Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  Albert checked it for rips before stuffing it into the belly of the room stove.

  Colby looked at him. “Thinking you could get more use out of it?”

  “Not as a shirt. Maybe to patch something else.”

  “Thrift comes part and parcel with your work, but that’s evidence I was the bumpkin who couldn’t lasso a sleeping coonhound. An embarrassing guise, so we’ll let it burn. But, it did win me this.” Colby held up the Winchester, his fingers tracing the silver scrollwork around the stock and cheek piece. “That’s a twenty-four-inch, heavy twisted barrel.” He cocked the rifle. “Do you hear that perfection? The finest that Winchester makes, and this is even finer still, the ’73. Owned by a gentleman of breeding. I wish he hadn’t chosen to use it, but he had his job, and so did I.”

  Colby placed the rifle on the bed as if putting an infant down for its nap, then laid out a thick, rolled saddle blanket next to it. It was a Navajo pattern, fastened at both ends and the middle with buckled leather straps. The bed sagged under its weight.

  Albert asked, “So, you didn’t carry a gun with you on this job?”

  “Questioning my methods?”

  “No, we’re very pleased. Just wondering why you take the chance.”

  Colby regarded him for a moment before unfastening the straps and unrolling the blanket, revealing his weapons cache. Four rifles of various make and caliber were fitted into special sleeves. Six pistols were arranged around them, held in place by small leather ties, and a pocket held ammunition. An assortment of knives lay flat along the blanket’s edges. He looked at Albert. “What chance?”

  Colby took the three throwing blades he hadn’t used and put them back in their own pocket. “I have these made especially for jobs like yours. Very balanced, very effective. The edge sharper than a Japanese katana.”

  “I see. Very nice.”

  He heard Albert swallow and smiled. He slipped a long-barrel Buntline from its ties, and checked its action. “This beauty hasn’t seen use in too long, which is never a good thing for a gun, and that leads to your question. In some cases, I don’t carry because no one feels I’m a threat if I’m unarmed. I can always take a firearm from someone—they’re all around me—but if they think I’m wandering around without . . . well, people are more inclined to write me off. That’s my element of surprise.”

  “You definitely surprised the hell out of them. It’s appreciated.”

  Albert opened the satchel and removed an envelope that was straining with contents. He held it out to Colby.

  With a look, he said to drop it on the bed.

  Albert did. “There is another job in the offing, but it’s got to be done quickly. You’d have to leave right away.”

  Colby was wrapping his new prize Winchester in lightly oiled cloth. “It’s always urgent.”

  “And as always, my employer would like to put you under yearly salary. It’s rather generous.”

  Colby smiled at the way Albert’s voice dropped when he spoke of salary. “I’m sure, but I prefer to continue on a situation-by-situation basis.”

  Albert took a second envelope from the satchel, this one long and narrow with an oval family portrait attached to it. Colby took the picture, studied it for a moment, his eyes fixed on the young couple and their son. The husband and wife were blond-headed, wearing their Sunday best. Her features were plain but better than his. Both had one hand on the shoulder of their blond son, who stood in front of them, smiling.

  Colby turned the photograph facedown and said, “The child looks to be about ten. Isn’t this the boy that rides for you?”

  “If you’re asking if he’s a Fire Rider, yes.”

  “He worked last night. He’s good, has good control. Better than the rest. Why are you giving him to me?”

  “They stopped to water the herd and were set upon by John Chisum’s men. The boy got himself captured.”

  “Do you want the Chisum men also or just the boy?”

  “The amount in the envelope is the answer. They were camped ten miles past the Little Fingers and moved on from there.”

  “That should be an easy track.”

  “Just so long as it’s done quickly. Those are the instructions, and I’ve delivered them.”

  “And very precisely, too. In a case like this, I think a message needs sending. To discourage Mr. Chisum’s men from trying this again.” Colby pulled a rifle from its blanket sleeve and replaced it with the Winchester. He held up his new selection. “My choice would be the Colt’s Dragoon revolving rifle. Do you agree?”

