Shotgun

by Courtney Joyner

  Hector yanked Pride to a sudden stop, jolting the saddle. Creed slammed the boy hard with a double-fist against his side, knocking him clean out of his stirrups, and landing him hard.

  “What are you doing, boy? You don’t treat this animal with disrespect!”

  Hector stood, rubbing the feeling back into his elbow, his eyes trying to focus on a rider in the distance. “Truly sorry, sir. It’s that, ahead. I-I never seen nothing like it.”

  He took a rosewood and dragon’s blood rosary from his pocket, and held the simple wooden cross close to his lips. “My mama, she swore me a Catholic. Don’t know why.”

  The horse was a living skeleton, skull head mounted on bleached bones, with fire pouring from its sides. A red, faceless demon, was running the animal straight out of hell, cutting through the grey of the horizon, to come for Creed, Fuller, and Hector.

  “Report! What is it you’re seeing?”

  Fuller put his arm through his rifle sling, and brought up the weapon. “Man in a hood, sir.”

  “Sniper, I imagine you’ve already got your finger on the trigger.” Creed patted his horse’s neck. “It’s not needed.”

  Fuller steadied the butt of the Morgan-James against his still, blood-wet shoulder, shutting one eye to site this new target. “We’ll see.”

  Fat Gut short-pulled on his horse, bringing it to a stumbling halt beside Creed’s Pride. Gut and the nag were both sweat-winded, and his words still beaten by broken teeth: “It’th about timeth you thtopped! Dinn’t you hear me, cousin?”

  Creed said, “We heard.”

  Gut squinted in the direction everyone was looking, at the Fire Rider getting closer. “Who the thell is dat?”

  “Exactly.”

  The skeletal horse eased its run, the flames in its mane and tail relaxing, as it slowed to a perfect stop before Creed. Fuller kept his rifle steady, aiming at the place directly between the eyeholes of the crimson hood.

  The Fire Rider waved. “Captain, you’re fighting light.”

  Creed said, “These men are my handpicked best.”

  “Not all of them.”

  Smythe pulled off his hood, smoothing his wiry red hair with one hand, while keeping the other resting in his lap. He looked to Fuller, bit off a chaw, then rubbed his shoulder where White Fox had left her arrow.

  “You look to have the same problem I do, boy-o. That shoulder? Little whore stick you with an arrow, too?”

  Fat Gut got out between laughs, “Nopeth! A bulleth!”

  Smythe looked directly at the inescapable barrel of the long-range rifle. “That’s a beef-headed way of doing things, ain’t it? You loaded? Capped?”

  Fuller nodded, and Smythe said, “Then lower it. You’ve all made too many damn mistakes. Don’t make another. I’m taking you in, so you can alibi yourselves.”

  “Stand down, sniper Fuller.” Fuller let a few heart-beats pass, then followed Creed’s order, pulling the rifle up, resting it on his hip, arm still through the sling.

  Creed said, “Did you get the prisoners?”

  “No, Captain, we ain’t.”

  “We sent a message, and you had a lot more men than I did.”

  “Beaudine brought the whole Goodwill down on their damn heads.”

  “I’m a military officer—”

  “A blind man.”

  Creed continued as if Smythe hadn’t uttered a thing. “—who captured Bishop, and held on to him. Most of my volunteers are left frozen in those mountains, but we were better than you. A hundred fighting a madman, and you lost.”

  Smythe ran his fingers through his beard, thoughtfully eyeing Fat Gut before saying, “Looks to me like you lost, mate. She kicked your teeth out? You know, there are a half dozen I could name that I’d rather see on that horse than you.”

  Creed said, “Now, I can agree with your blather.”

  Gut swallowed his spit, forcing his words out slow and dry: “I-am-a-good-fighter. Always-do-wath-my-cousin-saith.”

  Smythe said, “You can’t even defend how worthless you are. Ride on, I’m not taking you in.”

  “You’re justh a pristhon guard! You got nothin’ to thay about nothin’.”

  “I was a guard, and what I am now doesn’t matter. What you’ve got to remember is that whether I’m wearing a uniform or a hood, I’ll kill you just as soon as sneeze.”

