Shotgun

by Courtney Joyner

  Bishop called to them, “Boys, we’re here to help! Stay down!”

  Slugs ripped at Bishop and Fox. They dove off the car, the shots tearing close.

  In the trees, Fuller’s position was good, as he lay cover fire for the Riders. He drew on Bishop, and fired. Bishop rolled, the slug ricocheting off the rig, and the steel taking it. Bishop grabbed Fox and dove from the wreck, as the shots tore into the train cars around them.

  The sniper fire kept Bishop low, behind cover, as a Fire Rider bore down on him. Bishop jostled his arm. The rig was instantly up and loaded, and he sprang, blowing the Rider clean out of the saddle. The Fire Rider spun with the impact, then landed dead, on hot-metal debris.

  Before his body tumbled into the snow, another Rider charged, and Bishop let fire with the second barrel. He shucked the shells, pulled down two more, and turned on another, who was coming up over the wood tender. He fired, turned, fired again.

  The Riders lay wounded and dying, the snow offering a new shroud as they bled out.

  Four Riders rode fast along the tracks, leaping around wreckage, and hurling Ketchum Hand Grenades. One, two, blasts sent ice, mud, and fire into the air.

  Two young soldiers dove from the wreck of the passenger car, scrambling to get a good shot, as a grenade landed between them. One panicked a throw, tossing it into the air, where it exploded through the falling snow.

  Bishop shot two Riders with a pull of the trigger line, sending them sprawling from their horses and still shooting as they hit the ground. Bishop reloaded from the bandolier, and wounded one more as he rode by.

  White Fox got the last one, hurling a knife into his gut.

  Bishop called out to the mail car, “Boys, you okay in there?”

  A solider yelled back that he’d been hit, but was all right.

  Bishop worked his way to the top of the car when the Gatling gun cut loose from the trees. The thousand rounds hit the train wreckage, beating hell out of it, as Bishop and Fox took cover behind the old boiler. A few of the young soldiers shot back from the passenger car, which was riddled with bullets.

  The gun stopped as two Fire Riders hurled dynamite, blowing off the back of the mail car. Hot metal and fire sliced the air. They kicked their way inside, grabbed a large strong box, and shouldered it out to a wagon. The Gatling laid cover fire as the horse team bolted, carrying the Riders and the strong box away from the battle.

  Bishop signaled Fox.

  He ran around to the far side of the locomotive, keeping behind the wheels, bursts of steam still gutting from the engine. The Gatling let loose again. Bishop made for his horse.

  Fox worked back to the wood tender, and the fireman’s station. A drum of coal oil hadn’t burst in the wreck. Its seams bulged as she rolled it into the half-ton of firewood that was spread from the tender. She grabbed a fireman’s ax and cut open the lid, soaking the wood with oil.

  The snow was falling solid now, frosting the wreckage, and the dead. Wet. Cold.

  Fox watched, as Bishop climbed back toward the trail, trying to reach the ledge where the Gatling was protected. Fox ducked as another burst of fire raked the metal and glass.

  She grabbed the brakeman’s lantern, lit it, and waited. Bishop got to the ledge, dropped silently from the bay. Fox smashed the lantern into the wood tender, lighting the pools of coal oil, and the wood. The flames ate the oil, spewing black.

  Thick plumes of smoke instantly choked the sky around the locomotive, then blanketing the train. The Gatling opened up from the hills, shooting blind.

  The smoke rolled from the train, as the wood fire grew. Bishop kept low, moving on the Gatling, the grey smoke mixed with the snow his cover. Both barrels were ready, the Fire Rider feeding the ammo into the machine gun, raking the train over and over.

  The Rider had no time to react when both barrels of the shotgun lifted him off his feet, and tossed him down the icy side of the mountain, to the wreckage below.

  The last sounds of the machine gun died in the distance, and Bishop stood, listening to the final reports. The snow was thicker, a curtain of white beads, as it began dousing the flames around the train. Bishop pulled the firing mechanism and ammo clips from the Gatling when a voice said, “I could have killed you a dozen times.”

