low-hanging branch would smash her clean. So Fox kept down, the trees barely brushing over her, not catching her hair, and she sensed that Bishop was riding fine.
Bishop was handling Creed’s horse well, keeping him near the painted, but with enough room to judge where Fox was leading next. The reins were knotted around his left hand as he kept the Winchester tucked under his right half-arm, barrel-down into the stirrup, so as not to catch a passing limb.
Every slight motion Fox made, Bishop did the same, as she guided them through the woods, along the narrow trail she’d broken to find Hector. It was pure instinct, her knowing the cuts, slopes, and the icy bends, all in darkness.
They pushed their rides, gaining speed, dodging trees, their hooves just missing roots and tangles. The crack of distant gunfire split the air, and White Fox deliberately slowed, angling her ride too close to the base of a huge Colorado oak. The painted’s legs half-skidded in the snow, and she fought a fall from his back, but Fox was still in control and the horse did as she wanted, before breaking into a hard run.
Creed’s Pride stayed tight behind the painted, its legs more sure, keeping Bishop steady as they rode deeper into the dense black of the woods, leaving behind a mess of tracks for their pursuers to find.
At the camp, Fuller swung his pinto around as one of Creed’s hired men fired more shots into the solid black of the woods.
“What the hell are you shooting at?” Fuller asked as he checked the ammunition in his jacket pocket. “They’re running, and you’re wasting shells! Grab some fire!”
The taller hired gun pulled a burning branch from the campfire, then mounted up. The other, shorter gun opened Blue Kerchief’s fine jacket, liberating the pearl-handled Colt that was still holstered on his hip. Kerchief’s blood smeared Short Gun’s hands as he stuck the weapon in his waistband before grabbing the reins of Bishop’s horse. The bay bucked as soon as Short Gun hit the saddle, not wanting him. The horse snapped twice more, then seemed to calm.
Short Gun howled, “The doc’s got a hell of a ride! I want this one after we’ve dealt him his justice!”
“They’re prisoners, and they need capturing! That’s the order!” Creed shouted.
Fuller touched his arm for his attention, saying, “I’ll shoot to wound.”
“I heard you miss once already.”
Fuller let the officious criticism go, turned to Hector. “Boy, you ride with the captain, take him along the tree line. Try and find your way over the hill. We’ll meet on the other side of the woods come sun-up, with the prisoners. And watch yourself, there’s nothing darker than Colorado midnight.”
Hector saluted Fuller as Fat Gut tried to stand and talk through his busted, bloody teeth. “Wha’ da thell am I supothed to do? D’at bitch got my Thinchester!”
Creed buried his anger under his words. “They took my Pride! One drop of that animal’s blood is worth more than all of you put together.”
Fuller gave a quick, “It’s all cash to me, Captain!” and rode out, followed by the hired guns. The taller one rode with the torch, its flame showing the tracks of the escape running through the deep snow to the trees.
Fat Gut limped to a horse, but couldn’t raise his leg to mount. “Boy, yuze got da’ thelp me.”
Creed turned to Fat Gut to blind-stare him down: “You’ve been a burden your whole life, and now you’re worse than useless. If I didn’t need every pair of eyes I’d tell the boy to blow a hole in you and be done with it.”
No one moved.
“Get your horses! Move!” Creed’s shout carried across the open snow, dying as jumbled noise just as Fuller rode to the edge of the tree line. He signaled for the gun with the torch to throw a light on the broken spot between the pines where White Fox and Bishop had run their horses.
Fuller made a slashing gesture across his throat for silence. He waved for Torch to stay close before they rode through the break. The only sound was of the horses cracking the snow’s icy crust or snapping twigs, as they followed the tracks left behind by the prisoners. Fuller picked up the pace when he had a bead.
Short Gun kept Bishop’s bay horse a few paces back, as he ducked beneath branches and swatted pinecones away from his face. The swat sounded like the slap of a gun being pulled from its leather.
Fuller whipped around in his saddle, his Bowie ready to throw.
Short Gun rocked back in his saddle. “Goddamn, boy!”
“One or t’other, your mouth is gonna get you killed.” Fuller replaced the knife.
Short Gun nodded, clamping his hands over his mouth to show he wouldn’t make another sound.
Fuller gaffed the pinto, breaking into a run. Torch followed, with Short Gun hanging back, until Bishop’s bay horse galloped ahead on its own, as if it were searching out its rightful master.
