Tucker smiled. “Let him out, and take ’em down.”
O’Brien whipped the towel off Tucker’s face and spun him around. Catching the chair with his foot, the mayor leaned into him. “Do you understand what I’m getting at?”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”
“Then say it.”
Tuck looked at Dove, whose face was a mask, then back to O’Brien. “None of this can come back on us.”
The mayor nodded, reached into the toolbox beside the paint cans on the floor, and took out a stack of hundreds wrapped in a paper band.
“That’s more of Farrow’s new money, ain’t it?”
“No, it’s yours. Twenty-five hundred.” He dropped the stack of bills onto Tucker’s lap.
The sheriff eyed the cash, but didn’t pick it up. “You’ve been real good about cuttin’ me in, and I appreciate all of it.”
Soiled Dove said, “It’s not a gift.”
Tuck toweled his face again. “I get it, I do, but I’ve never really pulled the trigger on no one. Not to kill ’em. I talk big, but Man of Peace was my campaign slogan when I ran for sheriff, remember?”
O’Brien said, “And this is about keeping our peace.”
* * *
Harvey was stretched out on the bunk in his cell at Paradise jail, his leg splinted with two pieces of thin pine, a lash of heavy rope keeping it straight. He took a long pull from a bottle of Don Sauza, letting it burn his mouth before swallowing. His complaints started as soon as he saw Tucker by the cell door. “You gonna kick me out again, Tuck?”
“You’re fine, you’re fine.”
“’Cause I’ll want paying.”
Tucker kept his eyes to the floor. “No, Harv. You did good.”
Harvey drank again. “Damn right I did.” He sniffed the air. “Aunt Petunia’s ass, where have you been? Don’t tell me. I know. Rosewater perfume! See, I can’t do them things now ’cause of this busted leg.”
“You want one of the girls to come down, see you? I’ll pay.”
“I don’t feel like doin’ nothing, and that’s your fault, too. I always play the fool, Tuck, but when you give me the high sign to get the whip, teach one of these birds a lesson, I’m on it.”
“You’ve been a real help, Harv. I haven’t always been a good brother-in-law. I know that. I think Esther’s real lucky to have you.”
Harvey regarded Tucker. “That mean you’re going to get me a real doc to fix my knee?”
“We’re going to take care of that.”
Harvey sat up, holding the makeshift contraption that was setting his leg. “Hell, if that one-armed son of a bitch hadn’t busted me up, I’d say get him!”
Tucker moved to Harvey, settled on the small stool next to his bed. “That’d be kind of a funny deal, since the doc busted you in the first place.”
“That’s what I said.”
“How bad are you hurting?”
Harvey got the last swallow, then smashed the bottle against the cell bars. “I need another, is what! Or something stronger. I been shot more than once, so I don’t know why this pains so bad.”
Tucker said, “I know it pains. I tried to make a deal with Bishop when he was suffering with the terrors, trying to give him a little relief.”
“Hell, that man’s crazy, and you let him out!”
“You know why.”
“Yeah, cash from that Farrow that I ain’t seein’ none of. I sent them two after him, and they come back dead, so I don’t get none of that bounty, neither.”
Tucker slipped the pistol from the belt loop near his back, keeping it down as he spoke. “I know it ain’t fair, Harv, but we’ll get this straightened out.”
Harvey said, “I’m tired of waitin’ for you to do right by me, Tuck. I’m tired of gettin’ beat down for ya, delivering your messages, and gettin’ into fights that you don’t want to mess with.” He lay back on the bed. “I got nothing because you give me nothing. When my leg heals, I’ll ride on. Let you tend your own patch.”
“What about money . . . and Esther?”
Harvey ran his fingers through his beard, had a little snort of a laugh. “Hell, she’ll be glad to see me gone. You’ve said it a thousand times. I figure you’re smart enough to dip into your cash, keep me satisfied, till I figure out the rest. Maybe find Bishop myself, collect that bounty.” Harvey grabbed his leg, rocking forward on the bunk. “Goddamn a mule, my leg’s burning.”
Tuck took the money stack from his shirt pocket and handed it to Harvey.
Harvey held the money with both hands, then looked at his brother-in-law.
Tuck said, “It ain’t like you don’t deserve it.”