  Bishop turned to see Fuller step from the trees, with his Spencer rifle in his hands, but not aimed at him.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “You see all that down there, doc? I guess I’ve had enough for awhile. How about you?”

  Bishop brought the shotgun rig up.

  “I never was after you, but you and Creed stopped me from finding the men who killed my family. That’s all I wanted.”

  Fuller said, “If you’d let me, I want to get back to mine. You’ll never see me again.”

  Bishop lowered the rig. Fuller turned and walked back to where his horse was tied in the trees. He got on it, his rifle on his back, and gave Bishop a last nod before riding into the deeper woods.

  John Bishop took some deep breaths, the rig now weighing him down. He stepped around the bodies of the Riders he’d dropped, and looked at the burning damage below, the field of battle.

  Bishop made his way off the ridge and rode toward the mail car, as the soldiers began climbing from the wreckage. He got off his horse, and walked it to the other side of the wood tender. The fire was now smoldering, but the smoke from the coal oil was still thick, and choking the air.

  Bishop couldn’t be sure of what he was seeing as he moved through the cloud of grey. He stopped, the cloud breaking apart. It was a man, holding a woman, with a large blade pressed against her throat.

  “Dr. Bishop, wouldn’t it have been so much simpler to give me what I wanted a year ago? Think of the lives you could have saved. You’re still a doctor, correct?”

  Bishop’s answer was to take a step, the rig snapping into place. He pulled back the sleeve on his right arm completely, to expose the gun and the extra shells: two chambered, and two ready.

  “What do you think this is going to get you?”

  Beaudine held the blade tight. “My fortune.”

  “They stole some.”

  “Your brother promised me a fortune in gold.”

  “You should have gotten it from him before they hanged him.”

  Beaudine laughed. “They never hanged him, you fool.”

  Bishop took another step, the smoke and snow shifting in front of him, making him ghostly. An apparition. The shotgun rig shifted with his every move, keeping its aim on Beaudine’s chest.

  “Take that blade away.”

  “And what will you give me? You know what happened last time, and I have no problem doing the same thing again.”

  “I don’t have any gold. But I can give you your life.”

  Beaudine was fixed on the figure in front of him, advancing.

  “You asked if I was a doctor, and I’m really not. I’m something else, that is going to kill you in ten seconds if you don’t let her go.” Bishop extended the rig. “We both have something the other one wants.”

  “I know.”

  Beaudine said, “I’m the man who turned you into what you are, and I think that deserves compensation.”

  “You’re right.”

  Fox brought her heel down, breaking Beaudine’s foot, before smashing his windpipe with her elbow. He stumbled, the cleaver blade falling away. The first barrel caught him in the leg, dropping him.

  Bishop moved on Beaudine, screaming in the snow.

  “Why did you say my brother was alive?”

  “Because he is! Oh, sweet Lord—”

  “Tell me!”

  “I don’t know much—!”

  “You’ve made me very angry.”

  The next barrel blew half of Beaudine’s right arm off, leaving it to dangle. Beaudine screamed, and prayed. Bishop loaded the weapon again.

  “I’ll leave you in the snow to die unless you tell me everything.”

  Beaudine looked up; he was choking now, Bishop’s
figure in front of him darkening even more behind the smoke and snow.

  “The Riders . . . You’re not who you were.... You’re the Angel of Death.”

  Bishop fired two more barrels into Beaudine. Fox turned away, started to run for her horse. Bishop ran for her, grabbing her with his left, and spinning her around.

  Fox twisted away. “Let go of me!”

  “I deserved that! You know what that man took from me! You’ve been with me for a year, leading to this!”

  Fox looked at him, said, “I told you I would help you until I can’t. Now I can’t.”

  The young soldiers had finally climbed from the wreckage, laying some of their comrades in the snow while wounds were tended to. A young officer took a head count, while the two soldiers from the mail car handed over the cache of gold.

  Bishop watched all this from a distance. Fox had climbed onto the painted, and brought the horse around. She looked down at him, and said, “Aren’t you going to help them?”

  Bishop said, “Yeah, I’ll try, if I can.”

  “This is what you need to do now.”

