Shotgun

by Courtney Joyner

  Matching Dev, the timid, Arkansas scarecrow was now a seasoned professional, without a trace of stammer. Tomlinson took a pair of bifocals from a tortoise-shell case, slipped them on, and ran his finger down a column of numbers on the ledger page. “When you refer to monies, that’s a problem, because your cash situation is, uh, compromised.”

  Dev leaned across the desk. “You understand what this is? We’re robbers, Tomlinson.”

  There was a moment, as Tomlinson considered his response. “You’re my employer, Mr. Bishop, as long as you want me. I pride myself on discretion. This business is a tad unusual, but I have two growing girls. You know how that is.”

  “Fine, then. You’ve worked for thieves before?”

  “Well—”

  “Railroad? Steamship company?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ve worked for thieves, just none honest about who they are. But they all have money to start with. We don’t. Our investments are goods. We bring in a wagon, it ain’t filled with cash. But the rifles, and tomato plants, the clothes, and Grandma’s piano all have value, and I’ve got some pirates who’re very good at trading.”

  “That’s difficult to enter. I’d have to approximate, after seeing all the stores. Or wait, for the cash deposits to vault. Or whatever.”

  “Let’s say whatever.”

  Dev leaned back in the large chair, finally settling in. “The cash is going to flow, and it’s going to be a hell of a lot. Because every thief in the territory is going to be paying us tribute.”

  “Really?”

  “If they don’t want to end up dead, or worse, a place like this here.”

  “I saw the example outside.”

  “The men have left a few around the territory.

  Tomlinson sniffed, “I’ll be ready to make those entries,” before turning the ledger around on the desk for Dev to inspect. Dev just looked straight at the accountant.

  “What about gold?”

  “Your gold is your foundation.”

  Bishop said, “That’s good. Good to know, because I’ve gone through hell for that foundation.”

  “Uh, it would help a great deal if I knew how much gold there was.”

  “I had some, but that all went to bringing these men, this place, together. Very little left, but the total’s about to go up. I’ll give you a figure next week. We’ll also be getting regular protection payments from a gal who’ll be running some whorehouses between here and California. That’ll be good money, and good company.”

  Tomlinson’s head bobbed in agreement. “This is going to be colorful.”

  “You should see this.”

  Dev stood, revealing a bullet hole in the back of the chair. “That’s where the slug went through Mr. Allard, came out his back. You didn’t know him, but that’s a hell of a trip. Now, I didn’t fire that shot.”

  “I’m relieved.”

  “But I danced me a jig when I found out, not fifty feet from here.”

  “May I ask where you were, sir, when this all happened ?”

  Dev kicked the burned remains of the door aside. “Guess the territorial governor forgot to tell folks they was storing lamp fuel and powder under here. Figured if it blew, who’d miss this bunch of cow pies? Well, it did and nobody gave a tinker’s damn.”

  Tomlinson stood beside Dev in the commons area, with its roof now burned through, the cells twisted apart by heat, and the stains of the dead scorched to the floor.

  “We’re just a burned-down nothing, until somebody from the territory decides to notice. Which they never will.”

  Tomlinson said quietly, “I’ve never even been in a prison before.”

  “This is a hell of a one to start with,” Dev chuckled. “And hell it was.”

  “You were a prisoner, now it’s your fortress.”

  “The warden was a snake; took a payoff to fake my execution, then double-crossed me when he wouldn’t let me out of the cells! I paid him off to stay inside!”

  Dev let it settle. “I was the king fool for trusting him, and there wasn’t a guard or prisoner who didn’t hate his guts. But we got him.”

  Tomlinson asked from the back of his throat, “Did you set the fire?”

  “One of them jackass guards was sellin’ black powder to a Sioux war party, so they could blow up a piece of the railroad. Got into a fight, set the storage on fire, and brought this whole place down. Lotta men killed, and the ones that were left had nothing.”

  Dev Bishop ran the toe of his shoe over the scorched outline of a prisoner who had been trapped at the bottom of the iron stairs, now collapsed.

