Shotgun
Page 17
“Hold on. Mr. Howard, you first. There are planks at the end that need to be broken through to the outside, and your strength is mandatory. But before you do, Mr. Chaney?”
Beaudine handed Chaney the red hood. He held it for just a moment, feeling its curious weight. Chaney’s eyes adjusted, focusing first on the blood soaking one side of the hood, then on the Rider’s head still inside it, lopped cleanly at the neck with the cleaver blade.
Chaney dropped the hood, choking air.
Beaudine kicked it aside. “This was a difficult day, gentlemen. We fought hard and let the savage loose, but now we’re an army of three. If we’re going to find our way to Bishop’s gold, there can be no mutiny, no disloyalties. If your heart is traveling in that direction, now would be the time to tell me.”
Chaney held his wounded side with red-wet fingers. “I’ll do what’s needed.”
“Mr. Howard?”
Howard regarded the head at his feet, then said, “You keep asking like I don’t want that gold no more. I want it.”
The ceiling shifted with a low rumble, a crack above them widening. Chaney half-crouched as Beaudine stepped to one side, pointing to the airway with the cleaver blade.
Howard worked his way through the stone cut, to the opening fifty feet in. The passage was too small for him to raise his arms, so he smashed through the boards with a single head butt, flooding the mine with sunlight and the fresh sound of the river below.
The finger of water coming off this side of the Colorado didn’t have a name, but ran cold and fast down the mountain, before splitting into a dozen streams cutting through winter-bare woods. White Fox and Bishop stood on one of those stream banks, frosted with snow to the water’s edge, tending themselves.
Caked with black gunpowder, dust from the Goodwill, and blood, they washed as best they could, with handfuls of icy water splashing across their wounds. Fox pulled the shotgun rig from Bishop’s arm, the blasted-jagged section of the breach slicing her hand.
She sucked on the cut, started to unhook the leather straps across his back, pain eating at them both. Bishop kept his voice flat: “The gambler was going to give us Beaudine. Give us. You didn’t have to shoot.”
Fox pulled the leather free. “We don’t have the word. You’d say it was ‘a choice.’” Then she stuffed the broken rig into Bishop’s saddlebag.
Fox took a deep breath and held it, feeling the mountain cool, before she said, “Ametané’ôsené.”
“You think you gifted me life?”
She smeared the blood from her hand onto the blood on her clothes. “We wouldn’t have survived. Now, you can go on with the hunt.”
She knelt by the water, pulling her shirt down over her shoulders, so he could clean the deep sore there, rubbed to the muscle by her bowstring.
Bishop looked through the medical kit. “Your salve would be good for that.”
“I gave the last away.”
“Another choice?”
The tiny voice from behind the trees chirped: “Mister, if you’ve got money hid, you need to give it over. Really slow.”
The little girl was about four feet tall, with a flat nose that seemed to run directly from her mouth with no break, and blue eyes that were too far apart. Her hair was straight, cornstalk yellow, and in desperate need of a ribbon or a comb that would have helped it hide her enormous ears. She held a rusting squirrel rifle crimped against her, and she moved it around every time she spoke in a way that was oddly musical. Tuneful, even when she mangled her words.
“That there the money? I’ll be wanting it.”
Bishop’s arm went into firing position, without his thinking, and without a weapon. His eyes met Fox, and his instincts cooled. “Really don’t think you need a gun.”
Bishop tried to follow the end of the rifle as it moved in circles while the little girl bobbed her head about, almost singing. “I do need it, to make you give over money. Or I’ll shoot. You. And her. And then, maybe, you again.”
“It’ll probably hurt some, but that’s not going to kill either one of us. Or even a squirrel for supper. Is that what you’re doing out here?”
“Ask you the same question!”
“We’re just riding through. Is this your land? Is that it?”
“No, it ain’t.”
“Then why are you pointing that? Are you a robber?”
The rifle started moving again, and so did the “voice music”: “My sister’s ailing bad, and we can’t fix our wagon, and my pa don’t know which end is up, so I’m taking charge. And you all are the first things I’m taking charge of.”
