Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  “I’m a new kind of spy . . . for Harper’s Weekly.” Chaney snapped the picture, took out the small, dry negative plate, and slipped it into a protective envelope. “I understand he was seen with a young Cheyenne maiden of some temper. He met his end in a hotel room she and the shotgun-man occupied.”

  The surgeon laughed and poured a tumbler of gin. “Lots of people end up on this table for that reason. I don’t know who did the killing or who had their pants down, but nobody used a gun. Now, what about his disposition?”

  Coughing from the odor, the funeral director piped in with a voice that was two cats fighting. “Should we select a coffin and make plans for an immediate service?”

  Chaney said, “That odorous bag was appropriate for my cousin. Put him back in and deposit him in the nearest well.”

  The surgeon said, “Up to you, but I always think people deserve a decent burial, even if they didn’t have a decent life.”

  Chaney was already at the door. “I’ll make sure to quote you.”

  * * *

  The tall man with the lean mustached face and dark suit was in a freight wagon, checking his watch and the ammunition stores stacked behind him, when the train pulled into the Lincoln County station. He didn’t get down from his seat, but waited for Farrow and Bishop to step from the single coach among the boxcars.

  Farrow blinked at the New Mexico sun and the heavy smell of the stock pens. They walked to the wagon, while behind them hundreds of head of cattle were loaded onto the train from a large corral. Manure dust and shed hair thickened the air.

  Farrow blew his nose. “Really stings.”

  Bishop said, “It’s the business of your boss.”

  “Yours, too. That blood on your coat, from last night? That’s your badge of honor.”

  Bishop adjusted the brim of his hat, catching the shadow. “There was no honor involved.”

  “Just survival. You and Lincoln County are going to fit together fine.”

  At the wagon, the man holding the reins said, “You Bishop? You’re with me.”

  Bishop looked to Farrow. “So, this is where I earn my freedom?”

  “Everything costs, Doc. I’ll take care of your traps.”

  Bishop climbed aboard the wagon, keeping the shotgun flush with his side. “You’re from the Chisum spread?”

  “I work for him like everybody else around here. Name’s Pat Garrett. Welcome to the war.” He snapped the reins, and the team quickly stepped around the drive that circled the train station before leading out across miles and miles of Chisum country.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Battlefield

  The range had no end. Grass-thick land washed beyond the horizon and then beyond that. Pat Garrett pointed out graves of sheep herders caught stealing water and reminded Bishop just how much influence great cattle barons like John Chisum had on the bright future of the new healed United States. “This was wild country, not safe for anybody. Mr. Chisum’s changed that. Need the water? Just ask. Some grazing time? Same thing. Follow the rules, Mr. Chisum’s law, you’ll have no problems.”

  Bishop said, “That’s a hell of a speech.”

  “And believe every word. I was a lawbreaker once. I came around.”

  “For money.”

  Garrett said, “Man decides about his future. That’s why you’re here, ain’t it?”

  Bishop adjusted the rig by his side, but couldn’t get comfortable.

  The wagon bucked as Garrett took it off the road and onto a trail leading to a small flat between grassy hills. Bishop heard gunfire echo as they got closer. Shots in scattered volleys were followed by cannon-like reports.

  Garrett said, “The enemy’s hid. We’re just trying to flush ’em out.” He brought the wagon over a small rise so Bishop could take it in. The enemy position was an old adobe with a collapsing thatched roof and small corral. A sleepover for cowboys moving herds. A dead man hung on one of the corral rails, two exit wounds in his back, his hands clenching a rifle, eyes filmy and open.

  The shooting had stopped for reloading. A thin layer of gun smoke lingered over the Chisum men who’d been killed in the last hour.

  Garrett angled the wagon behind a flurry of blooming Yellow Bells that offered cover. The distance to the hut was about sixty yards, with no-man’s-land in between.

  Bishop stood, looking for movement among the dead. “You got a lot a men out here?”

  Garrett said, “Maybe eight left. We know there’s two, probably more, in the cabin.”

  “Four for each.”

  “How many don’t count for much if they’re well-heeled.”

