“You were dreaming.”
He lay back in the large bed. “Better than most I have lately.”
“Tell me.”
“Go to sleep.”
“If you say it out loud, you’ll feel better.”
He knew she was right. His voice was quiet, as if describing distant music: “It was my family, eating dinner, and my boy kicking the leg of the table while we said grace. It seemed very real.”
The woman’s voice was warm out of the dark. “Because it was. Now you can find your way back to sleep.”
Bishop shut his eyes, the voices of his family still echoing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hired Guns
The house detective had knocked on the hotel room door four times, the last, a pounding of force. There was no answer, although he could hear the guest moving around inside.
“Mr. Andrew Barmuster, I’m with the hotel. Open the door, sir. There’s a matter of a large bill that needs settling.” The detective took enough time to draw a .38-caliber pistol from his jacket before using his passkey on the lock. The lock clicked. He thumbed the hammer back before turning the doorknob, his sweaty finger almost slipping.
The parquet door swung open into empty and quiet.
He stayed in the doorway, searching the room with the pistol barrel. “Mr. Barmuster, I know you’re here, so better to show yourself. I am armed.”
No response. The detective inched his way in. The bed was neatly made and packed bags stood at its foot. The flames in the fireplace had burned down to a glow. The air smelled warm.
He tried again. “Sir, you haven’t paid your bill. You’re trespassing. I have the legal authority to arrest you, but that doesn’t have to happen. Please show yourself, and let’s get this settled.”
He took a few more steps past the dresser and opened the closet door with his foot. Empty. He backed away, turning from the closet toward the bed, when he stopped, catching a glimpse of a figure on the balcony. It was a man standing against the far railing, masked by the curtains hanging in the balcony doorway, moving with the evening breeze.
Colby said, “Don’t turn, not even an inch.”
“What—”
Before the detective could get out another syllable, the knife had flown from the balcony, across the room, and sunk into his shoulder, cutting to the bone. He dropped in a rain of blood and pain, the pistol clattering into the washbasin.
Colby moved to the detective. He watched him twist on the floor, holding his shanks to his chest, rocking back and forth, smearing himself on the Persian rug.
He yelled, “Lord on fire, I wasn’t going to kill you, Barmuster!”
Colby knelt next to him. “No, I’d never give you the chance, but I had to prove something to myself. You were a great help.” He packed a damp washcloth around the blade and the wound, soaking up the blood. “Really, thanks very much.”
“Where’s my gun? I’ll come back proper!”
“It’s soaking wet, and coming back at me would be a mistake. Now, because you’ll get medical attention you’re not going to die. I’ll leave the money for it.”
The detective squeezed his eyes closed and took an enormous breath. “Barmuster, if you’ve got money, what the hell are you doing this for?”
Colby said, “You wouldn’t understand, but recently I was not able to do my job as well as I would like, and I was afraid I was losing my abilities. Putting that knife into your shoulder, from that distance and in that exact spot, with your body in the position it was in, half-turned away? That wasn’t easy, friend, but I did it. Clean. You’ve given me back my confidence, and I thank you.”
“This was my first day on the job. I can’t lose it. . . .”
“You need to bite on this.” Colby forced a hairbrush handle between the detective’s teeth before pulling the knife from his shoulder with one fierce yank. The meat tore, but it was out. The detective choke-screamed, the sound lost behind his tongue, then rolled onto his side, unconscious.
Colby placed a hundred and fifty dollars in silver on the dresser, picked up his bags, and stepped around the detective curled on the floor and spreading red. “Barmuster? I didn’t remember I’d used that.” He walked from the room, leaving the door slightly open so the desk clerk and bellman could make their discovery.
The detective screamed.
* * *
“The last time you saw me, I was something you’d find in the shed with my legs open.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to, ’cause I just did.” Soiled Dove had carefully shaved off Bishop’s scraggle of a beard. Her fingers dug into the earthen jar, gathering the yellow salve, and then travelled across the lashed wounds on his face.
“That Indian you was with? She left this for Kate, so she’s the one who’s really helping you, not me.”