Fox said, “Where is your father?”
“No business of yours! Show me your hands!”
Bishop raised his left hand, and half a right arm skyward. The little girl said, “Was you born that way, or did somebody take after you?”
“Somebody took after me. We can help you, and your sister.”
“She’s been dyin’ for as long as I can remember.”
White Fox said, “He is a doctor.”
“You’re like somethin’ the devil coughed up! I seen doctors afore, and they didn’t look nothing like you. Or her!”
Bishop smiled. “You’re surely right, most don’t look like me, but I am a doctor. Let me try helping your sister, and if you don’t like it, you can still shoot me.”
Nodding, the little girl lowered her rifle, blurting, “Don’t think I won’t!” She repeated it as if it were a chorus.
The Conestoga was propped on a tree stump, leaving the back axle to freely turn, without the weight of its shattered wheel. At first glance, it looked to be the wagon of a broken-down circus: the canvas top had seen too many repairs, with patches of all colors, as had the too-large wagon bed, which was pieced together from half a dozen freight schooners by a carpenter with no skills.
The campsite could have dropped out of the sky to land in this most unlikely place: there was a small fire with a fine, polished steel cook pot and implements hanging over it, surrounded by two upholstered rocking chairs, a mahogany dresser with bottles of perfume scattered across the top, most of which had spilled down its side, and a large vanity mirror mounted in a standing frame.
Albert Tomlinson stepped from the back of the Conestoga, wringing out a washcloth, when he saw his daughter rifle-marching between Bishop and White Fox, as they rode from the woods to the campsite. Albert, whose body could barely support the clothes he was wearing, waved to his little girl with a tired, grey smile.
“Well, how’re you folks doing today?”
The girl started running to Albert, turned midway to keep her bent rifle on her new prisoners, then back-stepped the rest of the way to his side. Her voice was all highs and lows. “Look what I found in the woods, Papa! Caught ’em on my own, brung ’em in on my own. And you know they got money!”
Albert patted the top of her head. “Now, May Flowers, I think you were supposed to get us some dinner.”
“But they’re better!”
Bishop and Fox got down from their horses as Albert extended a bony hand. “Albert Tomlinson, over to Arkansas. Surely am sorry about this. Hope you didn’t feel too threatened.” Then he whispered, “My May Flowers wouldn’t really shoot nobody.”
Bishop shook with his left. “She’s a good protector. How long have you been here, Mr. Tomlinson?”
“Nigh on three days.”
“And we’re the first to find you?”
“This is a pretty lonesome spot, I guess. There was a Shoshoni scout party one night, but they didn’t come in.”
“What happened to your outfit?”
May Flowers said, “Have ’em empty up their pockets!”
Albert took the rifle from his daughter as he scare-crowed back to the wagon, settling by the empty axle. May Flowers jammed her tongue stubbornly behind her lower lip as her father spoke: “The axle started turning funny coming down the trail out of that low range, and then we lost the wheel.”
White Fox looked underneath th
e wagon, pointing to the loose iron above the axle braces. “The brake rocker is broken.”
Albert said, “Yes, ma’am. We couldn’t control nothing the last bit, and crossed the water too fast. Darn near toppled over completely. That’s when we lost the wheel, and I had to fish it out. But I was surely glad to get to this side, with the girls and all.”
Fox moved to the wheel, which was leaning against the mahogany dresser. She rolled it in the grass, to the place where the iron flatting had peeled back, splintering the wood.
“The felly is split. This can’t be fixed.”
May Flowers singsonged, “She knows about all of this?”
Bishop said, “She knows. If you don’t pull out of this mud soon, this wagon’s staying put.”
Albert said, “We’re worse than the church mouse right now, can’t afford a darn thing.”
“You’ve got some fine furniture, Mr. Tomlinson.”
“My wife’s things. She’s gone.”
“Why don’t you sell a piece, get a new wheel?”