  Fat Gut tried a busted-teeth smile, to show he wouldn’t be backed down, so Smythe drew a Colt six-shot with a worn handle from his red tunic. “I said, ride on. Or be dinner for the wolves. Either way.”

  “Whath abouth my thare of gold?”

  Creed said, “You’re family, I carried you. But the prisoners’ escape is on your head. That’s what happened to your share.” Creed turned his eyes to the sound of Fat Gut’s heavy breathing. “I had other plans, but these men are saving your life. You should appreciate that. Now get the hell out.”

  Gut was about to say more, but thought better of it, as he brought the nag around, spurring her side too hard, and taking off at a run. Heading into Wyoming, leaving the rest behind.

  Smythe looked down at Hector, who was amazed at the events of the previous minutes. “You’re gonna catch flies in that mouth, you don’t close it.”

  Creed, settled into his Pride, said, “He needs a ride.”

  Smythe said, “That horse’s your eyes?”

  “Better.”

  “Okay, boy-o, let’s see what mama feeds ya.”

  Smythe extended his good arm, and pulled Hector onto the back of his saddle with a single, sweeping motion. Pain gripped him, but he didn’t give it away. Fire Rider Smythe angled his skeleton-horse around, heading back toward the horizon, as Hector settled in. Creed’s Pride followed, the captain holding the reins easy, with Fuller behind the bunch, keeping everyone in his sights.

  No one was in a hurry against the snow and the darkening sky.

  Smythe smiled at Hector. “You look like a veteran. Been with the captain a long time?”

  “Pa rode with him, and he got killed, so he took me in. I’m his eyes and ears sometimes. Other times, he ain’t too happy with me.”

  “I imagine you’ll have a few more years together, yet.”

  “If I can ask, how you know each other? You don’t sound like anybody else who rides with him.”

  “No, you can’t ask that. But I’ll tell you I hail from the coast of England. You know where that is?”

  “Across the ocean someplace. That’s how come you talk like you do?”

  “Right.”

  “And does everyone there paint up their horses?”

  Smythe reached behind his back, giving Hector his red hood, “In my business, sometimes it works best if people are a little scared of you. Throws ’em off their game.”

  “I never seen nothing like this before.”

  “When I was your age, my dad told me about the demons of Romney Marsh. You never heard of that one, right?”

  “No, sir.”

  “They were pirates, did up themselves and their horses like demons, raiding French ships for booty. Come riding right out o’ hell, scaring everybody to death, sometimes taking a shipful of goods without firing a shot.”

  “What happened if anybody tried to fight back?”

  Smythe made a slashing motion across his throat. Hector’s voice was small. “And you’re the leader here?”

  “Not the leader boy-o, but the painting-up was all mine.”

  Hector nodded, as a sting of wind rushed by his ear. There was a sound like bee wings, and a tiny pain. The snow blew heavier, and he brushed the cold from his ear, coming back with bloody fingers.

  “H—Hey, I think I been shot!”

  Fat Gut’s second and third shots were distant puffs of smoke that ended in ground strikes. He pressed the nag full-out, galloping toward Creed and his men, with two pistols firing. His hands flailed in all directions, sending the bullets every which way.

  Creed called out, “Hector!”

  “I’m okay, sir! I can still d
o my duty!”

  “Good. Sniper!”

  Fuller had the Morgan-James, his thumb locking the hammer in place, steadying his shot.

  Fuller said, “He’s a mighty big target,” before pulling the trigger, and exploding Fat Gut’s chest. The slug passed clean through, hitting the trunk of a bare tree some yards behind him.

  The nag carried Fat awhile longer, before he slipped off her back and hit the ground, eyes locked open.

  Creed said, “I could hear it. That was a clean shot.”

  Fuller lowered the rifle. “Yes, it was. And at a good distance.”

  “Hector! Report!”

  Hector was blotting the blood from his ear with Smythe’s hood. “I’m fine, Captain. Had to earn my wound sooner or later.”

  “You’re a good boy.” Creed gently nicked Pride to start again. “Sniper Fuller, why didn’t you take the target when I asked the first time?”

