Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  “Ran the bank here, didn’t you Mr. Mayor? Until it failed?”

  “By many acts of God. The railroad was supposed to bring business that it didn’t, a couple good horse ranches were taken over and moved upstate. That hurt, but didn’t kill us. We’re strong people in this town, Mr. Farrow.”

  Farrow threw a glance at Tucker’s damaged face. “That’s very clear.”

  “We faced raiders—”

  “Actually, you didn’t.” Farrow sipped his port.

  O’Brien continued. “And flooding from the snowmelt up mountain damn near wiped us out.”

  “Damn near? You said you were dead.”

  “Coming back from the dead. Towns come back. We obviously have some value to you. What exactly is all that money supposed to buy?”

  “Doctor John Bishop.”

  Tucker laughed. “Right after we hang him! I’ll even let you keep the suit he wears!”

  Farrow said, “His release.”

  O’Brien said, “There’s no bail.”

  Tucker pulled some tobacco off the end of his tongue. “You know how many murder charges he’s got on him? Hell, don’t you know what happened here?”

  “I read about it, saw the wreckage coming in.”

  “Them damn terrorists attacked that train, must of left fifty men dead before riding out!”

  O’Brien said, “Except Bishop.”

  Farrow took a last sip. “But he wasn’t with them. In fact, he was about the only person in this dog-pile who fought back, isn’t that so, Sheriff?”

  Tucker shook his head, saying, “I wouldn’t put it that way myself.”

  “That’s how your deputy put it. He’s down in Texas, speaks very highly of the good doctor, but not much else.” Farrow brought his words in close. “Have you seen that shotgun rig? Seen him use it?”

  Tucker said, “I’ve seen what happens when he does.”

  “Lots of dead men.” O’Brien took his drink. “And when Bishop goes to trial, that means the hotel will be full up with reporters and rubbernecks. They’ll all need a place to sleep and keep their horses and have a nice time. That’s money to every business in town.”

  Farrow nodded. “Including this one. Anything else?”

  O’Brien said, “The charges have already been filed. To reverse these plans won’t be easy. Or popular.”

  Farrow asked, “All of these issues are solvable?”

  “Dr. Bishop is no common outlaw, but there’s a lot to consider.”

  “We’ve made all considerations.”

  Tucker drew in the taste of the fine leaf, let the smoke dance around his nose, but his mouth was dry, his heart racing as he rubbed a gold coin between his fingers.

  O’Brien said, “You can’t put a price on justice.”

  “Justice like letting John Bishop swing for fighting your fight?”

  “I have to think of the town of Paradise, not just one prisoner.” O’Brien finished the bourbon in his glass. “I’m trying to build something here.”

  Farrow regarded O’Brien. “A responsible elected official. It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

  * * *

  Eddie’s “Nevermore” scraped the air as Bishop read the letter for the last time. Ophelia stood in her spot near him, but keeping a few steps away so she could observe. The darkness of his soul shadow had left her genuinely rattled, but she wasn’t going to show any more emotion than she already had. That was a mistake.

  He held out the letter to her. “I can’t fold it.”

  Ophelia manipulated it back into an envelope and put it on the upended table with the leg that had been shot off. “I watched your eyes. You couldn’t read everything she wrote.”

  Bishop said, “Half was in Cheyenne. I could read it once, but now I can’t make heads or tails. My memory’s spotted, at best.”

  “But you remember her, and her given name. Also, that she’s considered beautiful.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “And your wife and son? Fox gave me details.”

  Bishop’s voice was low. “That will never leave me.”

  “What about the rest? Soldier’s disease?”

  “Concussion from a grenade. The town doc sewed up my head then took off.”

  “I don’t wonder. A very poor job, indeed.”

  Bishop pained through a swollen smile. “This is all new. This, I remember pretty well.”

  Ophelia said, “When you heard you had a visitor, you thought it was going to be Fox.”

  “The sheriff wouldn’t uncuff me, so I got Harvey to comb my hair and button up my shirt.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint.”