Down the trail a mile, the woods were thickening into a maze, and White Fox held on to the painted’s neck, slowing him. The shimmer of icicles on the trees was the only light that Fox could use as she turned painted toward a grouping of tall scrubs, marking where she’d found Hector.
Right behind her, Creed’s Pride was running close. Bishop pulled back, breaking Pride’s full-out run, stopping where Jed’s twisted body was still lying. The horse stood in that spot, as if at attention.
The night’s snowfall had tried to shroud Jed, while above him jags of ice fell from the high branches, bashing his face as if he’d been in an after-death brawl. For that moment, the hot breathing of the horses, and the crack of the icicles dropping was all that could be heard.
White Fox stepped over the corpse. “When I looked for the boy, I found the way out. Around the trees.”
Bishop said, “The eye of the cat: Ka’eeséhotame?”
Fox allowed herself a half smile. “The gun.”
They pulled the rig from Creed’s saddlebags, a pocket of snow pelting them from the tall trees. Bishop shed his coat and shirt, and Fox fit his half-arm snugly into the prosthetic cup, then tightened the straps across his shoulders until they bit his skin. Bishop tied off the trigger line, with just enough slack to bring the double-barreled chest high. The gun was breeched, with only one shell loaded.
White Fox slipped Bishop’s shirt and coat over the gun rig, her hand touching his chest to feel the steady beat of his heart. She nodded.
Bishop buttoned up with his left. “I didn’t see their faces this time. At all. Just the eyes, so I could tell when they were about to make their move.”
“Good.”
Bishop then reached into the saddlebag for the twelve-gauge shells, but found nothing.
The posse was at the edge of the woods, where Fox’s trail wasn’t so distinct. Fuller halted the pinto to read the mess of horse tracks in the snow in front of them: nothing but mud and slush, sloppy in all directions. Torch stood in his stirrups, trying to make heads or tails: “I can’t tell a damn thing. Maybe they doubled back.”
Fuller said, “No, they’re ahead of us, looking for a way out,” and he kept moving, the others following.
Beyond the posse’s view, Creed’s Pride stood by Jed’s body, lifting his legs in place, as Fox searched the rest of the saddle for shells. Reaching far into one of the leather pockets, she found a linen handkerchief tied neatly around a small object. The handkerchief was clean, with initials L.R.C. sewn into one corner. She loosened the knot, revealing a Union Army Medal of Honor awarded to Captain Dupont Creed tucked between the linen folds.
White Fox held the medal out in her palm.
Bishop said, “I was there when they gave it to him,” before snapping shut the shotgun’s breech, the left barrel loaded.
Fox dropped the medal back into the pocket. “No ammunition.”
She stepped from Creed’s Pride as splinters of orange flame spread across the surface of the icicles around her; bits of color reflected against the black pines.
White Fox and Bishop turned to see the torch, burning tiny-orange in the distance, but coming steadily closer to them. Bishop tossed her Fat Gut’s Winchester. She checked it, pumped a round into the chamber, all the time watching the progress of the three-man posse.
Fox said, “I know places for us.”
Fuller, Torch, and Short Gun reined in where the muddy trail was divided by the massive Colorado oak, its knotted branches blocking their way like giant arms. Horse tracks circled the base of the tree, and then seemed to lead off onto both of the trails behind it, going in separate directions.
Fuller recognized the Cheyenne trick, smiled, looked to his men: “They’re not supposed to be together. These woods are too deep, they haven’t had time to clear ’em.” Then to Short Gun, “Follow that side south, we’ll take t’other.”
“But I won’t be seeing nothing.”
“You’ll see us, and so can they. I got the doc’s ammo, and that bitch can’t hide in the dark if she’s shooting.”
The Torch and Short Gun exchanged looks about the black sniper, then split off.
Short Gun rode easily under the tree limb, and followed the left cut into the dark. Fuller and Torch ducked below the branches to get around the oak on their side. Fuller signaled for Torch to keep the flame high, as they veered right, keeping to the trail White Fox had used.
Deeper in the woods, Fox grabbed the reins of both horses, and led them down past a thick barrier of trees, holding the Winchester tight to her side. She tied the painted and Creed’s Pride to a scrub pine, then crouched behind a large, ice-coated tree trunk that had been snapped in half by some forgotten storm. She braced the rifle and narrowed on her target.
Fox made no sound.