May Flowers grabbed one of the bottles of perfume and began dousing herself. “That’s how come I was getting us money.” Then she stuck out her tongue at White Fox.
Albert said, “I got me another daughter who’s with bronchitis. That’s the baby, and I can’t leave her to go to town, to do business.”
“May told us. I’m a doctor.”
Albert took a long look at Bishop, in tatters, before finally saying, “Really?”
Little May Showers had a Chinese abacas lying on her tummy, and she pushed the beads around trying to match the colors in a row. If she managed it, she allowed herself a thin smile between fits of harsh coughing. A slip of a girl, tucked up tight in a hammock strung across the back of the freight schooner, she rocked it defiantly when her father came close.
She looked a great deal like her sister, but her face was smaller, and meaner, with coarse black hair instead of blond. She shared the same blue eyes, but they didn’t soften her features, or invite anyone closer.
Albert entered the wagon, which was filled with more furniture, including a spinning wheel, and moved carefully to his daughter. May Showers huddled in her hammock, racking the beads on the abacas, back and forth, clicking them together with every step Albert took, as if he were approaching a rattler about to strike.
“May Showers, this here’s a doctor, honey. He’s going to help you, so you behave and let him.”
The little girl thrashed violently, as Albert pried the abacas from her fingers. She didn’t yell, but burst into a fit of deep, raw coughing. Albert tried more water, which she couldn’t swallow, the spittle running down her chin. Her chest finally relaxed, and she settled back into her sweat-dirty pillow. She never said a word, but thrust her hands out for the abacas.
Albert put it aside. “I’m a bookkeeper by trade, and I find this exotic device very useful. The girls think it’s a plaything. They don’t like no dolls or nothing.”
White Fox opened the medical kit, as Bishop reached inside for a small mirror. “How long has it been since she’s washed?”
“I try my best. We got a bathtub, but it’s packed away.”
“Part of getting her well is keeping her clean.”
Bishop handed the mirror to Fox, who angled it to catch a ball of sunlight, which she focused on May Showers’ chin. May hit her father with furious eyes, clutched the sides of the hammock, and was about to twist.
Albert stammered something about behaving, but Bishop cut into it: “May, I don’t look like a doctor, but I am, and I know how to make folks feel better. All I want you to do is open your mouth just a little bit, so I can look inside with this glass. I promise not to sneak in any nasty medicine. And, I do anything you don’t like your sister’s going to shoot me with her squirrel gun. Okay?”
The girl’s jaw was clenched angry-tight. White Fox ran her hand across her forehead, brushing her unwashed hair out of her eyes, and letting it rest there. May sagged her mouth open. Bishop adjusted an examining lens to see into her throat, illuminated by the sunlight reflected in the hand mirror.
“There’s no infection.”
“The Little Rock docs said it was the bronchitis.”
“Her airway’s blocked. That’s different.”
Bishop held out his hand, and Fox automatically gave him his monaural stethoscope. He placed it on May’s chest, and listened, looked to Fox and said, “She sounds like you.”
White Fox reached into the medical kit.
The reservoir of the oxygen pump filled instantly with running water from the stream. White Fox picked out slivers of ice, while May Flowers peered over her shoulder.
“What’s that thing? It worth any money?”
“For your sister.”
“What’s it worth?”
Fox stood, checking the rubber tubes. “It will save her life.”
May Flowers stayed on Fox’s heels as they walked back to the wagon. “But what’s it worth?”
May Showers’ hands fought the celluloid oxygen mask, clawing at it until Bishop pulled it back. “May, this is what you need. You don’t have to do anything but breathe. Won’t that feel good? No more coughing?”
The little girl screamed, throwing a tiny, balled fist, before doubling over, her chest racking. Fox held her hands as Bishop fitted the mask over her mouth and nose, tightening the strap around her head.
“Turn it!”
Albert jumped at Bishop’s voice, and started to crank the device, bringing the oxygen from the water through the tube to the mask. May Showers took the new air in, but her hands went to the mask again, her fingers clawing.