  Fuller eased alongside Creed. “The fat bastard never shot at me before.”

  The snow was gentle in the air, large flakes dancing around Bishop and White Fox, as they rode along the edge of the stream, thin bits of ice cracking under their horses. The sun was dipping, bringing a snap to the cold coming out of the woods, but Bishop didn’t shield his face with collar or scarf; he wanted to feel the purity of it. The clean.

  Bishop said, “That was a good thing you did, helping that child.”

  “Ugly child.”

  He laughed. “Like a two-snout pig. Never argue with a father.”

  White Fox smiled. “Néhnéšétse.”

  “Yes, I guess it was both of us.”

  “She needed a doctor, not just me.”

  Bishop let that thought hang for a moment, and then: “We helped her, and a few hours before, we killed a man. More than one. A hell of a lot more.”

  Her voice waa flat. “Your journey became a war.”

  “And you knew it was going to happen.”

  Bishop looked at her. “We’re riding in the wrong direction. We need to go back to the Goodwill.”

  Fox didn’t return it. “This is right. Anôse.”

  “It isn’t right. We don’t know where the hell Beaudine went. We almost did.”

  Fox finally met him. “Their horses had an army brand.”

  “So, they were rustled.”

  “There’s a man, past the deep trees, who’ll know about the stolen horses, and the red ones. Everything.”

  “Ma’êhóóhe.”

  Fox didn’t respond to her given name, she just repeated, “Everything.”

  They leapt across a small, leaf-filled gully, to an open break in the woods where a row of pines had been cut into a semicircle, their branches bent back, tied to stakes in the ground. The cones that had fallen around the trees were neatly stacked beside them.

  Bishop brought up the bay, looked around. “Did we just cross a line?”

  Fox turned, about to call out, when a large branch whip-snapped from the side of the largest pine, slamming Bishop in the chest, and knocking him hard, backwards off his horse. It was a trip-wire cannon shot that had the bay rearing, front legs chopping the air.

  Bishop’s head slammed onto the flat of a rock. He turned over in sharp pain, trying to find his way back to full consciousness, when the heavy rope slipped around his ankles, hoisting him into the air.

  He was spinning.

  He heard Fox’s voice: distant, screaming, in Cheyenne. They were twisted half words that Bishop struggled to figure, if he could just hang on to the edge of the light. And stay there.

  That’s when the dark swallowed him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Blood on the Claw

  There were five talons to it, each pointed at the end and sharpened raw along the side. They were attached to a metal wristband by precise welding, with just a hint of a bump where the iron pieces were joined. The bumps actually looked to be knuckles on someone’s hand, and not sloppy workmanship.

  The spots marking the sides of the talons could have been blood, or flecks of rust. Bishop’s eyes weren’t focused yet, and he couldn’t tell. The claw was mounted on a cut-stone wall just feet from where he was lying, between a Cheyenne warrior’s shield crossed in black and white hide, and several long-knives, each in its own colorfully beaded sheath.

  Bishop moved his head, and water tear-drizzled down his face. He bolted up, the bear rug covering him falling forward, as he pulled the wet cloth from his forehead, tossed it aside.

  Noah Crawford picked the cloth up from the hard-dirt floor. “I keep a clean house, goddamn it!”

  Crawford’s voice was an explosion. His face, something carved from the side of a mountain, was surrounded by an acre of matted, grey hair. Brows were wild tufts over two lumps of coal, his mouth and nose shapes hammered to fit into this mess that’d been blasted apart, and put back together wrong.

  There was a hogleg tied down to one thigh, and a Colt Lightning in his belt, almost covered by his wave of a belly. He slapped Bishop’s feet to the floor with saddle-sized hands, “You took it hard, but I’ve had worse. What are you drinkin’, and don’t say well water.”

  “Anything.”

  Muttering thick in Cheyenne, Crawford lumbered to the other side of the rounded dugout, stopping to sniff at a cook pot in the fireplace. The curved ceiling and sides were rough-cut logs, cemented by sloppy mud and straw, while the wall Bishop rested against was bare rock, protected by animal skins crazily quilted across it.

  Crawford said, “Sorry about the trap, but a man’s got to protect his patch.”

