Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  Farrow stayed with him as Harvey’s voice colored the air, his crying and curses all anyone could hear until the distant whistle of the incoming train wiped them out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Hell Travellin’

  Colby stood at the counter of the Butterfield Line station as the clerk updated the stage runs on a mounted chalkboard. He was precise in his writing, crossing the sevens in the European style. Colby checked the update against his own watch, approved, then presented his letter.

  The address made the clerk ask, “Blackheath?”

  “Yes, it’s seven miles—”

  “Actually, nearly eight kilometers beyond London, last stop of the railway.” Colby’s surprise gave him half a step back.

  The clerk said, “I gauge London to be ten cents over five dollars. I’ll have to confirm for Blackheath.” He thumbed the postage rate book.

  Colby was impressed and didn’t hide it. Out of targeting habit, he sized up the other travelers in the small but clean waiting room.

  A roughneck snored loudly in the corner, his hat pulled down. while a young fellow in new jacket and collar read a newspaper, despite the honking. Two older women took up the bench on the opposite side, speaking in strained whispers. They wore all-over gray. Colby assumed them sisters, but he was more interested in the young fellow and the Colt nickel-plated pistol he’d holstered in the top of his boot.

  “Five dollars and seventy cents.”

  Colby faced the clerk, who repeated himself. Colby handed him one carefully folded bill and exact change. “How long for delivery? My son’s birthday is soon. That’s his card.”

  “Four weeks at the outside. The Royal Mail’s very reliable.”

  “That’s been my experience, as well.”

  The young fellow crossed his legs, pulling at his trouser cuff to hide the pistol grip.

  Colby watched without looking at him then said to the clerk, “Where do you hail from?”

  “Iowa. The Continent is what you dream about between stage runs.”

  “Dreams are what keep a man motivated.” Colby moved to the waiting area and sat next to the young man holding the newspaper too close to his face. Smiling at his slight tremor and the drops of sweat that had fallen from his forehead, dotting the newsprint, Colby said to him, “Hot?”

  The young fellow thin-smiled his “yes.”

  “I find it rather cool and pleasant. You should take some water. You might be coming down with something.”

  * * *

  The scream in Bishop’s ears was actually metal pounding metal as the train picked up speed, rounding the curve that led away from Paradise. He stood on the small grate between the coach and the boxcar, the coupling inches away, the tracks underneath passing faster and faster, and the rushing cool night air feeling pretty good.

  The cars bucked and heaved, but he kept steady, his left arm crossed, holding the shotgun in place. The tracks jolted him, the iron chains holding the cars yelling under the strain, but he didn’t move. He was fixed.

  And then the destroyed locomotive was there.

  It was blue in the random streaks of moonlight breaking the clouds, turning it into a huge, eerie death monument beside the tracks. Bishop kept between the cars, trying to lose himself in the blasted iron and fire-twisted steel of the train wreckage, to bring back some kind of memory. Trying to find something.

  The cars picked up speed.

  Bishop held on. There were flashes. Bodies tossed by explosions. Young soldiers torn by a Gatling gun. Riders charging to the slaughter. It was a chaos of thought that lasted less than seconds and brought him no closer to filling the lost stretches of his memory.

  The cars were moving faster.

  The train roared onto a straightaway through a mountain pass, then eased. Bishop opened his eyes. Memories were still jagged pieces, but at that moment they weren’t weighing him down.

  The taste and smell of the rotting sweet of Tucker’s jail cell was gone from the back of his throat, replaced by the cold rush coming down from the mountain. He watched the landscape pass, the profile of the Rockies and the coyotes jumping at the whistle, their shapes darting for the trees.

  The boxcar’s access door banged open and Bishop stepped from the coupling. Peering in, he saw his bay secured between hitch posts in a stall at the shadowed far end.

  “Vé‘ho’évo’ha.”

  The door slammed heavy behind him, Hollis and Breed blocking it. Breed had two revolvers. Hollis had a wide-blade that he shifted from left to right.

  “Still taking care of my horse?”