Albert said, “Daughter May Flowers? Mr. Foster’s song, now.”
May Flowers stood behind her sister, her downturned face sullen and dark, but she began to sing, “Slumber, my darling, thy mother is near, / Guarding thy dreams, from all terror and fear,” bringing her voice up from someplace beyond her, filling the wagon.
May Showers settled in her hammock, breathing quietly, her sister’s voice wrapping around her.
May Flowers carried Stephen Foster’s lullaby out of the wagon on wings, to the edge of the stream and the horses, where Bishop and Fox were checking their saddles. They listened to that perfect voice, clear as mountain air, and a smile traveled between them. Albert shrugged at his daughter’s talent.
Bishop said, “That’s an amazing gift she’s got.”
“Like their mama. Not much to look at, but they do have those voices. Both of ’em.”
“I didn’t presume, Albert. Did your wife pass?”
“No, sir, she run off. So guess I’m divorced, but without papers. Uglier than a two-snout pig, but she found another fella.”
The song hid White Fox’s reaction, and she sneezed her laugh, as Bishop nodded toward the dresser. “Then, I suppose if it doesn’t pain too much, sell one of her pieces, get that wheel? You can go to town now, your girls will be all right.”
“Now.” Albert dug his hands in his pockets. “That’s just what I’m going to do, get fixed up, and to my new job. But I don’t have no money to pay you, Doc. You want to take a chair? They’re nice sitters. Frenchie imports from New Orleans.”
Bishop secured his med kit in the saddlebag. “Your daughter’s sleeping easy because of this young woman. That breather belongs to her.”
“Then I thank you greatly, ma’am. Maybe you’d like to take something with you?”
White Fox got on her horse. “I am.”
“There are a lot of good reasons to kill a man, but target practice ain’t one of ’em,” Fuller said.
“Is he being ironic? Is there a smile there?” Creed asked.
Hector gently gaffed Creed’s Pride to quicken his pace, so that he was now riding parallel with Fuller. The sniper glanced at the boy and Captain Creed, who were saddled together. There wasn’t a hint of a smile on Fuller’s face, or anything to read in his eyes, except the burning from the bullet in him.
“Satisfied?”
Fuller returned his eyes to the horizon, and the storm roiling there, its light pre-snow just starting to reach them.
“Report?”
Hector spoke over his shoulder. “Sir, I’m looking at Mr. Fuller, and I think he’s saying exactly what he means.”
“I won’t make it a direct order, but you’d be doing the company right, getting rid of that useless sack.”
Fuller kept riding, his hands almost going to his sniper’s rifle. Almost.
Creed’s Pride whinnied. The captain leaned in, squeezing Hector’s shoulders to the bone. “You’re holding Pride back. Appreciate the honor of where you are; let him have his way.”
Hector loosened his pull, trying to fall into the rhythm of Pride’s gait, but was still a plowboy on a thoroughbred. The boy’s awkward movements, sputtering and gangly, got a half smile from Fuller, but he stayed fixed on the flattening land, and the mountains that were changing shape and color the farther they rode into Wyoming.
Behind them, a ways back, Fat Gut was running his nag hard across the flats, trying to catch up. He yelled to everyone at the top of his lungs, but there was no attention paid to his mush.
Fat Gut tried calling again, and Creed said to Fuller, “You still favoring that shoulder?”
“I expect to for some time.”
Creed considered the sniper’s response by adjusting his sunglasses, new snow collecting on the lenses. “We still have a mission, and I expect every man to do his part.”
“I will, sir.” Fuller let that stand, and then: “I already have, as best I could.”
“Thinking of your failure in the woods?”
“I’m thinking about my wife and son.”
Creed’s voice rose. “Want to do right by them? Then you need to know just how much your skills have been compromised, to make sure you can claim your fair share of that money. There’s a target running up on us, and I’m giving you a direct order to fire at it.”
“I’ll get myself back up. You’ll see.”
Creed said, “Actually, I won’t. But I’ll know.”