Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  Crawford held out two more shotgun shells. “Ain’t you gonna reload, Doc?”

  * * *

  White Fox ran the painted through the woods, heading for the clearing where her father had set his traps. She had a long blade tied to her thigh, and a vision of red hanging in front of her eyes like blinders.

  It was dark red, as dark as the night sky above it, and spreading wide against the snow. It was the first thing Fox had seen as she’d ridden toward the little house with the porch and rocking chairs. She’d had a present for Dr. Bishop’s son tucked under her jacket, away from the evening weather, and had been rehearsing a birthday song when she saw the circle of blood around the two bodies lying in the yard.

  Fox pushed the painted harder, thinking of how she’d run to Amaryllis, who had been shot twice and had still been cradling her son. The boy, his face buried against his mother, had had a single bullet wound to the head.

  They had been holding hands, gently.

  The painted broke to a full gallop. White Fox was pushing against the images of Bishop’s wife, but they kept coming. She remembered touching the side of her face, color gone, her skin turning with the cold, frozen tears on her cheeks. Fox had taken a blanket from her horse, draped it over mother and son.

  That’s when she’d heard John Bishop’s voice from the house. He had crawled inside, arm gone, and had been trying to get to a rifle behind a shattered china cabinet. Bishop had pleaded about his family, but Fox hadn’t known what to say to make him understand. She hadn’t had the words.

  He was dying in front of her.

  She’d brought the painted right to the front door, helped him climb from the chair onto its back, where he’d collapsed. She’d swung on behind him, holding him on, and they’d galloped away from that ruined house, leaving wife, son, and a birthday present lying in the snow.

  That was a year ago. She’d had the same painted then, running the same way, and she was now on her own mission to revenge that night. Her revenge. The Cheyenne word is óoxo’eéh, and it was the first she’d taught Bishop to say—the first he’d wanted to learn.

  This moment, it was all she could think of as she got closer.

  She leapt the small gully before reaching the clearing, and Fox stopped the painted feet away from the trip lines around the pine trees. She cut rope after rope with the long blade, releasing the tied-back branches, hurling packed snow and ice like flaming bales from a catapult.

  She rode beyond White Claw’s traps, to a small slope leading to a split of two tall-grass hills damped with snow, a stream running between them—a tiny valley. Fox heeled, and looked down into the split at fifty or so horses, all good stock, held behind a barrier of fallen trees. She pulled the lasso from her saddle, and headed toward them.

  * * *

  Bishop was packed and saddled, when Fox brought the painted down the small trail to the dugout, a second stallion tied behind her. There were small cuts and bruises on her hands and face, and her expression was dark. Bishop stayed by the bay, as Fox rode her horse to Crawford and stopped just inches away, looking down on him from the painted’s back.

  Crawford’s beard and bearskin coat buried him in hair, with only his two black eyes showing through the tangle. Staring at her. “Thought you might head out to Wyoming.”

  “Don’t know anyone there.”

  “That ain’t always a bad thing. I got your man outfitted with a whole new deal.”

  “Don’t call the doctor that.”

  “Doubt that he minds.” Crawford opened the gate to the corral, looked beyond Fox to the horse tied behind her. “Catch one of my strays?”

  “No stray, and not yours.” Fox finally turned to Bishop. “Ready?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  “Which way should we go? Follow the river? It’s of no matter.” Fox looked to her father. “Were you going to warn them we were coming? Have us killed?”

  “You got it wrong, daughter.”

  “I did not want to return to this place.” Fox got off the painted and moved around it to the horse she’d roped in the hills, pointing to an FD brand on its rump. “The men in red hoods had this brand, and I knew it was you. An army horse, the kind you always stole. Two are in the corral.”

  “I’ve got customers coming. Not them red hoods, though.”

  “And you hide the rest in the same place you did when I was a girl. I was just there. You’ll always be White Claw, and I’m forever tanehe.”

  Crawford said, “I know you’re ashamed, but before you start jumpin’, take a ride. I’ve got something that’ll help you both.” Bishop had the shotgun aimed, as Crawford threw his hands up. “If you don’t like it, the doc can always use the new rig on me.”