  Hollis smirked. “You know what Tuck said? That you had the craziest goddamned mouth of any prisoner he’d ever seen. Even when you was gettin’ whooped.”

  Bishop backed up a few inches, taking in the movement of the two men, watching Breed more than Hollis. “You and the sheriff talked.”

  “Tuck yaks about everything, special about how crazy you is. Who were you talkin’ to out there?”

  “Ghosts. Now what?”

  “You’re crazy . . . and worth money. Dead, you’re worth money. Half-dead, a little more.”

  Bishop said, “I came in to check on the bay. We can leave it at that. The door isn’t locked.”

  Hollis froze. Breed made a move, the gun in his left aimed at Bishop’s chest, his right aimed at his head. It was a juggling act.

  Bishop stayed with Hollis. “Okay. You want to do this, tell me what it’s about. How much?”

  “Between me and the man what wants you bleeding.”

  Bishop nodded to the Breed, and Hollis said, “Not him! He’s Mex and Comanche. Got no money and nothin’ to say.”

  “Unlike you.”

  “Crazy, crazy mouth.” Hollis let the blade settle in one hand. “Do you even get what’s happening here?”

  “Yes. Do you?”

  The rig snapped into place and fired, blasting Breed off his feet before his next breath. Bishop had aimed low, tearing through the meat of Breed’s left leg.

  Breed gritted his teeth, fingers clamped on the wound, blood and flesh mushing through them, but not allowing himself a sound.

  The bay bucked against its stall.

  Hollis backed into a corner, slashing, the blade jabbing at nothing. Pure panic filled his eyes.

  Bishop brought the rig up an inch, arm straight and locked. Smoke had cleared from the first barrel. The second was ready. “He’s going to die if he doesn’t get to a doctor. If you know about me, you know I can help.”

  Hollis slashed. “Tuck said you was too crazy to doctor no more!”

  Then slashed again, with a giggle.

  Bishop blocked it with the shotgun barrel. “You’re a damn fool if you don’t see I’m giving you and your buddy a chance.”

  Hollis looked to Breed coughing up blood then back to Bishop. He turned the blade, making a show. “So—what’s your offer?”

  “You keep living. Who’s coming for me?”

  Hollis said, “But if you ain’t dead or dying, then I will be. That’s what they said, and I’m stickin’ to that.”

  “That knife’s nothing. Around your feet? That’s your friend’s life. You’re losing your chance, boy.”

  Hollis took a step out of the blood pool, wiping the soles of his boots on his pant leg. “But—they’re payin’ out a lot, and you can’t match it.”

  “I can better it.” Bishop’s voice stayed low, train thunder behind it. His movements extended the rig, shifting automatically, the barrel pointing directly at Hollis’s face. “You can die right now or maybe you live and they never find you. You’ve got ten seconds.”

  Hollis said, “A second ago you were a doc. Now the bastard comes out. Goes with that fancy gun.”

  “Who put up the bounty?”

  The answer was a stammer. “A-an a-army of f-folks. Some of ’em d-dead. We’ve got to bring you back with your guts spilt, so they can watch you die. Or your head, make sure you’re gone. I-I could’ve sure used that m-money.” Hollis squeezed hi
s eyes tight, waiting for the second barrel.

  The bay whinnied and bucked, busting the silence, fighting its ropes. The rest happened in moments. Breed brought up a pistol, throwing back the hammer. Bishop turned, fired, the second blast spreading Breed across the floor and walls. The train whistle shrilled.

  Hollis charged the side door and yanked it wide open.

  Bishop shucked two shells and reloaded. He half-stepped, calling out to Hollis, who dove from the car into the darkness. His jump missed, and he rag-dolled into a tree, bone and branches snapping together—not even giving him time to scream.

  The whistle yelled as Bishop hung in the open door to see Hollis’s body by the tracks. Bent almost in half, his chin between his shoulder blades, the cowpoke was left behind, getting farther and farther away as the train rounded the next curves.

  Hollis was gone, dead by choice.

  Bishop dragged over what was left of Breed, letting him fall from the car before straining to shut the door with his one hand.