  A rifle barrel parted the shutters of one of the hut’s two windows, resting on the sill before letting loose. It was rapid fire, followed by more from another rifle right beside it. Never stopping. Chisum men were hit bloody and hard. Spun around by slugs, then hurled aside by their force, their bodies were torn to nothing.

  Eyes were punched by bullets when men raised up from behind logs and boulders, trying to return fire. Another shooter let loose from behind the adobe. Slugs ripped the brush, the cover, ricocheting off the rims of the wagon wheels. The horses bucked, kicking the wagon back.

  Garrett pulled Bishop to the ground, gave him a signal to wait. They grabbed the team’s harness, held them steady.

  Gun thunder from Chisum men in the tall grass powdered holes in the adobe, chewing windows and doors. The dead one by the corral was hit by strays, the impact lifting him off the fence and dropping him.

  The shutters slammed shut.

  Garrett kept low at the back of the wagon. “Better not of hit the horses. That’s a good team.” He threw open the gun and ammo boxes, looking to Bishop. “You’re in it now. Hadn’t you better load that thing?”

  Bishop’s voice flattened out. “I’m ready.”

  Rifles laid down fire as the Chisum men ran in from gullies and trees, bullets chasing them. One old boy rolled down a slope, came up, put two hopeful shots into the adobe, then tried for cover. “That’ll burn ’em!”

  A slug from the hut tore through half the old boy’s rib cage, a second pushed his voice out the back of his neck.

  Others made it to the Yellow Bells.

  Worn and bloody, they were all cowboys laying somewhere between sixteen and sixty. Sporting old-trail faces and busted knuckles, some were using guns for the first time in years. They grabbed water and ammunition, filling canteens, cartridge belts, and Winchester repeaters.

  Bishop handed a cup to one of the boys, a man in his thick-cut forties, lying on the ground, coughing blood.

  Thick Cut drank, then doused his face. “Feels cool.”

  Bishop said, “You best forget about this fight.”

  “That ain’t why Chisum’s payin’ me.”

  Another said, “He ain’t payin’ enough for this.”

  Garrett looked at the bunch. “Everybody in that cabin must be hit.”

  A cowboy spit. “Yeah? They’re still shootin’ us to pieces!”

  Maynard, whose nose had been creased by a bull’s hoof, broke through the brush, shouldering a wounded man. He carried a big-bore .76 in his free hand, dumped the unconscious cowboy by the wagon with the other.

  “Damn fool tried to go around the corral where that one sum’bitch is hid out. Took a pepper ball in the leg.”

  Garrett’s question was “What about the one who shot him?”

  Maynard said, “Back inside, waitin’ for me to blow his head off. And I’ll oblige him.”

  Random shots ripped from the adobe. Maynard returned fire without a target, letting loose. “Eat that, ya pecker-licking bastards.” He cracked off his rifle until it hammered empty. He dropped to one knee, still cussing.

  An old cowhand said, “You sure as hell got ’em runnin’ scared, Maynard.”

  Garrett said to Bishop, “Tell me if we’re gonna have to bury this one.”

  Thick Cut said, “You talkin’ about me, Garrett?”

  Bishop checked Thick Cut’s eyes, opening
his lids with his left thumb, then mopped the bullet wound with a handkerchief. “Who’s down there anyway?”

  The echo from the last volley was still rolling as Maynard grabbed some fresh shells, cocked them into his Winchester. “Goddamn fence-cutters—”

  “And all goddamn good shots,” the old cowhand interrupted.

  “Workin’ for them wormy bastards in the red hoods!” Maynard looked to Bishop. “And he wouldn’ta been shot, except Garrett had to fetch you!”

  “You got way too much mouth.”

  The voice was a woman’s and full of Missouri. She crouched next to Thick Cut, both hands tight above the bullet wound, squeezing. Small in her denims, with auburn hair framing a round, almost pale face. Freckles across her nose, and green eyes gave her color.

  Bishop said, “Good. Use all your strength,” before wrapping his belt around the cowboy’s leg in the exact spot where Rose had clamped it, slowing the bleeding from the blown-apart artery. She deftly switched hands from the leg to the end of the belt, pulling it tighter before looping it off.

  Garrett reloaded his pistol and said to Bishop, “Guess you’re the field medic, too.”