  Bishop said to Crawford, “You built this thing to cut a man in half.”

  Crawford shook his head. “Oh, I know, Shotgun. Well? Vóhkêhésoa?”

  * * *

  The shadows of the grave markers grew longer as the winter evening settled in. The sound of the distant river was carried on a cold breeze that blew back Fox’s hair, and the fringe on her leathers. She stood by Morning Star, but kept her eyes averted from her mother’s name.

  Bishop held fast by the horses, letting father and daughter settle their business, the hammers on the rig cocked, the bandolier with six shells tight on his arm.

  Fox said, “What is this gift, nomáhtsé’héó’o?”

  Crawford stepped to the other side of the markers, said to Bishop, “Did she teach you that one yet, doc? It means ‘thief.’”

  Crawford held up a large bundle, wrapped in an old blanket and tied twice. He tossed it with one hand onto the snow-wet ground of Horace Smith’s grave. Heavy as cast iron, it sunk in. Fox and Bishop eyed the bundle, but made no move.

  “It’s only right that White Claw’s daughter recognize the branding on a stolen horse.” Fox met Crawford’s face as he continued: “I know it pains you to say it, but I’m your pa. A thief, and a killer, and every other damn thing you ever dreamed up.”

  She said nothing. Crawford blasted, “White Claw. Goddamned White Claw, and you’re my child!”

  White Fox would not shake. She rested her hand on the tip of her mother’s grave marker, keeping her words low and flat. “What about the horses?”

  Crawford yanked a bottle from his coat, drank half of it in one swallow. “There’s a foreigner, he runs a bunch call themselves the Fire Riders. And I be dealing with them.”

  Bishop said, “Are you with them?”

  “Hell, no!”

  “Then what?”

  “They’re about money, new U.S. currency. And anyone who don’t do business gets their house burned and their throat cut. Ain’t no politics here. And they dress up crazier than a pack of wall-eyed mules, scare most folks to death. Reputation, right, Doc? That’s how come they can do what they want.”

  “What about the law, the Marshals in this territory?”

  “They love them Fire Riders, ’cause all they do is come down on scofflaws like me! Take a train, they want a piece. Rob a bank, you gotta pay!”

  Crawford threw the finished bottle to the sky. It shattered someplace. “The foreigner’s an Englishman. Never saw his face, just heard him. I’ve been supplying horses for six months, Army mounts from Fort Davis. The branding you recognized, daughter.”

  Fox said, “We fought them.”

  “Sure as hell did, and lived to tell the tale.”

  “It was a bloody war.”

  “That’s what they do. I don’t know if them Fire Riders are mixed up in your business, Doc, but that’s really stickin’ your head in a rattler hole. If I hadn’t gotten them mounts, I wouldn’t be here now, claw or no.”

  Bishop said, “You know I’m going to hunt down the men who killed my family. These Red Hoods know who they are well enough to attack them.”

  Crawford looked to Bishop, and the barrels leveled on him. “You don’t have to threaten me, Doc. I’m the man who built you the best chance you got. I’ll tell ya,
they ride the Wyoming border, come in for raids. Paradise River don’t have no river, but they got a rail station, and they’ve been hit more than once. Somebody’ll give up that foreigner, if you swear to kill him.”

  Bishop lowered the rig as Crawford reached out to Fox, but didn’t touch her. “This is too dangerous, daughter. You were lucky once—it may not happen again.”

  Fox kept her hand on her mother’s name. “I can’t stay here.”

  “You can go anyplace you want, but it don’t have to be with the doc.”

  Bishop said, “You already saved my life.”

  Fox let her hand fall from the marker. “I told you I would be with you until I couldn’t. That was my mother’s way. That’s my way.”

  Crawford crouched by the bundle, untied it. “I made these a couple of months ago, when I knew you two was riding together.”

  He threw back the blanket to reveal two more grave markers, one with Dr. John Bishop written on it, and the other, VÓHKÊHÉSOA—BELOVED DAUGHTER.