  Dev repeated, “Nothing.”

  Tomlinson stood up straight. “You had gold.”

  “A little. From a Union pay master. Never did time on that one, don’t know if they’ve forgotten about it yet.”

  “They don’t forget. You could end up in a place just like this again.”

  Dev faced Tomlinson. “That ain’t gonna happen.”

  “I surely hope not.”

  “If you’ve got something on your mind, bookkeeper, you better say before we go any further.”

  Tomlinson stepped closer, his voice as low as he could take it. “I think I can work for you real well, but I need something extra.”

  “How much?”

  “It’s my wife. She’s in the wagon. My eldest got into it with her, hit her hard, while we was on our way here. She’s kind of stuffed in a dresser in the back. We’ve been traveling with her.”

  Dev took a breath. “You want her buried?”

  Tomlinson took his step back. “Well, yes. I wasn’t going to leave her in the woods, and the way she is, we can’t take her to no Methodist cemetery without questions. She was Methodist.”

  Dev patted his shoulder. “I can have that taken care of.”

  Tomlinson heaved a sigh that came through his entire body. “That’s a real burden lifted. Thank you.”

  The old whipping post blew apart on the floor, charred pieces flying, when Smythe kicked it over. Tomlinson was startled as the Fire Rider strode across the common area with a guard’s swagger, his arm in a sling and his fist balled.

  Captain Creed had Hector lead him in, right behind.

  “Tomlinson, this is Captain Creed, and Smythe.”

  “I’ll note they’re a part of this organization?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Smythe loomed over Dev and said, “Oh, you have something to say to me, boy-o?”

  “In the old place.”

  The kid at the telegraph was thinner than a homeless dog, hunched over the receiving key, downing his third cup of belly wash, when he heard Smythe’s voice. He turned as Dev, Smythe, and Creed made their way down the metal stairs to the Tomb.

  Creed said, “The stink of death.”

  Smythe leaned in with, “And more than a few. Your kid thinks he’s in a bloody haunted house.”

  “Hector!”

  Hector descended the stairs, inches at a time. “Sir?”

  “Stand with me, boy.”

  Hector found his place with Creed as Dev slapped the telegraph operator on the back. “It’s all right, Lemuel. We won’t get no messages in the next few minutes.”

  Lemuel mumbled, “You never know,” and took the stairs two at a time to get out.

  Smythe stood by Dev’s old cell, which was now being used as a store for old single-shot rifles. The other cells were filled with crates and stuffed burlap sacks, the metal bunks stacked with supplies.

  “I was right here while you set up your brother, boy-o. That was quite a bit of business.”

  Dev said, “And why didn’t you follow on it?”

  “Because I was keeping me eye on the lot of you, in case I had to beat somebody senseless.”

  “And you always liked that. So what happened to your arm?”

  Creed’s voice was first: “He was ambushed, because he was following your orders.”

  Dev moved between Creed and Hector. “Captain, you’re the one
who truly failed. You wanted to settle a score with John, and still let him get away.”

  “We followed protocol. Let you know as soon as possible.”

  Hector said, “Yes, sir. I was at the key.”

  Dev said, “And the message came through right here. Failure is your word, how you described letting him escape.”

  Creed said, “And to make up for it, you sent all those men to slaughter. All you want is your brother and Beaudine dead, and you can’t manage it.”

  “You’re really overstepping yourself, blind man.” Dev walked into his old cell, touched the ceiling with his hands, his palms flat against it.

  “It really is like being buried alive. It’s because we were in the Tomb that we weren’t killed in that explosion.”

  Smythe blocked the cell door with his enormous frame. “You don’t have to remind me, boy-o. Just like you don’t have to remind me what a hog screwing we took at that silver mine. Beaudine’s crazy, but it’s what keeps him alive. That place was rigged like you couldn’t believe.”

  Dev said to Creed, “Rigged—expecting you, Captain.”

  Smythe cut back, “You can’t predict him. You should know, all those letters you had him write. What you figured he was going to do.”