  The bay kicked at its stall, splitting lumber, crying out. Bishop moved to his horse, its head thrashing. Dodging its jaw, he reached out to run his hand along its neck, gently scratching and repeating Nahotse over and over. The Cheyenne word had come to him out of the dark. As he said it, the bay’s muscles stilled, its heart stopped pounding.

  Bishop’s did, too.

  He stayed for a few miles before walking back to his car.

  The coach was empty. A single lamp at either end cast a dim, yellow glow over the seats. Slumping next to a window, he wondered if Chisum had bought every ticket. He pulled the shade, put his feet up and hat down, and tried for some peace.

  * * *

  “These are yours, Doctor.”

  “Sure as hell, you shouldn’t call me that.” Bishop turned in his seat, the shotgun automatically leveled.

  Farrow took a step back, grinning. Bishop lowered the rig, locked it.

  Farrow said, “Whoa. My fault. That’s not how you approach an armed man.”

  Bishop nodded at the joke as Farrow put a black leather field medical kit and a volume of Edgar Allan Poe next to him.

  “I don’t know what all was in that bag. Tucker probably helped himself, but you’ve still got a lot of instruments. Some I can’t imagine what you use them for.”

  Bishop opened the kit with his left hand and looked inside for the first time in months. He picked up a muscle clamp and manipulated it. “I—I know.”

  “Hope I don’t find out. I admire the gold initials.”

  Bishop regarded the LT. BISHOP on the side in raised gold, most of which had flaked away, fracturing him. “That was my wife’s idea.”

  “The Poe stories belong to her?”

  “Somebody else.”

  * * *

  The red-hooded riders charged through the Laramie Mountain pass, keeping themselves ten across as they gained on the Butterfield Coach.

  The coach driver cracked the reins on the six-up, and the horses broke fire on the new road, pulling ahead, legs in perfect sync, sweat pouring from their backs. Next to him, a bearded man with a scattergun turned himself around on the seat, taking count of how many red hoods were coming for them.

  Driver pushed down a small grade, then brought the horses up hard, the stagecoach swerving, but turning sure as they reached the new road. They jolted from the grade onto the road, the passengers calling out as he pushed the horses for all their speed.

  Beard waited for a Rider to get close, and got off one shot before his chest and back exploded. Driver wiped blood from his eyes as Beard fell, hitting the road, coach wheels crushing his legs.

  The Fire Riders bore down.

  A Fire Rider ran his stallion up close to the coach team, hair rubbing hair, leaping from his horse to one of the leaders. The driver snapped his whip at him, biting nothing but red hood. Fire grabbed the lines and pulled back, slowing the team. The others caught up as the coach rumbled down, the horses winded, their mouths foaming.

  Fire swung off the leader as one of his men tossed him a bayoneted Springfield rifle. He caught it and trained the barrel and knife on the driver, who’d jumped from his seat with his hands up and Beard’s blood drying on his face.

  Fire’s voice was accent-thick, but loud enough through his hood. “This is all for you, to stand and deliver!”

  Two more Riders opened the coach, hauling the sisters out first, letting them tumble with the tiniest of screams. The snoring roughneck was next, arms high, followed by the young fellow with the gun in his boot.

  Colby came out last, hands raised, taking deliberate time. “I don’t know about the ladies’ purses”—he helped them to their feet—“but if you want real money, I’d suggest you’re looking in the wrong place.”

  Fire pushed the bayonet against Colby’s chest just enough. “Maybe I slit your stomach. Maybe you swallowed a fortune in gold when you saw us riding up.”

  Colby never lowered his arms, but nodded toward the young man. “You might check him. He has a new Colt in his boot, nickel-plated, possibly never been fired. He won’t draw it because he was going to rob the strongbox with the help of the driver.”

  The young fellow tangled his feet, falling against the coach brake. “That’s some dirty wash, mister! You don’t know me!”

  The other Riders formed a sloppy circle around the coach—demons on skeleton mounts, not uttering a word, holding repeating rifles and polished sabers.

  Colby said to young fellow, “You’ve been perspiring and trembling since we left the way station, and had plenty of time to bring out that pistol before they stopped us.”