  Bishop threw his legs over the bed, catching the edge of a spear with his foot. War clubs, bows, and blades of mountain tribes were all within reach, propped against the wall or under the furniture. By the door, there was a cabinet with ten books, all worn cloth binding, placed neatly on its top shelf. A double-blade fighting axe took up the rest of the space.

  White Fox handed Bishop oily whiskey in a small bowl. “You can drink.” She touched Bishop’s hand, lifting the bowl to his mouth. He drank. She looked to Crawford, who brought a large knife down on a slab of salted beef he was cutting, the meat not pulling from the bone.

  Crawford swore, and she said: “I’m needed outside, ného’éehe.”

  Fox moved to the door, taking one of the books from the shelf before leaving.

  Bishop waited for her to leave, then said to Crawford, “I know what that means.”

  The sun was actually showing its face as White Fox sat on a rail of the corral fence, Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, by Edgar Allan Poe, open on her lap. The corralled horses nickered and nudged, and she would absently stroke a mane, but stayed lost in the pages.

  Crawford stood against the planked front door, watching, before looking down to Bishop, who was beside him, finishing the whiskey in the bowl. “Always the same book, always the same place on the goddamned fence. That’s how she learned to talk, that book.”

  Crawford waited another few minutes for a look from White Fox that never came, then stomped around to the back of the dugout, grunting at the Morning Star and five-talon claws painted on its walls. Bishop followed him to the smith’s shop tucked in the back. It was a clean space, with bricked stove, crated scrap, and tools of all types, some for finer work, neatly laid out. It reminded him of his medical office, not a place to forge horseshoes.

  “I didn’t even know all this was back here ’til a month after I settled in.”

  “I thought you built this house.”

  Crawford took down a hammer and tongs. “Hell, no. I been living above the Platte River for a couple of years, and come down to get away from the goddamned Indian wars. Came out of them woods, saw this place and thought it damn nice. I figured to kill whoever was inside, and take it. These other boys beat me to it, hanged the foreigners what built it. So I took care of them, moved in. I guess the foreigner who put it up was a smithy, so after drinking everything in the house, I wandered back here and learned myself. Come on, use that one hand you got, give
it some air.”

  Bishop pumped a small bellows to feed the coals in an iron scuttle. Crawford watched him. “You get why I’m tellin’ you this?”

  “I think I do.”

  “I know she never says nothing about me; what about her mother?” The coals began to glow, and Crawford inserted the tongs and several iron punches into the heat.

  “She doesn’t speak about herself.”

  “Well, she’s back on that fence, and if I believed in anything, I’d say that was a miracle.”

  “She came here on her own, to talk to you about horses.”

  Crawford’s beard shifted with his face, almost revealing a smile. “I think you’re here for this.” He dropped the blasted-open shotgun rig on the workbench.

  “I know what happened to you. That son of a bitch she married build this thing?”

  Bishop couldn’t hide his surprise. “Yeah. I told him what I needed.”

  “A new arm.” Crawford inspected the weapon, before shoving the barrel into the hot coals. “Piss-poor job, but I ain’t surprised. Worked for me right here. That’s how come she knew him. When he said he wanted to marry her, her mother said no, but I figured it was better than the other trash that was hangin’ around.”

  Crawford turned the rig over, as the barrel started smoking. “How many times you sew her up, Doc?”

  “Twice. Set a few broken bones. My wife always helped.”

  Crawford pulled the rig from the scuttle, breaking apart the last of the barrel and breach, the pieces dropping. “If I’d known what was going on, I would’ve had a great time killing that streak of piss.”

  “She did it all right.”

  “He suffer?”

  Bishop’s silence was answer enough for Crawford. “Nice to know she took something from her daddy. This how you firing these barrels?”

  Crawford held out the rig, so Bishop could grab hold of the leather harness and pull it away from the scorched remains of the gunstock. Crawford snatched the leather back. “I don’t like this trigger line. Get tangled, move the wrong way, kill the wrong man.”

  Bishop said, “It does the job.”

  “Not good enough, and you know it. I’m a whitesmith, too. Work in cold metals, and damn good at it. I’ll rig it new.”