“There was a time when I really did try to be a good husband.” Harvey’s hands stayed wrapped around the stack even after the bullet from Tucker’s gun took off the back of his head.
* * *
Colby’s jaw was still stinging from the rifle blow, but he didn’t let that distort the beauty of the Wyoming countryside stretched out before him. The grass was a lyrical wash of green and blue, one color giving way to the other as the tall blades bent with the breeze.
In the distance, a herd of buffalo grazed, some taking water at the edge of a small stream. Colby rode easy, having a deep drink of the day and his surroundings before saying to Fire riding next him, “We’re always thinking of money. Makes us forget the treasures right in front of us. The great creation.”
Fire scowled. “What the hell are you going on about?”
Colby angled a little closer, he and Fire only a foot or so apart, their animals snorting at each other. He slipped the Uberti 1875 from the snap-pocket inside his jacket.
His voice was clear, cheerful. “Take off your hood or I’ll put a bullet in your spine in an exact spot that won’t kill you, but will set you on fire. You’ll be begging me to put one in your brain. And then I won’t.”
Fire glanced over his shoulder at the other hooded riders coming up from behind. A couple exchanged words, hands on guns, and then one shouted, “Everything all right?”
Colby said, “They can’t help you. They’re not good enough.”
Fire called out, “Yah, it’s all fine.” His voice was an Eastern European bark, spitting out his words like they were plug nickels stuffing his mouth.
Colby said, “Well done.” He motioned to Fire’s head. “Hood.”
Fire pulled it off, revealing a shaved head.
He was older than Colby expected, and fatter, with a face that was a mush of huge, drunken leftovers—bulbous nose, veins mapping cheeks, and a thick neck. He didn’t speak. Just sucked his teeth, keeping everything to himself.
Colby said, “I can barely understand you when you wear that thing, and as we’re currently working for the same man, it’s right to finally know your face. Let them know, too.” He gestured with the pistol. “Do it.”
Fire turned and waved to the men in hoods riding behind them. They shrugged. Some returned it.
Colby said, “That’s good. Friendly.”
“You’re full of jack-sass.”
“And you’re not garbled anymore. They call you Hunk, correct? For Hunkie.”
“Name’s Bogdan.”
“Your father’s a coal miner. Your brothers, too.”
“You threw insults about my family’s honor, threatened them.”
Colby said, “During the last cattle raid, you were argumentative. I actually wanted to kill you. After striking me today, well, I just want to be very clear about where we stand.”
“You think I’m to take this?”
Colby went through the files in his mind. “You’ve had blight for two years and are about to lose your farm. Your wife, Frieda, where will she go? And your two boys? Want me to tell you their birthdays?”
Hunk said, “You don’t got to prove it.”
“It’s my business to know as much as I can about the people I work with. It can be a little confusing when everyone’s wearing a hood.”
Colby gave a friendly wave
to the Fire Riders while keeping the gun aimed at Hunk. None of them made a move. “The one on the speckled pony? With the little finger missing? Claims he lost it in a gunfight? His wife chopped it off when he forgot their anniversary.”
Hunk said, “Okay. So you know much. Then you know they’re not going to like it, me riding in like this.”
“The charade worked. The coach passengers think I was abducted, and we’re far enough along we can drop the pretense. You’re just no longer in charge.”
“Yah, I see the damn gun. Very fancy.”
“And it cost me. You understand why I can’t allow myself to be seen in a compromised position, led by you?”
“You don’t want the big bosses to think you’re sucking hind teat.”
“Very good.” Colby turned again in his saddle and called out to the Riders behind. “Gentlemen, do you mind if Hunk steps down, and I take charge?”
The response was mumbled through the red hoods covering their faces.
One Rider managed, “Long as money’s waitin’ when we get back!”
“Excellent!” Colby turned back around and said to Hunk, “You’re still scout, leading us in, but I’m in command. Don’t worry, you don’t have to salute.”
Hunk said nothing, his tall horse keeping pace along the grassy trail toward Rawlins. Colby rode alongside, holding the gun on him, enjoying the day, and whistling a beautiful tune.