Fuller and the Torch seemed to be a few hundred yards or so down the trail, but riding closer. The flame of the torch danced off the Winchester’s sight, as Fox narrowed her aim.
Following the trail, Fuller said to Torch, “Make yourself a good target.”
“You don’t give me orders, boy.”
“You want to answer to Captain Creed?”
The Torch didn’t say another word.
Bishop ran low, holding the rig to his chest, before rolling down a sloping grade, and coming up behind a spreading blue fir, its branches a perfect cover. He lowered the rig, keeping his elbow crooked so he was aiming from the waist, while watching the posse move toward White Fox’s position.
White Fox held Fat Gut’s Winchester steady against the tree trunk, her eye on the torch’s flame as it vanished behind the silhouette of a tree, and appeared again moments later, bringing Fuller closer.
Then, the flame held steady. The riders had stopped, letting Fox make out the shapes of Fuller and one other man: just highlights, and the glint off their rifles. Two rifles. Fox tightened her trigger finger on the Winchester, counting the seconds.
Bishop watched from his position, and flexed his shoulders, drawing the shotgun’s trigger line in tight. Bishop knew the posse should be bigger than just two. Fox’s trick had split them up, but where were the rest?
Bishop held his breath, waiting for the sound of a horse and rider coming down the small cut, to where he was hidden.
Waiting.
Fuller stepped down from his horse, and walked ahead, his footsteps breaking the snow. Torch was about to dismount, but Fuller hissed, “Stay there! Hold that thing higher!”
Torch did as ordered, telling Fuller to go to hell.
That’s when the slug from the Winchester blew a hole clean through his chest, knocking him out of his saddle. The Torch, and the fire he was carrying, hit the ground, dead.
The fire sizzled to nothing in the snow, leaving darkness.
Fuller dove to the ground, Torch’s chest wound a bloody geyser, soaking him. He wiped the blood from his eyes and took aim through his long sight, ready for the next shot.
Fox cracked off another round.
The flashes from the Winchester were spears of light that tore the dark, giving her away. Fuller eyed the flash, and zeroed in on the shadowed shape in the distance, half hidden by a fallen tree. He fired, yellow flame erupting from the Morgan-James, followed by a low thunder that pounded the ears.
The woman’s scream that came next was a sudden burst of pain.
Bishop tore from his cover. “Ma’êhóóhe!”
There was no answer. Bishop waited, heart pounding. His eyes narrowed, watching Fuller’s silhouette in the action of reloading, bringing the rifle to his shoulder and aiming where White Fox was hidden.
Bishop’s heart was against his ribs.
The sniper drew his breath first, then tightened his finger against the
trigger. That’s when the Winchester cut the dark again with a second shot that hard-spun Fuller to the ground.
Before Bishop could move, there was a pistol in his side from behind, and a nasal voice with a thick accent from the hills: “Doc, you’re done. Your squaw and the slave killed each other, so now it’s just us. Come on, I’m takin’ you prisoner. Hell, I’ll even let you walk alongside your own horse. I got it tied up yonder. Can’t ask for more than that.”
Bishop turned, the left barrel of the rig protruding from his sleeve and snug against Short Gun’s stomach. Short looked to Bishop and said, “But, you doctored me up one time. Saved my life.”
The blast blew out Short Gun’s side, and he stumbled back against the blue fir, shooting near Bishop, into the ground, at the air, before collapsing. Bishop stood over him, watching his life soak into the muddy snow.
Short laughed, then blood-choked, “She’s still dead. Settling up for that bitch wanting my hair. At least, we did that.”
Dawn didn’t come easy. The heavy clouds of night refused to break apart with the sun, draping everything in dull grey. It was the kind of light that cast no shadows, but you could feel sticking to your skin.
Hector guided his horse, with Creed riding tandem, down a small grade near an orchard that had been beaten by the snow: rows of apple trees stood dead in the blowing drifts.
Creed kept his hands on Hector’s shoulders, making sure he had enough pull on the reins. “He was bred from the same stock as President Grant’s own Cincinnati. Grant had Cincinnati all through the conflict, and never allowed anyone else on his back. I did the same. No one ever rode, fed, or watered Creed’s Pride but me.”
Creed rode on for a few moments. “Until now.”
Hector said, “Pride won’t do for anyone else the way he does for you, sir. You’ll get him back.”
“I can’t see him anymore, but he’s still the finest-looking animal there is. That I know.”
“Yes, sir. All sixteen hands.”
Shotgun Page 10