  The cowboy’s eyes rolled back and his breathing shallowed. More gunfire came from the adobe. Bishop instinctively shielded his patient. Maynard and Garrett cracked off rounds from behind the brush, swearing to send somebody to hell. Anybody. Every bullet from Maynard’s. 76 was a stick of dynamite, killing the adobe. Packed mud, hay, and wood, blasted.

  Two other Chisum men boiled the air with Winchesters, laying fire at targets they couldn’t make out.

  Everyone held up, waiting for screams. Something.

  Then, return blasts came from behind the shutters through a tear in the roof and pinned them down.

  Maynard spit. “Them cutters a damn army? We’re gettin’ it from everywhere!”

  Rose said, “I spied them first, and there’s three in that adobe! Only three!”

  “One’s dead, and we’re still outgunned!”

  Bishop said, “This man’s dead, too, if we don’t get him out of here.” He and Rose gathered Thick Cut’s legs, one of Chisum’s men got under his shoulders, and hefted him into the wagon bed.

  Chisum’s man said, “Sure hope he pulls through. I like his coffee.”

  Rose said, “I can get him out the back road.”

  Bishop elevated the torn leg with an ammo box, settling his body. Thick Cut’s head rested on a folded blanket, when a bullet hard-jerked him to one side. The slug tore through his right temple and blew out his left before splintering one of the wagon’s wooden slats.

  All guns turned.

  The Fire Rider was charging from a small hill, coming in from behind the Chisum position, firing a Spencer Springfield, taking another cowboy dead off his feet.

  Garrett steadied and shot twice at the Rider’s horse, ripping through its neck, crashing it forward.

  The horse screamed.

  Rifle flying, the Rider lurched from the saddle, tumbling with the animal, then hitting the ground face-first, almost killed. The horse lay heaving, legs chopping and body twisting, a red geyser from its throat misting everything around it.

  Rose stood by the wagon, took aim through the Yellow Bells, and fired her Colt .45 clean, giving the stallion peace.

  The Chisum guns were dead-on the Rider as he rolled onto his back, pulling at his hood to breathe.

  Garrett ordered, “Hold fire! We want him alive!”

  The Fire Rider managed to get to his feet.

  Garrett kept his gun trained, his voice low to Bishop. “If I have to shoot, think you can put him back together, at least so he can talk?”

  “Aim for his legs.” The barrels of Bishop’s rig unlocked with a move of his shoulders, but they stayed angled toward the ground as he called out, “I know you’re hurting, but try and come toward us!”

  Garrett yelled, “Hands up, fingers spread!”

  The Rider took a shaking step, then stumbled. He was more than fifty feet away from the Chisum guns, bloody and moaning into the grass.

  “Don’t go to him.”

  Bishop was halfway up. “He’ll not make it.”

  Garrett said, “Or he’s luring you out. I don’t need that.” He yelled to the Rider, “Show your face! Surrender, and we’ll come for you, this man’s a doctor!”

  Garrett’s words were cut by two shots pumped into the Rider’s chest, blowing out his back. Shots ripped the Yellow Bells and the wagon. Sniper fire. Garrett dove under the wagon, scanning the ridge, shooting at a glint he thought was a rifle barrel.

  A couple of Chisum men ran from the cover of the brush, firing wild at the adobe hut, before diving for an old water ditch. Slugs punched their throats, sending them tumbling then landing . . . dead.

  The shutters on the hut were wide open. The gunmen inside sprayed the area with rifle and pistol rounds. Maynard’s warrior cry was above the sound of the guns as he bull-charged the adobe, pumping shots from his Winchester .76. His war whoop and the rifle fire were constant.

  A bullet through his cheek spun Maynard off his feet. Another shot, blowing out his shoulder, dropped him.

  Garrett and Rose opened up with their rifles as Bishop ran to get where Maynard was lying. Darting from side to side, then coming low around the side of the corral, Bishop had the rig at waist level, the hammers back, and the trigger line slacking.

  Maynard’s face was slick with blood. Bishop turned him over. Still alive. Shots ripped. Bishop whirled, his duster flaring, the rig coming up, snapping into place. A slug blew through Maynard’s boot. He cried out. Bishop moved, tightening the trigger lines with his shoulders.