  “That’s my gift: freedom. If they think you’re already dead, you can do whatever you want. And if anybody comes lookin’, this should stop ’em. Or I will.”

  Crawford stood and looked to his daughter, who simply nodded. He said, “You better make tracks. I’ll get these up in the morning.”

  Fox turned away from her father, running her palms over her face. Bishop stepped up, extended his left hand.

  Crawford’s giant hand smothered Bishop’s. “Better that one than the other.”

  “You did a lot for us.”

  Crawford was still holding on, grip tight as hell. “The Cheyenne’s a strong spirit, Doc, so you protect her, even if she hates you for it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Good Deeds

  Crawford pulled the punch from the coal scuttle, then pierced the edge of the breather box, before rounding the corners with small sections of sheet silver. Large fingers manipulated the cold-smith tools, fashioning an air portal around the pierced metal surface. Each move was precise, and the tools never slipped.

  He was cutting the padded leather sections for the side of the box when he saw the small wagon with the flat top rumbling down the trail, and pulling up by the corral.

  The Brakeman, all blond mustache and braggart’s mouth, dropped off the driver’s seat with a wave to Crawford as he walked out of the smith’s.

  “You ready to do some business, Claw?”

  “I don’t like that coming from you, but if you got money this time, I’ll let it slide.”

  “Sorry, Noah. Them the ones you talking about?”

  Crawford brought one of the stolen horses out of the corral for the Brakeman’s inspection. He was making a show of checking the teeth and hooves, but actually knew damn little about horseflesh.

  Crawford said, “Why you bother with that every time? I know you’re gonna take ’em out on the trail and sell ’em.”

  “Not to blind men. I want to pay a fair price, but I have to make mine too.” The Brakeman ran his hand across his mustache. “These still got the brand on ’em. I’m taking a risk.”

  “A hundred extra, I’ll change the brand right now.”

  “One fifty for both, change the brand, and I’ll give you a free turn.”

  The Brakeman nodded to the wagon, and a petite Chinese woman threw open the canvas in the back and peeked around the corner. She was in her early twenties, but had additional age beaten on to her. Her nightgown hadn’t seen a recent washing, but she tried for beauty with a torn paper flower behind one ear.

  “Ain’t she left you yet?”

  “Hard to get a divorce in the wild country.”

  “I don’t want no time with your wife, but I’ll settle for the price, if you take a package to general delivery up to Paradise River.”

  “Who’s it for?”

  “What the hell’s the difference?”

  The woman watched from the wagon, waiting for White Claw to tear into her husband, holding her breath and crossing her fingers.

  The Brakeman said, “I’ll do anything, Noah. I just don’t want to get picked up. I’ve got a job in a couple of days.”

  “For my sister. My daughter passed away, and wanted her aunt to have a few things.”

  “I sure am sorry to hear that, Noah. I ain’t gonna up my offer, but I feel for ya.”

  Crawford handed the Brakeman the reins on the horse, as his wife dropped back inside the wagon, the canvas flap falling shut behind her.

  Crawford said, “I’ll heat the irons for the horses, you’ll wait for the package to take.”

  “Whatever you need. We’re amigos.”

  Crawford peered at the wagon. “She all right in there? Got jerky and dumplings.”

  The Brakeman shrugged. “She’s fine. And don’t never eat. That’s one of the things I like about her.”

  * * *

  Fox and Bishop had been riding in the Colorado silence for hours when they saw the buckboard coming from the opposite direction. The road they were on was well traveled, cutting along the base of some smaller mountains, but today, they had had it to themselves and the wind, until they saw the couple.

  The husband was waving at them in a friendly manner, but the wife sat statue still, with her hands folded in her lap.

  They pulled up.

  Fox had seen it first, and she gave Bishop a look as she peeled away from him, riding the painted to the side of the wagon where the wife was sitting.

  The husband tipped his hat. “Good ’morrow, friends! This is a lonely stretch. Are ye travelling far?”