  Fox eased the painted away, and Bishop watched her as she followed the tracks, before climbing a small trail that led into the mountains.

  “Are you a doctor? We could use you over here!”

  Bishop nodded, following the young man to the remains of the passenger car and the caboose.

  The soldier looked at the shotgun. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  “I had it made special.”

  The soldier stopped in his tracks, was peering into the distance, snow collecting on his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The guys in the Red Hoods, there are two of them on the ridge. If they go for another wave, that’s the end of us. We’ve already lost the shipment.”

  Bishop looked where the young soldier was pointing to see two men on horseback, both wearing crimson tunics, one sporting a red hood, while the other was not.

  The young soldier was calling his friends to arms, as John Bishop saw what looked to be his brother flanked by the other rider.

  Bishop took a step, and Dev’s face came more and more in focus. Through the snow and screams, he recognized him, and his name tore from Bishop in a demonic cry.

  The rig snapped instantly into place. The hooded rider threw something, as Dev reared on his horse, and galloped away.

  The grenade landed at John Bishop’s feet.

  Bishop’s eyes opened, just as the Benson finished rolling his cigarette. He lit it and drew deep before saying anything to his patient.

  “They tell me a grenade blew you ten feet in the air. You’ve got some bruises and a broken ankle, but I didn’t find any sign of hemorrhage. Pretty amazing. There were a lot of dead men at that wreck.”

  “How many have you treated?”

  “About twenty, shipped them out to an army hospital yesterday.”

  “How long have I been out? What have you been giving me?”

  “Light morphine so you could sleep. Two and a half days.”

  Bishop edged his way onto his elbow, “Great. I’ll have soldier’s disease on top of everything else. How’d I get here?”

  “A boy brought you on horseback. Said he was a friend, but that no one could know he helped you. He brought some of your things, too.”

  Bishop looked to the dresser by the bed to see the shotgun rig, his medical kit, and a worn volume of Edgar Alan Poe setting on top of it.

  The doc moved to the dresser and picked up the shotgun. “That’s quite a contraption. Had a hell of a time getting it off you, but you don’t need it now, understand? You should, you’re a doctor, too.”

  Bishop lay back in the bed, enjoying the feeling of the cold, clean sheets. He nodded his cooperation.

  The doc said, “Sleep for another few hours, and we’ll get you some good supper. You’re lucky, my wife can cook.”

  Bishop smiled. “Yeah, I’m lucky.”

  The doc stepped from the room, pulling the door behind him. Bishop threw back the sheets and sat up, a jolt of pain hitting him. He caught his breath, and then looked to the gun, book, and med kit on the dresser.

  John Bishop reached for one of them.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR C. COURTNEY JOYNER’S SHORT STORY “THE TWO-BIT KILL,” WHICH ORIGINALLY APPEARED IN THE PINNACLE ANTHOLOGY LAW OF THE GUN.

  The Two-Bit Kill

  “I split his melon good with a piece of pine. You know the one, with the made-special curved handle.”

  Eli Greene nodded and made a sound in his throat that Clyde Crutcher took as agreement, as he always did. Light danced on the blade in Eli’s hand as he brought it in close, skating the sandpaper on the back of Crutcher’s neck, and gathering a row of gray wiry hair against the sharp edge.

  Crutcher dropped his too-wide chin with, “The crazy sum’bitch had one eye and a pair o’ Colts! I clubbed him, and them pistols went flyin’. Had him kissin’ the floor before the bar knew a damn thing had happened. Hell, folks’ll be buyin’ me drinks for the next six months for savin’ ’em.”

  Eli made a gesture toward the holster snug under Crutcher’s arm, then wiped lather from the razor. “Why didn’t you just use your gun?”

  Crutcher coughed and his voice dropped, “Well, I thought better of it. You’ve gotta know when to pull a gun. And believe me, I know. There’s even talk about takin’ my picture and namin’ me ‘Stick Man of the Year.’ So do a good job.”

  “I didn’t know they had a ‘Stick Man of the Year.’ That’s quite an honor.”

  “Well, you’ll never get it.”