  Snoring said, “That don’t prove nothing except he’s a coward. Me, I ain’t got no gun.”

  Colby acknowledged that with a nod. “But I don’t hear our driver contradicting me.”

  Fire swung the rifle around to the driver, who said, “We better let it go, Henry.”

  “Why’d you open your goddamned mouth? They didn’t know what the hell—”

  The rifle shot blew apart young man’s cheek. He fell, eyes open, hand twitching around the Colt Lightning he’d pulled. The sisters cried louder as Fire brought the bayonet flush with the bottom of the driver’s jaw, the tip slicing the skin.

  “How much did you take, the money?”

  The driver’s head was back, his eyes toward the sky. “About fifteen thousand in scrip and gold.”

  “Give me only ten. Count it out.”

  Driver said, “I don’t get this.”

  “Do as you been instructed.”

  Fire pulled the bayonet away as the driver snatched the bank deposit bag he’d stashed under the boot.

  Handing it over, he inched back, smearing the trace of blood from his throat. “You better figure it out. I don’t want no mistakes.”

  The driver counted out the money. “You rob the line, we take a cut, cross territories, pay the toll. That’s the new law. You savvy that much?”

  Driver said, “Understood.”

  Fire nodded, and a rope whipped around the driver’s neck, jerking him to the ground. All guns stayed on the passengers as two riders stuffed a bandana deep into the driver’s mouth and lashed his hands and feet tight.

  They held him down, and Fire knotted the line to one of the team, unhooked the traces, then fired a shot by the horse’s ear. It bolted, dragging the driver, screams choked, across the flats.

  Fire watched for a moment, turned to the passengers, and said, “Now he understands good,” before smashing Colby in the jaw with the stock of the rifle, spinning him down.

  “Get on a horse, nelly son of bitch! The way you’re dressed, somebody pays something for you!”

  Colby stayed on his knees, holding his face. “Will you allow me my luggage?”

  “Get it. Maybe pay for that, too!”

  Colby pulled himself to his feet, holding on to the side of the coach. He pointed to one small valise and the Navajo blanket stuffed with his arsenal.

  A hooded rider grabbed them both and
secured them behind a saddle. “Mother Mary’s tears, this is heavier than my son! Silver or gold?”

  Colby hauled himself into the stirrups, his face numbing. “Hardly.”

  Fire said, “I’ll find out myself. Don’t get no ideas. That horse does what I want only.” He pointed to the young fellow in the pool of black-red soaking the sand. “He’s dead. You’re not. Take that to church.”

  The sisters held each other, and Snoring stayed on his heels as Fire swatted Colby’s horse. It started a run, following the straight road. Fire took off, keeping a few steps behind, his rifle casually aimed at the back of Colby’s skull.

  The other Riders held, then turned out their circle and followed, pushing their “ghost horses” to gallop for the foothills.

  * * *

  The funeral director held his nose with two fingers as the autopsy surgeon cut away the gunnysack shroud. There’d been leakage, and the fabric had fused with the corpse’s skin, which tore with the sack. A small metal tray at the dead man’s feet caught the runoff.

  Keeping both hands buried in his overcoat pockets, Virgil Chaney stood by the display coffins as the surgeon worked.

  The surgeon threw out words. “You told me your cousin was shot.”

  “Indeed he was, by a special double-barreled model.”

  The surgeon stepped from the corpse and dipped his hands in a bowl of antiseptic. “It must have been very special, because this man was stabbed to death.”

  “That’s not what I was given to understand.”

  “Hold your nose, then look for yourself. He’s been rag-tagged back together, but those are stab wounds in his chest, not gunshots, and certainly nothing with a shotgun. Maybe your killer had two weapons, but your cousin met his end from a knife.”

  Chaney stepped from around the coffins, taking a small, black camera from one of his pockets.

  The funeral director broke a grin. “That’s one of those super cameras? Sub-miniature? I’ve heard of them, but never saw one in person a-fore.”

  Chaney focused the lens on the body “Then today is lucky for you, isn’t it?”

  The surgeon said, “I understood only Army spies were allowed those.”