“The day we got the weapons.” Bishop felt the cool, as the salve found its way into the lacerations on his cheeks, nose, and chin, then settled there. “I’m surprised you remembered.”
“Because I was too dumb or had laudanum pouring out my ears?” Dove pulled the handle on the side of the barber chair, angling it toward her, bringing Bishop back flat, his head slightly raised on the cushioned rest. “I was just dirty feet and a nightgown.”
She stepped back to look at him then dabbed a tiny welt with the last bit on her index finger. “Even with this, you’re still a good-looking man, just not put together right.”
“That’s pretty much how I feel.” He tilted his eyes to her. “How did you ever end up in Paradise?”
Soiled Dove put the jar on an upended crate next to the bed and wiped her hands on a towel. “Widow Kate’s is the best house in two states. You’ve been there, and you all talked about big plans to open new houses from here to California.”
“That’s gone out of my memory.”
“Do you remember you made a deal to kill Major Beaudine?”
Bishop regarded her for a beat then said, “I remember enough of Beaudine.”
“Well, you did it. Word was they buried him in pieces. As soon as Kate heard, she started making her moves with lots of money at stake. I told her I was ready to take charge, open the new places. It don’t look it, but big things are going to happen in this town. We just wanted the first taste.”
“No more dirty feet.”
“No, sir.” Soiled Dove curtsied. “The trick to movin’ up is not to let ’em catch you listening.”
The chair sat Bishop up. “So, you’re going to be quite the madam.”
“Of five new houses, and no hog ranches neither. The best you’ll ever visit. I’m training Large Marge. She’ll do all right.”
“Well, I love the chair.”
“There was only one thing my daddy loved more than getting his hair cut. This is the master’s suite. You’re the first guest.”
The room was L-shaped, wrapping around the second floor of the house, and as unfinished as the rest. The upholstered barber chair and the Victorian bed with carved headboard were the room. As in the rest of the house, the rugs were rolled up and the walls were bare.
Bishop wanted to swim in the huge bed but settled for six hours of sleep with no nightmares before Soiled Dove and Large Marge woke him with coffee and comfort.
* * *
He was cleaned, pressed, and his face doctored. “This has been a fine stay, and I’m genuinely honored to be the first.”
“Don’t worry. Your name won’t go on the wall. Mr. Farrow really put out, though.”
Bishop looked at Dove. “Did you know I’d be getting out of jail?”
Dove’s response was a smile.
Large Marge, spilling from a different pair of pajamas with pink bows on her hips and breasts, and dancing across her backside, walked in carrying a red hood in one hand and the double-barreled shotgun rig in the other. “All for you, Doc!”
Marge could barely lift the rig, and Dove grabbed it from her stubby fingers. Marge tossed the hood on the bed, and
Dove put the gun rig beside it, arranging the straps and bandolier not to tangle. On the pillows were a hat and a folded duster.
Marge said, “That hood’s from them Fiery Riders. Anyway, you’re supposed to take a good long look at it and tell that Mr. Farrow everything you know.”
“That’s still not much. Now.”
Instead of the hood, Bishop picked up the hat, a new Stetson the color of dried blood.
Soiled Dove said, “It suits you.”
Farrow was at the door before Bishop could try it on. “Get him in the rig.”
Bishop held his elbow joint steady, as Soiled Dove fit the prosthetic cup over the corrupted end of his right arm. She was cautious, sliding it up the arm. Bishop twisted it to make it fit. The lining of the cup was soft deerskin, a fine woman’s touch. He thought of that as the inside of the cup formfitted around the hard tissue of his amputation. He made the adjustments, a few small twists, so the shotgun that protruded from the cup hung straight.
He leaned forward “The straps go across the shoulders, then tighten.”
Dove didn’t speak, just pulled the straps over his shoulders. He grunted in pain, and she stopped.
“It’s all right. I think there should be a little pain as part of this.” He put his left arm through the opposite strap.
She tightened them by fastening both sides to a small hook like a belt buckle that hung in the middle of his back.