  Dev said, “He was my voice down here. And I knew as soon as I put it in his mind about me and John and some robbery, he wouldn’t be able to let it go.”

  “Your brother never had anything to do with anything.”

  “Of course not, but he had to be gone if we were going to build this empire.”

  Smythe said, “You should’ve stopped him, boy-o.”

  “I couldn’t raise a hand against him myself. Never once, even when we was kids. Thought Beaudine would take care of it for me. Or you, Creed.”

  Creed said, “Your brother owes me, and I will collect that debt.”

  “John survived the conflicts, Beaudine’s attack, all of it. One thing you learn in here, some men die easy, and some don’t.”

  A small voice said, “With that special shotgun of his.”

  Dev stepped from his cell. “The boy has something to add?”

  Hector coughed, looked to Creed, who put a hand on his shoulder for assurance. Hector finally said, “Just that I’ve seen him use that gun. I’d be real, extra careful, sir.”

  Dev said, “That’s the smartest thing I’ve heard today.”

  “All she must do is say the words. She must.”

  The Brakeman grinned at Beaudine. “She’s a chink. Don’t know no English, buddy. Just do your business. She don’t care.”

  The canvas walls of the tent wafted as the Brakeman stepped outside, leaving his wife alone with Beaudine. She sat on the edge of a tiny, wooden-slat cot, Beaudine before her, suspenders off his shoulders but still dressed, including his boots.

  He said, “You can’t say you’re Nellie Bly? You have no idea, you poor idiot.”

  She smiled politely, and shrugged, reaching up to unbutton his trousers. He swatted her hands away.

  “I do lose myself, sometimes. You have to help me, and you can’t. Or won’t. If you’re refusing me, that would be an insult, wouldn’t it?”

  Her smile continued, even as he raised his hand. She did not flinch or turn away.

  Outside the tent, Chaney and Howard sat on the empty dynamite wagon, counting the last of their money, all coins. Chaney’s shirt was caked with blood, and he had a bandage wrapped around his ribs. Behind them, the muddy trail stretched for miles, and in front of them was more of the same. The bursts of wind from the Colorado north felt like broken glass.

  The only thing for miles was the Brakeman’s tent, and them sitting beside it.

  “Everything we got from old man Kirby wasn’t worth salt for peanuts.”

  “And you choked him for it.” Chaney shoved the change back in his pants. “This working out the way you thought? You made more hammering coffins. Hell’s fire, I’d join you.”

  “I was set, and you all came in and turned me upside down.”

  “Along for the ride. That was Lem.”

  Howard shook his head. “It wasn’t Deadeye. Don’t be saying that.”

  Chaney winced. “Beaudine’s holding a bluff hand, and we fell for it. Now we’re an ‘Army of Three,’ whatever the hell that means. Now what? Gonna keep following that maniac? He’s got to get his bell rope pulled, and we’re out here freezin’ to death. At least the cold makes my side feel tolerable.”

  “You said you’d kill Beaudine. Seems like that’s your bluff.”

  “You’ll find out.”

  “Maybe I should have let you die back there. You ain’t my friend. Lem was.”

  “Well, I sure wish he was with us now.”

  Howard said, “I never seen who shot him.”

  Chaney pulled at his bandage, adjusting it, not missing a beat. “It was that Bishop, but I blew that double barrel to pieces.”

  “Looks like he did more to you.”

  “The Cheyenne! And just what are we gonna do about all that?”

  They looked up as the Brakeman set out a stack of jars of milky-white grain shine, and a few with moldy preserves floating in sugar-clouded juice. He arranged them on an old ammunition crate beside the torn canvas, with a large sign declaring A DOLLER FOR ALL THE HAPYNESS YOU CAN STAND!

  “Thirsty? If you don’t have the dollar, you don’t have to answer.”

  Howard said, “I like store bought.”

  “Store bought ain’t got this kick, and I don’t see no saloons nowhere.”

  Chaney took a deck of cards from his jacket. “Would you play for it?”