  Bishop kept his rig arm down, the sleeve of his coat covering the barrels from the husband’s view.

  “We’re on our way to the next town, going to meet a friend, actually.”

  “The next town is Paradise River, and aptly named she is.”

  “How much farther is it?”

  “Less than a day’s ride, friend. We’ve just stocked up ourselves, this sky tells me we’ll be seeing a long winter. You look a little light on food. Perhaps we can leave you with something.”

  “That’d be appreciated. Truly.”

  The husband tipped his hat, still smiling broadly when he reached behind the seat.

  The rig blasted, tearing the husband in the side, hurling him off the wagon, onto the road. The pistol in his hand fired when he hit the ground.

  The wife burst into tears, screaming, “Kill him!”

  Bishop jumped from his horse, moved to the husband, and kicked the pistol out of reach.

  “Sorry friend, but you’re not going to make it.”

  The man was still showing long, perfect teeth. “Should have killed you before we stopped. What’d you get me with? How’d you know?”

  Bishop tilted his head to Fox. “She knew. Your pocket.”

  The man felt his jacket, and the hood that was sticking out of the top of his side pocket, like a red warning flag.

  “Did you really come from Paradise River?” Bishop asked.

  “You know how many of us there are?”

  “What about a man called Smythe?”

  The man’s smile was locked, and not going anywhere, when he said, “Dyin’ isn’t as hard as I thought it would be. Piss on you, brother.”

  Fox said to the wife, “What about your man?”

  “He’s been shot, left by the side of the road.”

  Bishop said, “How long?”

  “Not half an hour ago.”

  “You really coming from Paradise River?”

  “Trying to leave forever, because of those damnable night riders. My husband’s a deputy sheriff.” She choked on her words, but her face was calm now, and lovely. “And he was quitting.”

  The wife turned the wagon around, running the team back toward Paradise, with Bishop and Fox alongside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Fortress of the Dead

  “What’s it looking like, boy?”

  “Like a castle from a picture book, Captain. A burned castle.”
>
  Smythe laughed out loud at Hector’s description, grinning at the boy over his shoulder, but not contradicting him. Hector craned his neck to get a better look at the grey ruin rising out of the Wyoming badlands in front of them: Cannon Mountain Territorial Prison.

  The walls were more than thirty feet high, and sloped outward, with tons of smashed, jagged boulders protecting the foundation, like an ancient moat. Iron spikes with bent, speared edges lined the top of the walls, with stretched barbed wire connecting them.

  Parapets stood as sentries at each corner, with eye-like windows for the sniping guards facing both the outside and the prison yard. Stout anchor chains hung from the windows, ladders for the men to climb into position.

  And it had all been burned.

  Scars of the fire disfigured the place, destroying large sections that were now falling in on themselves. A few men on horses broke around the charred front gate, riding toward the group at a full gallop.

  Smythe said, “Nobody draws. These blokes’ll kill you, even if they know you.”

  The men rode up, and gave a signal to follow.

  A body dangled by the neck from one of the few bare and twisted trees near the place. Its hands and feet were bound with red cloth and a sign that read “He Didn’t Pay!” had been fastened to his chest with a small dagger.

  Smythe said to Hector: “That’s to show the scoflaws that we mean business.”

  Passing through the front gates to the main prison yard, with riders and guns on all sides, Hector kept speaking to Creed, describing everything: the corpse, debris and rubble piled high enough to climb; twisted-apart cell doors stacked against the scorched remains of a guard’s turret; and behind it, what had been the stables, now a pile of ashes and trash.

  Hector watched as men in red moved among the wreckage with purpose, carrying weapons, furniture, and food supplies to tents that had been set up along the inner wall, forming a compound. The injured Fire Riders were laid out around the tents, waiting for a medic to fix them or pronounce them.

  He stumbled in his telling, as this new, savage army prepared itself for some kind of war. Hector looked to the far end of the yard, and the entrance to the cellblock, where old cannons were being repaired, ammunition stacked, and a Gatling gun was being set up in the back of a freight wagon.