Bishop used his left hand to snug the silver chain attached to the shotgun’s double triggers, then Dove looped it through the rig’s straps and brought it all the way across his back to his left side, where it was anchored.
He stood and brought his right arm up slowly. The gun felt heavy as he moved his body, favoring his right side, getting used to the weight and the way the weapon moved.
Soiled Dove held out a box of .12-gauge shells. “Do you want to or should I?”
* * *
The sun was dipping as they walked the uneven planking from Soiled Dove’s to the train platform, Farrow in his tall felt hat with the bullet hole, Bishop wearing the black duster and Stetson that shielded his eyes and healing face.
The shotgun rig was now his right arm. Conscious of its weight and how it made him move, he was learning the weapon again.
The double barrels were barely visible below the cuff of his duster sleeve. A slit was sewn into it where his forearm would be, so the rig could be broken, reloaded. The special bandolier, with six shells, was tied high, almost to his shoulder.
Farrow said, “How do you feel, wearing that again?”
Bishop moved his shoulders, let the gun shift positions and react to him. “It’s been a while, Mr. Farrow. I’ll get used to it.”
“You and Chisum share a common enemy.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“You’re going to be in the front lines. You’ve got to sight down on the right people, don’t you agree?”
“Just point me, and I’m supposed to shoot?”
“We saved you from the hangman, Doctor. I think that gives us a little bit of sway on your targets, don’t you?”
“I’m not a hired gun.”
“Half-gun?” Farrow smirked at his cleverness.
Bishop said, “How old were you when you got the fever?”
Farrow stopped, tipped his hat. “Nine. Lost every bit of hair I had. You think you’re a doctor. With that special rig, I can’t figure exactly what the hell you are, but my job’s to deliver you to Chisum.”
“Don’t worry. I’m getting on the train.”
“Instead of being cuffed up in a jail cell?”
“Damn right about that.”
Farrow had the red hood in his hands, poking his fingers through the eyeholes. “Cowards and killers. Am I right?”
“You keep waving that thing at me like a verónica in front of a bull.”
“Maybe you’ll remember putting a dozen Fire Riders in the ground? Didn’t one of them toss the grenade that scrambled everything?”
“That’s what they say. You’re a thorough man.”
Farrow patted Bishop on the shoulder, pulled his hand away at the feel of the gun straps. “You’ll know your enemies again. They’re Mr. Chisum’s, too.”
Junior cracked his swollen knuckles before turning up the oil lamp on his small high desk by the ticket window. Arthritis in his neck fought him as he looked over his shoulder, watching Bishop and Farrow move onto the depot platform.
Hollis, a cowpoke with gravel for skin, sat on a barrel behind Junior, slicing an apple with a wide blade. “You see ’em? I see ’em.”
Junior’s head bobbed as he spoke, his neck paining him. “Yes, yes. I ain’t blind or deaf! Fetch his horse. The train’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“So you pray. Gonna send a wire to that dude?”
“Fetch it!”
Hollis said, “You told me to remind you is all.” Arms dangling, he walked out the back door toward the corral.
Junior shuffled dog-eared train schedules, old mail stained with rings from his coffee cup, and threats from a freighting company, before finding Chaney’s embossed card VIRGIL LOUIS CHANEY. WORKS OF LITERARY DISTINCTION. PARIS, CHICAGO, NEW ORLEANS.
Junior took a pencil from his pocket, ran the lead across his tongue, and then set down his message for Chaney, double-checking with the Morse manual for every word. He cracked his knuckles again before tapping the brass telegraph key.
The gate to the corral beside the depot creaked open, its bottom slagging through the mud. Hollis walked Bishop’s tall bay onto the loading platform. He was followed by a breed wearing a hat slouched low over his head, his braids tied behind his neck with a piece of beaded leather. Hollis wasn’t wearing a gun. The breed wore two under a dirty fringed jacket.
Farrow said, “Your horse and the rest of your things will be on the train.”
“Like I said, you’re a thorough man.” Bishop went to the bay, stroked his mane, patted his withers. The horse was clean, newly brushed. It nickered softly, angling its head toward him and instinctively nudging his left arm.