  Bishop said, “Miss Wylde, you delivered the letter. I appreciate it, and I’ll try to read it again, but do you understand I’m a man they want to hang? All I know about what I’ve done is what they tell me. Maybe that’s a strange kind of blessing.”

  “You may not recall a man named Chester Pardee. He was a ne’er-do-well who died in a gunfight against you. He had a link to your past.”

  Bishop said quietly, “I did fight Chester . . .”

  “You killed him. His family asked me to bring them comfort, and I could do very little, given the kind of man he was. It’s better you disposed of him. My journey took me to White Fox, who was with you, and now here.”

  “You get paid to follow the dead?”

  “To assist the grieving, the troubled.” Ophelia unbuttoned her sleeve and rolled it up to show a bracelet with four interwoven beaded strands joined together by a silver and turquoise clasp. “From White Fox, for helping you. I’ve never had anything so fine. That’s an inherited skill. I believe her father is a gunsmith? Didn’t he fashion your bizarre shotgun that’s now so infamous?”

  Bishop nodded. “Probably so.”

  “White Claw is also a thief and killer. She told me.” Ophelia rolled down her sleeve to hide the bit of vanity. “Don’t let your medical training reject what I have to say. I’ve found men in your profession can be very closed off.”

  “Nevermore!” screeched from Eddie’s cage.

  Bishop said, “I’ll try. I want Fox to get what she paid for.”

  Ophelia let his words settle. “Dr. Bishop, what do you know about otherworldly phenomena?”

  Bishop’s swollen expression said it first. “Not much now, and damn little when I had my complete memory.”

  “You don’t believe the dead have any influence on the living? You’ve left a lot of dead men behind.”

  Bishop jerked at his chain and angled his head toward the small window above his bunk. “Those are the graves of men I shot. Tucker can give you the names. I don’t remember them.”

  Ophelia said, “They remember, and they’ve told me about it.”

  Harvey’s bray erupted just outside the cell window. He glanced in with an all-crooked-teeth smile. “You buyin’ this horse manure, Doc?”

  Ophelia said to him, “We still have nine minutes . . . if you can tell time.” To Bishop, she said, “You’re not that much of a fool, are you?”

  “Not like Harvey, no.”

  Ophelia moved closer to Bishop, tentatively placing her hand at the end of his left arm. It flexed, as if it were all there.

  Ophelia said, “You can’t explain that feeling, but it’s real.”

  “There’s a reason the body acts the way it does.”

  “And there are reasons the spirit behaves the way it does. Doctor, I was a charlatan who became a believer. I’ve used every trick in the book, sometimes to give someone a little hope, sometimes to bleed a fool dry. I know intimately the difference between what’s fake and what’s not. I walked in here and never felt anything so bleak in my life. If I was more romantic, I’d say you were an Angel of Death.”

  “You do know how to sell it, madam.”

  “When someone has an epiphany, they want to share it.”

  Bishop said, “But I’m just a man waiting to be condemned. Or so they tell me. Lot of prisoners in this country in the same fix, I imagi
ne.”

  “But I wasn’t sent to any of them. Are you saying you don’t have nightmares?”

  “You’ve earned your bracelet.”

  “I want you to see something before I go.” Ophelia reached into her bag and removed a rolled sheet of paper. She opened it, holding it up so he could see her sketch of a man at the bottom of a deep pit with another man standing above him, aiming a gun.

  “I drew this minutes before I walked in here . . . after standing at those graves. What does this mean to you?”

  Bishop regarded the sketch but couldn’t bring forth any words.

  She said, “The only way your torture ends is when you kill a dead man.”

  “No, I think my torture ends when they hang me.”

  Ophelia was planted before him, holding out the drawing as a challenge. “Your quest was revenge against those who wronged you the most. Some are buried fifty feet from here. Is Beaudine the name?” Her words echoed.

  Bishop said, “Tucker knows who’s out there. He has the names.”

  “Beaudine.”