  Eli angled Crutcher’s head with the two fingers that remained on his right hand, while making a sweeping motion with the razor in his left, “Probably not. But you best not tell a tale and get a shave at the same time. I might start laughing and that’s how you lose an ear.”

  “You sayin’ I’m lyin’?”

  “Oh, no sir.”

  “Scarecrow like you ought to keep his thoughts to his self, ’cause I can always take my business across the street. And that’s after I show ya what for. I’ve got a reputation.”

  “I heard that,” Eli said as he dropped the razor in a pan of hot water scented with rose oil and picked up a pair of shears. The words kept tumbling out of Crutcher’s mouth but the barber wasn’t there anymore. He was fourteen years old and running along the ragged edge of the Mississippi at midnight, praying to reach the Canal Street ferry landing.

  Eli’s matchstick legs were trying hard, and his chest was burning, when the bottle of Wolfe’s Schnapps hit him between the shoulders. The glass heel split with a shriek, and the shards tore into his collarbone. Red bloomed across Eli’s shirt as he tangled in an old shrimp net and fell face first into the muddy black sand. The impact was soft; a wet cushion that felt cool and soothing for the few heartbeats before the huge man with the knife caught up to him.

  “You shouldn’t have made me run like that, Jew-boy !”

  Eli stayed perfectly still, his face half buried. He held his breath as a fleshy paw grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and rag-dolled him to his feet. The man held Eli just under the jaw, suspending him six inches off the ground using only one hand. In the other, he had a knife that was all blade—a sharpened spike with a small wrapping of leather on one end. Eli twisted, his feet kicking at nothing, as the man’s fingers tightened on his windpipe.

  The boy gasped and the man snorted. “Chokin’? Now you know how I feel every damn day.”

  The summer moon shadowed the man’s face, but Eli could see his eyes. The pupils had swallowed the iris, and the lids seemed pinned open. All Eli had done was introduce himself to a stranger, but it was enough. The man said, “There’s an order about Jews, and General Grant signed it! You’re supposed to be gone! This was my ferry. I get fired for a couple of drinks and now your—papa—is runnin’ it?”

  The voice cradled Grant’s name, and spit out “papa” like an obscenity. Eli knew about the General’s infam
ous “Order 11” to expel “Israelites” from the agricultural states so they couldn’t deal in cotton. There had been an editorial in the New York Herald, and with Eli’s help, his father read it out loud twice, shaking his head at Grant’s excuses and thanking Lincoln for repealing the “error in judgment.” Mr. Greene tore the article from the paper and periodically he would show it to his son to remind him to “take care, and don’t be obvious. That’s how you get by in this world.”

  The massive hand squeezed tighter, and the boy could taste the corrupted air trapped in his lungs. Consciousness was just a hazy awareness for Eli, his eyes rolling back white and red, as the man whispered, “I’ve been dyin’ for years. I’ve got no money, and your family’s eating regular? Stinkin’ bullshit.”

  Eli felt the hot breath of the words as his mind started to blank, and his body went limp. The man smiled and his grip relaxed. A roaring scream erupted from Eli as he jerked his knees up, and then pounded his foot into his attacker’s chest with all of his strength, knocking him backwards. The sand bogged the drunk’s feet and he tumbled, the homemade knife dropping from his hand.

  Eli landed hard against a barnacled anchor chain that dug into his side. He couldn’t catch his breath and spots floated before his eyes like red fireflies, but his body moved quickly. There was no thinking, just instinct. He grabbed the spike and spun around, letting it fly from his slender fingers in a natural and perfect motion as if the blade had been shot from a Navajo bow.

  The weapon hit its target between the second and third ribs on the left, and buried itself to the leather. The man struggled to one knee, then collapsed, blood gurgling around the wound. He shivered, whispered something, and then all rage was gone.

  Eli froze, waiting for the thunder in his ears to stop. Slowly, he bent over the man and pulled out the blade. It fit naturally in his palm and felt good, as if it was a part of his body, but the rush of new feeling gut-scared him. He dunked the weapon in the water, washed away the blood, and then placed it next to the dead man’s hand.