Hollis fed him the last bit of his apple. “You can see who he belongs to. I been seeing after him.”
“Until I was hanged?”
Hollis dropped his face and scraped the wooden platform with his toe. “Guess that was the deal, yeah.”
“No worries. Thanks for the work.”
Hollis looked up. “You’re the one with that special gun?”
Harvey snapped his whip at nothing, cutting the light in the air as he stepped onto the platform with giant, long-legged strides. “Hell’s-a-fire, yeah, he’s the one! And that gun sure is special. It can kill one man and save another from a hanging!”
Bishop turned to Harvey. “You’re not coming near my horse with that whip.”
“Didn’t even cross my mind, because I got you.” Harvey beat the air again, the bay recoiling at the crack.
Bishop handed off the reins to Hollis before facing Harvey, the shotgun coming up automatically, snapping into place. It was a quick move that surprised Bishop. Instinct was taking over.
Harvey’s grin trembled. “Want to try me, Doc? I ain’t got a gun like you. Don’t need one. I beat you down once.”
“No, I was cold-cocked. Funny what you remember.”
“Don’t matter. Without that rig, you’re nothing. Maybe this fella should give me all kinds of money.” Harvey barked to Farrow, “How ’bout it? I’m a better man. Got two strong arms. Why don’t ya give me a job with Mr. Chisum? Hell, you don’t even have to buy me out of jail.”
Farrow said, “You’re good with that whip, Harvey. I’ll pass the word on to Chisum, so you can go on home.”
“I got rights to be anywheres I want to be, and I want to say good-bye to my buddy, Shotgun. Make sure he gets on that train without a problem.”
Bishop tilted his body just a bit, bringing the barrel of the rig above his waist, locking it for firing. “I don’t like that moniker, but today, maybe it fits.”
“That special gun is the only way you can beat me. Ain’t that right half-man?”
Bishop said, “Harvey, this doesn’t have to go any further. In about ten minutes, you’ll never see me again.”
“Half-a-man, and money falls out of the sky for you. Gun down a dozen men, and there’s no rope. Doesn’t seem fair, do it?”
Bishop said, “I’ve got my debts.”
Harvey stepped closer. “That some kind of answer?”
“What do you want?”
Harvey shook the coiled whip in his fist like it was a warrior’s spear. “I beat you to hell, and you still came back for more. The sheriff saved your ass, but he’s not here, and these folks would like a look-see at a man what refuses to die.”
Bishop shook his head. “That ain’t me by a long shot.”
“I deserve to watch you crawl.”
“Your reputation as a man to be feared is safe with me.”
Harvey let the bullwhip unfurl, the end hitting the ground as he brought back his elbow to snap it hard. “Lower that shotgun, I’ll lose the whip, and we’ll go. See what you really got.” He shouted, “How about it? Our famous prisoner, the shotgun killer, in a fair fight for once?”
Used to Harvey’s mouth, the few loungers around the depot watched without saying a word. Hollis and the breed walked Bishop’s horse to the loading dock, not looking back.
Mayor O’Brien stood on the balcony of Dove’s house, Large Marge beside him, sipping more of her tea. They didn’t call out, just watched and waited.
Farrow said, “You can’t waste time with this fool. You have a job waiting and have to be in shape to do it.”
The shotgun unlocked, reverting to its position straight by Bishop’s side. He took the few steps to where Harvey was standing.
Harvey held out the whip then let it fall. He smiled. “Take it off.”
Every bruise and cut on Bishop’s face burned, but he ate the pain, met Harvey’s stare. “I don’t have to lose the gun. I’ve got no need for it.”
Harvey’s next word was a gut-pulled scream as Bishop’s heel smashed into his knee, tearing it sideways beneath the skin. Doubled over, Harvey tumbled to the platform. Tears and more screams covered his face.
“That’s what half-a-man can do, Harvey.” Bishop turned and walked down the platform to where his horse was standing.
Bushwhacked Page 30