  Albert had a pencil in his hand and wrote in a small ledger he’d produced from his inside jacket pocket. “Whatever you want, I’m sure will be appropriate.”

  “That ledger suits you better than the pistol.”

  “All business expenses are noted.”

  “What do you have me down as? What do you call me?”

  “No name. Just the job—regulator.”

  Colby loaded the Dragoon. “God, that term’s just a pretentious disguise. Enter what I am—an assassin. You pay me to take human life. I’m not ashamed.”

  * * *

  The depot clerk they called Junior struggled to write as fast as the stranger was talking, but was losing the fight to age-failing eyes and ears. “Sorry, sir. You’re gonna have to say again. From the top.”

  The stranger, finely dressed in tailored wool with a matching hat, and only the grime on his boots spoiling the image, leaned into the window and slowed his thick, New Orleans speech. “Whatever happens to that prisoner yonder, make sure to wire me straight away. Now, if he gets himself hung—”

  “Well, they got him up for murder. Quite a few,” Junior interrupted as he scribbled with swollen knuckles.

  “If he gets himself hung in or out of his cell, or shot by anyone, or trampled by a runaway stallion, or struck by lightning, you wire me through Western Union, general. I’ll check frequently during my travels. I’m fully aware of Doctor Bishop’s situation, but must know immediately if they’re any changes.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Chaney. I got it all.”

  “Actually, this might have been easier on you. My apologies.” Virgil Chaney pressed an embossed business card and ten dollars into Junior’s palm. “You should know there’s a lot of fellas interested in Dr. Bishop. They have asked me to do them the same service.” He nodded without changing expression and handed Junior a new fifty. “I trust this takes me to the front of the line?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Junior sneezed at the ripe perfume rising from the corpse slung on the back of Chaney’s freshly groomed horse. “If you and your friend are off to Louisiana, we should box ’em up, straight away.”

  Virgil Chaney said, “Hardly a friend. He was my third cousin. He died at Dr. Bishop’s one hand. We won’t be taking the train, but I believe people will know we’re approaching, especially if the wind is behind us.”

  Junior laughed like he should as Chaney climbed onto his horse, then took a fine handkerchief from his breast pocket with a flourish and tied it around his head, covering his mouth and nose. “Whatever happens to Doctor John Bishop?”

  “I’ll send the wire. First thing.”

  “Good man.” Chaney tipped his hat with the silver band before turning his horse away from the Paradise rail station and riding the scant mile out of town. The corpse was lashed behind him.

  Junior sneezed again.

  * * *

  Bent over his desk, a blood bruise from Bishop’s fist mapping one side of his face. Tucker regarded three separate envelopes in front of him. Each one had different initials on it. From the cell, Bishop made a pained sound.

  Tucker kicked his chair back “Goddamn, I don’t want to hear nothing from you!”

  “Hurting.”

  “You hurt ’cause you got a smart mouth and you’re jackass stubborn! You gonna come across with that money you got hid?” Tucker waited for Bishop’s answer, hand on his gun.

  Finally Bishop answered. “No.”
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  Tucker grabbed a bottle of whiskey from his desk, tore open the cell door, and poured the alcohol over the near-open wounds lashing Bishop’s face, “Maybe a drink ’ll make you feel better.”

  Bishop threw his head back as the whiskey soaked the cuts. Searing fire rolled him from the bed, dropping him to the cell floor, his left arm still chained.

  Tucker said, “You ain’t gonna get the best of me twice!”

  Bishop managed a grin. “I can live with this, Tuck. I couldn’t live with the infection that the whiskey just killed off. Thanks, Sheriff, you did me a real service.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Prophecy

  Across a stretch of beauty more than four hundred miles away from Paradise, Colby was enjoying a morning ride, feeling the sun, and thinking of sending Albert Tomlinson a complimentary note. The bookkeeper’s information about Chisum’s men and the Three Fingers had been absolutely right. They’d made camp there, leaving a lot of sign behind. Colby knew it wasn’t a matter of sloppiness. They worked for Chisum and assumed no one would be damn fool enough to follow or challenge, especially with a prisoner in tow.