  Bishop coughed when Ophelia repeated the name. He thought he tasted blood in the back of his throat, erupting from an injury. His face numbed as if being covered with snow. He felt a sudden rush of cold. A picture of a man standing over him with an axe appeared in his mind.

  He could feel both of his arms and sensed being held down.

  Coming from somewhere was the sound of his wife and son . . . screaming. It was distant, like birds calling in far-off trees. The feelings and images lasted only a few heartbeats . . . like a slash of heat lightning.

  Quickly, Bishop was back in his cell.

  Ophelia locked into his eyes. “I knew that would stir you. I learned that name standing by those graves, and it took you someplace, didn’t it? You remembered?”

  “Amnesia turns the brain upside down and shakes it. Everything’s displaced.”

  “That sounds like a doctor explaining to a patient.”

  It hurt like hell, but he had to smile. “I suppose I still am a doctor. Someplace.”

  Ophelia said, “And an avenger, right? This specter you’re dreaming of is the worst of the lot. He wronged you more than anyone. I don’t know who it is, the messages weren’t clear, but you will confront him, and that’ll be your peace.”

  Bishop said, “You give me all this nonsense as if I was getting out of here.”

  “I’m just giving you the messages I receive.”

  * * *

  The light in the parlor had dimmed with the afternoon. A streak of sunlight focused on Farrow as he lifted the shelf out of the suitcase, revealing a compartment underneath containing two cloth sacks. His Cheshire grin returned. “Go ahead, Sheriff.”

  Tucker grabbed the two, tearing into one with stubby fingers. He almost burst out, but kept his voice low as he turned to O’Brien. “God a’mighty, I never seen so much money.”

  O’Brien said, “I have.”

  Tucker emptied one of the sacks of gold coins into his hands, dropping several on the floor. He grabbed for them as O’Brien watched.

  “You get everything here, if you choose it.” Farrow closed the case and locked it. “That’s a hell of a lot for the two of you or enough for Paradise to get on its feet again. And, I might be able to arrange for a cattle shipment or two to work through your depot.”

  Tucker said, “It’d be a damn great thing for the town. You can’t say that ain’t true.”

  Farrow’s smile was constant. “And it means you don’t have to build a gallows, Mr. Mayor.”

  O’Brien stood. “What the hell makes this man so valuable?”

  Farrow shook his head. “You only have to know that he is.”

  O’Brien looked at Tucker thumbing the stack of bills, loving the feel, and soaking in the deep perfume of new money. The sheriff couldn’t hide his grin or pathetic giggle.

  O’Brien studied his drink, thinking about a different sheriff.

  Farrow said, “Gentlemen, we’re in a house where everything’s for sale. I need an answer.”

  * * *

  Bishop brought up his cuffed hand as far as it would go to extend a courtesy to Ophelia. “Honestly, I think you’ve been playing a cruel game, madam, but I’m still obliged for the letter.”

  Ophelia didn’t shake. She rolled up the sketch, placed it in Bishop’s left hand, and let each word carry its weight. “Trust the dead.”

  * * *

  Tucker slipped off the planking, and sank deep into the mud. “Maybe we could put some damn sidewalks in on Main Street. That’d be a nice change!” He freed himself with O’Brien and Farrow’s help.

  The mayor said, “Don’t spend what’s not yours, Tuck.”

  “The money’s yours, the prisoner’s mine.” Farrow said, “If Bishop did that to your face, you must be awful glad to be rid of him.”

  “He looks worse.” Tuck shook slop from his boots. “These are from Sears, Roebuck, and only a month old!”

  O’Brien said, “Why does Bishop look worse? What have you been up to?”

  “Doing my damn job.”

  Farrow was the first to reach the sheriff’s office door. “Doing his job in an interesting way. Even allowing a carnival humbug to see your prisoner.”

  “What?”

  “Want to have your fortune told, Mr. Mayor? She might even do it for free.”

  Tucker reached around to unlock the cell. “I didn’t know who the hell she was!”

  O’Brien said, “Why bring this up, Mr. Farrow? Sounds like you’re trying to talk your way out of our agreement.”