  The Brakeman ran his fingers through a thick blond moustache. “The lady of chance is a whore I don’t favor.”

  Howard grabbed the last stick of dynamite from one of the crates. “It’s gettin’ damn cold. You just gonna let us sit here?”

  The Brakeman said, “You don’t have a primer or a fuse for that, friend.”

  “You know your TNT?”

  “Work with it all the time on the Colorado Line.”

  Chaney said, “This ain’t your work?”

  The Brakeman laughed, “Her? That’s my wife! We travel these teamster trails, set up for a week, then move on when the railroad needs me. You’d be surprised how many she can handle in a day.”

  Howard said, “Lotta money. Sounds like you could spare a drink.”

  “It does, don’t it?”

  “So what is your trade, friend, other than your wife?”

  “Stand-by brakeman.”

  “On the Colorado?”

  “That’s what I said. I don’t repeat.”

  The Brakeman took a sip of homemade, while Howard was rubbing his arms to keep warm. Howard said, “Which work do you like better, that or this here?”

  “The same. She pays, they pay. And sometimes the Colorado kicks it up a bit.”

  “When’s that?”

  The Brakeman checked his watch. “Your friend has three minutes.”

  Chaney said, “Won’t let us put anything on the cuff, so what’s the harm in talkin’? I’m looking for work. So when does the Colorado kick it up? You ever work a run from that mint?”

  The Brakeman took another sip. “Not that they ever told me.”

  “Friend, you could be a couple of train cars away from a fortune.”

  “I don’t think about that. I do my job.”

  Howard said, “When’s your next run?”

  The Brakeman pulled a folded schedule from his pocket. “Whenever they say. We’re packing out of here tomorrow. Either of you want a crack, best speak up.”

  Beaudine stepped from the tent, holding a small package, addressed to MRS. BISHOP. He shoved it at the Brakeman, who grabbed for it.

  “How the hell’d you get that?”

  Beaudine kept it out of reach. “It was by the woman’s bed. Who is this for?”

  “Your time’s up!”

  Beaudine tossed the small package to Howard. “Look at that name. Where did yo
u get this? Believe me, you don’t want to set my blood to boiling, friend.”

  The Brakeman screamed, “Lotus! Get your ass out here!”

  Chaney tossed Beaudine his long cleaver, and he advanced on the Brakeman, turning the blade. Chaney and Howard both had their guns out.

  Beaudine said, “All I need is the truth. Who is this Mrs. Bishop?”

  The woman stepped from the tent, but made no move for her husband. She stood, watching.

  Beaudine brought the cleaver to his throat. “The truth, or you will spill on this ground.”

  “I don’t care who it is, goes to general delivery in Paradise River before I take the train out. My old buddy’s got a daughter, and she died, and he’s sending something to family.”

  Chaney said, “Is that daughter a Cheyenne?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  Beaudine said, “And where is this friend?”

  The Brakeman straightened, met Beaudine’s stare. “Now information like that’s gonna cost. In fact, these last five minutes are going to cost.”

  The woman said, “I know him.”

  Chaney shot the Brakeman in the chest with the Derringer. He fell back, busting some grain shine jars, then slopped into the side of the tent, ripping part of it to the ground.

  He sprawled, gurgling. “Bastards . . . do anything for money . . .”

  Beaudine said, “No, that would be you.”

  Chaney hopped down from the wagon and went through the dying man’s pockets. He found a razor in his belt, a wad of singles, some coin, and a rail worker’s schedule. He pocketed the schedule, peeled twenty dollars, and handed the rest to the woman.

  Beaudine said, “If you hurry, you can get him to a doctor. But you’ll have to tell me what I need.”

  The woman said, “No, I won’t hurry.”

  Chaney fired one more slug between the Brakeman’s surprised eyes.

  The woman quick-stepped around Beaudine to where her husband was lying in a mess of canvas, ‘shine, and icy slush. She bent down to look at him closely, neatened his moustache with her finger, pausing for a moment to feel his breath. There was none. She stood back up.