  He’d ridden up on the first campsite, ashes in plain sight, then tracked them for a few miles, their horses leaving a perfect trail in the soft earth of the riverbank they were edging. The trail made sense since this finger of the Arkansas River led directly to a railhead where they could board the train for New Mexico and then on to the big J.C. ranch in Roswell.

  They were taking the back way, quiet, with a false sense of security. Colby always liked that. He’d once told an employer, “The easiest man to kill is one who’s sure he’s beaten the odds.”

  He stayed casual in the saddle, letting his stallion follow his nose. The Dragoon Revolving Rifle hung in a scabbard by his left leg, with the Navajo-blanket arsenal secured behind him. Just to be thorough, a new Smith & Wesson Schofield that had belonged to a big mouth was holstered on his hip. That was an enjoyable kill, and Colby liked the pistol for luck, if nothing else.

  He found a shallow and crossed over to the other side, riding upward onto a small trail that gave him a good view of the river and the opposite shore. The air was pine-sweet, and the taste settled in his mouth like a drop of honey. His relaxation was total, even as the Chisum men came into view. Using a spyglass, he counted five cowboys with six pistols, and three rifles.

  Another man in a tall felt hat and finely tailored long coat rode alongside the group, sometimes speaking to the older cowboy riding point. They exchanged a laugh the others didn’t share. The man in the hat had a face as pink as an infant’s, with no hint of hair on his head at all.

  Colby noted the aberration, then swung the glass to the others.

  The young Fire Rider rode in the middle of the group, hands hog-tied to his saddle horn, head bowed, and blond hair tacky with blood. Colby focused the small telescope, bringing in sharp focus. The boy had bruises around his eyes and a purple lash along his jaw where he’d taken a hell of a punch.

  Colby pocketed the scope and urged his horse on. Moving ahead to a small outcrop, he pulled up, hidden by a gathering of red maple trees. It was a perfect ambush point. Bedded with new grass, the trees provided cover and the river trail was a clear shot in either direction.

  The Colt’s Dragoon slipped easily from its scabbard. He wiped it down, humming as he looked around. The place would be perfect for him and his son to picnic one day. Maybe do a little fishing. Colby allowed himself the thought for a few beats, then cleared his mind as he took a crouching position behind the maples, the rifle flush against his shoulder.

  He touched his neck where the bullet had kissed him. The quick shot of pain was small, but a reminder.

  He narrowed his eyes at the Riders. The man in the felt hat was still riding close to the older cowboy.

  Colby shifted his body, the weapon settling, feeling right. Completely comfortable. Somewhere above, a gathering of mountain plovers spoke in low music as he took aim, began his calculations for distance, and assigned a killing order.

  The group rode into his bull’s-eye range.

  He watched as the man in the hat and the cowboy shook hands. He drew a breath, focused on the man’s back, ready to shoot.

  Someone shouted.

  Colby’s eyes shifted. The boy kicked at one of the flanking riders and took off running, his horse breaking for the woods along the river.

  Colby followed the boy with the barrel sight and fired once, blowing a hole clear through him, throwing him hard from his saddle, hands still tied. The sound of the Dragoon was thunder, eating the boy’s scream and not dying for miles.

  The other cowboys opened up on what they could see—a blast of smoke from distant trees. They popped off shots in Colby’s direction, the sound and the flash of their pistols moments apart. A slug tore into the maple trunk behind him as he leveled and shot one, two of the cowboys.

  All in the head.

  The slugs took them off their horses and delivered them to the riverbank. One spun in the air, landing face-first in the water, his blood swirling away pink. A cowboy with two pistols tried laying down a quick barrage. It was nothing but a nuisance as Colby hit him solidly between the eyes, leaving half to be buried.

  Colby swung the Dragoon around as the older cowboy brought up a repeater. Colby took his face before he could get anything off, and his horse galloped away, the cowboy’s body hanging in the stirrups.

  The man in the felt hat was gone. Only a whisper of dust was left behind as he ran his chocolate mare away from the river, up a small logging trail, and into the woods.