  Ducking, he got to the adobe, the shotgun shoulder-high, barrels extended, and locked. He pressed against the wall. A rifle flamed from the window right above his head.

  He sprang up, blasting the shutters apart, tearing the gunman in half.

  Bishop dropped, pressed tight against the wall again, then saw Garrett throw a signal. He waited a few heartbeats, then pulled the second trigger to almost firing, straining against the trigger.

  A second gunman jerked open the front door, leveling rifle and pistol. Bishop fired, blowing shot through his chest.

  Bishop snapped the breech, shucked the shells, brought two down from the bandolier. An automatic motion. He swung around as a Fire Rider charged from the other side of the corral.

  The Rider in red, a rifle slung across his back, leaped his horse over the rail fence, and drew a Peacemaker out of a holster. Bishop pulled both triggers, sending him flying out of his stirrups as if God’s fist had punched him.

  The Rider landed dead, his hood filling with blood like a water bag.

  Bishop fixed on the corpse for a moment, fragments of memory bombarding him—other riders in hoods and robes; men he’d killed with the rig; a slaughter along a stretch of railroad tracks; and a grenade exploding beneath him.

  For that instant, he felt the blast again.

  He looked away from the dead rider, the flashes vanishing as quickly as they’d come. Around him, the rolling echoes of the guns were fading, and the natural quiet of the place was replacing them.

  Victory or surrender, the silence after a battle was always the same. Bishop had heard it too many times, but there was something else.

  Chisum men began coming down from their positions behind rocks and gullies, limping, shouldering each other.

  Their voices, cries of the wounded, grew louder, striking Bishop’s ears. He snapped the gun to his side, the rig no longer a physical and mental extension of him, but something separate. Focus came back to his eyes as he knelt by Maynard, checking his pulse.

  Pat Garrett was standing beside him. “You’re quite a medic . . . with one hell of a gun. How about him?”

  “Steady. He’s made of tough stuff. Stupid, but tough.”

  “That one by the corral was sniping,” Garrett said. “That’s why we’re losing this thing. We got three of theirs, and we’re burying, what? Eight? Ten
?”

  “You’d know better than me. They’re scattered all over this battlefield.”

  “Battlefield.” Garrett made his point. “Now you’re seeing the light, Doc.”

  Bishop didn’t respond. He just stood, not acknowledging the smoke still drifting from the double-barreled weapon at his right as Rose brought up the wagon to load the dying and the dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Blood Ties

  The purple on the trimmed woodwork of the master’s suite had dripped into a twist of color that wriggled to the floor. Mayor O’Brien carefully wiped the paint, keeping away from the wallpaper he’d just smoothed.

  Sheriff Tucker reclined in the barber chair near the bed, adjusting his neck as Soiled Dove made the last, short strokes with the straight razor, lopping the stubborn hair under his chin. “I thought the whole point of that money was so you could put down the paintbrush and worry about runnin’ the town.”

  O’Brien said, “This is running the town, Tuck. Giving a new business every advantage.”

  Soiled Dove wiped the razor clean on a towel. “And we appreciate it.”

  Tucker smiled. “I know you do, darlin’.”

  O’Brien dabbed a bit of purple on the baseboard. “So where are the bodies?”

  Tuck said, “They were a few miles down the tracks. I just had ’em put in the old icehouse.”

  “Without ice.”

  “I know it’s busted down, but they both got family that’ll want ’em buried. Been kind of cool lately, so it’ll be a day or two before they go ripe. Got any of that rosewater, darlin’?”

  Dove took a small bottle of scent, sprinkled it on a warm towel, and wrapped Tuck’s face. He settled back, giving a quiet groan.

  O’Brien stood. “How do you explain what happened, Tuck?”

  Tucker shrugged, the warm towel hiding his expression. “Them two both got records. Hollis never was any good, and Breed just did three years for robbery, so it ain’t nobody’s surprise that they turned up shot.”

  With Tucker unaware, O’Brien moved to the barber chair, standing right beside it. “There’s quite a price on Doctor Bishop. We’ve got the chance to really set this town up, but we can’t have any muddy water, Tuck.”