  “Just the opposite. I want you to see how our deal solves many problems, including incompetence.”

  Harvey’s nose was inches away from Eddie’s beak as he squinted into the raven’s cage, its cover pulled back. “Go on, be smart again, you sumbitch.”

  Eddie tilted his head, blinked twice at Harvey.

  Out of Bishop’s cell, Ophelia recovered the cage. “I’ve never before seen a man challenge a bird to a contest of wills and have the bird win.”

  Harvey frowned. “That little bastard’s nothin’ but a smart-ass!”

  “Well, smarter than some.”

  Bishop laughed from his cell, which brought Harvey to the bars. His hand went to the coiled bullwhip that dangled from one of his belt loops. “You still think hangin’ later saves you from pain now? You ain’t learned your lesson?”

  Tucker moved to Harvey. “Back out of there, Harvey.”

  Harvey said, “You want to hear what they was talkin’ about? These two are crazy!”

  Tucker elbowed him out of the way as he opened the cell door. Farrow tipped his felt hat with the bullet hole towards Ophelia.

  Bishop said, “More visitors? Is this my lucky day or my worst?”

  Farrow said, “I think you’ll be celebrating this date for years, Doctor. You’re a free man. Get that chain off him.”

  Bishop brought his arm up, pulling the cuff out straight as Tucker went to him, keys jangling. “Going to have Harvey take me out back, Tuck?”

  “It’s no joke, Doc.” Tucker unlocked the cuff, then stepped back. He touched the side of his face. “I ain’t even bringing charges.”

  Harvey filled the jail. “What the hell, Tuck?”

  Bishop stood up straight for the first time in weeks, his legs searing, but the pain was good, giving him relief as he walked it off. Tucker didn’t go for his gun, and the door to the cell stayed wide open.

  Farrow said, “Doctor, arrangements for you have already been made.”

  Bishop still didn’t move toward the door. He looked to Ophelia for a clue of some kind. She nodded, not breaking a smile, but satisfied. She held the raven’s cage high, stepped around the group of men, and walked out the front door.

  Farrow watched her go. To Bishop, he said with a grin, “I’m sure she predicted this would happen, so let’s not make her a liar.”

  Bishop leaped to the window and looked out between the bars. Ophelia walked steadily on
the planking, stepping around the slightest hint of mud on her way to the station.

  He called out to her, but she had no interest in looking back.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Related by Blood

  My only son,

  First, let me wish you the happiest of birthdays, and say that I hope this letter reaches you in time. It is hard for me to believe that it was thirteen years ago that I held you in my arms and couldn’t imagine what a fine young man you’d grow into. I can only add how sorry I am that I won’t be able to join you, but please take your classmates for a party celebration on your father, leaving behind a little bit for yourself.

  Work continues, with jobs being plentiful, for which I’m thankful. It is dull and offers little reward beyond the money which affords us your schooling in England, giving you the best possible education.

  I am planning for a great Christmas holiday for us both, perhaps with me making the trip to you, rather than you coming here. I can’t think of a better Christmas than to be in London with my son, but that is months away.

  Your current job is to have the happiest of birthdays.

  Devotedly,

  Your father

  Colby finished with a little swirl below the r in father, as was his habit, and then made an ink slash through it in the style of John Hancock’s signature. He blotted the letter, then placed two hundred dollars in its center and folded it into thirds before putting it into an envelope and sealing it with the wax from a red candle burning next to him.

  The wax dripped, and he pressed his signet ring into it, letting it cool before turning the envelope over and addressing it to his only son. When he was done, he blew out the candle, turned in his chair by the small ornate desk, and enjoyed the embers in the hotel fireplace, burning warm and orange, as he thought about the preparations for his next kill.

  * * *

  John Bishop sat up in bed, the sheets bundled around him, and said, “Be still now, we’re saying grace.”

  The woman’s hand was on Bishop’s chest, and she whispered, “What? Are you okay?”

  Bishop looked to the doorway, but there was nothing there but an empty blue shadow. He rubbed his eyes with his left palm. “I’m sorry I woke you.”