  Colby cracked the last rifle shot in his direction, the echo from his others still rolling along the hills. Nothing. No scream. Nothing. He jumped to his feet, tore the Smith & Wesson from its holster, and pulled the trigger four times, cutting into the trees that framed the logger’s trail.

  The shots were precise, aimed at movement between branches—the possible shadow of a rider. He waited for return fire or the sight of Felt Hat’s mare running without a rider.

  There was neither.

  * * *

  The kid charged from the train depot, the telegram wrinkling in his hands. He jumped from an old wagon tongue to a small pile of bricks, staying above Paradise’s ankle-deep mud. Steering around a tethered mule, he ran past the prisoners’ graveyard, then crossed himself before knocking on the sheriff’s office door.

  Tucker answered, his face looking like pounded beef. He gave the kid a dime for the telegram. “This is for swallowin’ your tongue.” He slammed the iron door and bolted it.

  Still cuffed, Bishop was on his bunk, Bible out of reach, staring at nothing. He glanced when Tucker came to the cell with a bowl of soup from the night before. Bishop’s nose and eyes were still whip-swollen purple, his teeth pushing against his lips, but the whiskey shower had helped.

  “Gonna feed that to me?”

  “You haven’t had grub for almost two days. You’re not gonna starve yourself in my jail. Sit up.”

  Bishop sat up, his only arm straining behind him. “I could use a spoon.”

  “You think so?” Tucker stood before him, holding the bowl of soup. “Cut off both your arms, and I wouldn’t trust ya. Lean forward.

  Bishop lowered his chin as Tucker lifted the bowl. “We both look like hell.”

  The soup was thick with old chicken fat, but went down.

  Tucker took the bowl away and held out the telegram. “You’re gonna have a visitor tomorrow. A woman. Maybe she’s coming for all that money you’re hiding?”

  Bishop let it lie, then said, “Any chance for more soup?”

  “Chow time’s done.”

  Bishop didn’t hear Tucker, didn’t care about chow. He thought about the woman who was coming. Something flashed in his mind. A streak of lightning behind his eyes. A beautiful young woman on a painted horse, leathers torn, bloody tears on a proud face. Raging in Cheyenne, surrounded by twists of steel, blades of fire, and a pile of bullet-riddled bodies.
r />   It was nightmare and memory colliding.

  He struggled to remember something else, a memory of seeing something else . . . but it was lost as a rain of blood flooded his mind’s eye.

  Tucker said, “You look like you went someplace, Doc, but you didn’t.”

  Bishop gave his cuffed hand a jerk. “You heard the man, Sheriff. Outhouse-rat crazy.”

  * * *

  The steam whistle shrilled then sputtered into a coughing fit, thanks to a bullet hole in its brass. The old Baldwin Locomotive churned through the low Colorado hills, wood smoke pluming. It was not making good time, and the engineer had to announce its coming over and over.

  In the only passenger car, Frank Farrow covered his ears, trying to find a comfortable spot on the hard bench seat. The whistle finished, and the car heaved, knocking his tall felt hat to the floor. He picked it up and set it on top of the suitcase resting beside him. Handling the case as if it were spun glass, he carefully adjusting its position.

  Sitting directly across from him, the woman in starched gray that matched her manner was unaffected by the whistle or the rough ride. She kept her attention on a copy of The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. It appeared she had an idea about herself, about her image, that was so precise, anything that forced her from it would probably make her shatter like Grandma’s vanity mirror.

  That was Farrow’s first assumption about the woman . . . and it was wrong.

  On the seat next to her was large squared birdcage with a domed top and draped in barkcloth. Without taking her eyes from the novel’s pages, she reached into a purse, took out a small robin’s egg wrapped in tissue, and held it next to a slit in the cloth.

  Farrow didn’t find her unattractive and leaned forward on his elbows, watching. A sharp-edged, black bill snatched the egg, then instantly retreated back into the cage.

  Farrow said, “Is that a raven? If it’s a crow, he’s as big as a hoot owl.”

  “But it’s not.”

  “Ravens. Very intelligent birds.”

  “I’ve found him to be so, yes.”

  “The eaters of the dead.”