CHAPTER NINE
Bleeding Soldiers
Seeing the dust from the wagons and men rising in the distance, Farrow brought two horses to the crossroads leading to the Chisum Ranch. Rose was driving the team, with Bishop in the back of the open wagon tending Maynard and several cowboys that had been rough-bandaged and were still blood-wet.
She angled through a steep turn, heeling the wagon and making the horses run close to the edge of the road. The wheels jumped. Farrow signaled for her to stop. She pulled up, the pair snorting, a dry fog of dust settling.
“What the hell, Farrow? We’ve got to get these men inside so Doctor Bishop can tend them!”
“Take ’em to town. Bishop’s wanted in the big house.”
Bishop said, “These men are . . . my patients.”
“An hour ago you didn’t know them. They work for Mr. Chisum. They’ll see his doctor in Lincoln. You’re needed elsewhere. Don’t make me insist.”
Bishop said to Rose, “Don’t waste any more time on this. Get going.” He dropped from the back.
Rose slit the air with the whip, ripping the team off at top speed.
Farrow presented the reins to Bishop’s bay. “He made the trip in fine shape.”
Bishop mounted up as a convoy of Chisum men approached, Garrett leading them. Some were walking-wounded and others rode, leading horses soaked in foamy sweat, dead men tethered to them. A bottle of milky tequila was passed among bloody hands.
Garrett slowed to Farrow. “Here to offer comfort, Farrow? They’re all on the payroll. They deserve something.”
“The worst-off are on their way to Lincoln.”
Bishop said, “The worst are head down on those saddles.”
“The men have chuck waiting for them by the bunkhouse.”
“You’re a hell of an errand boy.”
Farrow looked to Garrett. “I do my job, which includes extending Mr. Chisum’s hospitality to you for dinner. Doctor Bishop’s accepted. Should I tell the boss of this ranch you have other plans?”
Garrett was taken aback. “No, I’m obliged. Let me make sure this bunch is taken care of.”
Bishop said. “I can help.”
Farrow said, “Mr. Chisum wants you now, Doctor. Garrett’s perfectly capable. He’ll join us later.”
Garrett said, “It’s all right, Doc. You earned a good meal.”
Bishop looked back toward the men. “There’s a lot of dead and injured.” He brought the shotgun across his lap. “Mr. Chisum and I are going to have some real words over this . . . dinner.”
Farrow said, “Fine with me. I eat in the kitchen.”
* * *
The washbasin was a new model with a built-in pump and porcelain catch-bowl. Bishop leaned against it, pulling his shirt off over the shotgun rig.
Claude Ray knocked, then opened the water closet door just as Bishop freed his sleeve. Balancing himself on one leg and a willow peg, he held a clean shirt in one hand and a shot of Suits Kentucky Bourbon in the other. He was just over the hump of twenty, and didn’t look like he shaved his blond fuzz more than once a month. “Mr. Chisum’s compliments.”
Bishop took the drink. “Unhook me in back? That buckle?”
Claude Ray loosened the straps as Bishop pulled the double barrels away from his half-arm, the skin around the elbow joint raw and bloody from the shotgun’s kick.
“If you don’t mind my saying, that’s quite a contraption.”
“It has its uses.” Bishop rinsed the raw joint, then dabbed the arm with a towel while noting Claude Ray’s leg. “Right above the knee. How’d you lose it?”
Claude Ray opened the rig’s side breech and examined the back straps. “Dustup down by the Pecos, but Mr. Chisum didn’t toss me out after they cut me down. Let me rest up here and paid for the surgery.”
Bishop reached for the clean shirt. “Your boss sounds like a hell of a man.”
Claude Ray put the rig beside the washbasin. “That’s his starched button-down you’re putting on, and that was his whiskey.”
* * *
John Simpson Chisum stood formally by the tall-backed chair made from dark wood, one hand in his pocket, nodding as Bishop entered the large dining room with the domed ceiling.
Bishop paused to take in the man he’d heard so much about—surprisingly slight of build, a thin face, set jaw, and weary eyes. Bishop knew the look. Wars won, battles lost. Years had left deep marks on the cattle baron who sported precisely cut clothes, a mustache, and iron behind his eyes.
Chisum welcomed his guest, the Tennessee in his voice intact. “Doctor Bishop, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re joining me in more ways than one.”
Bishop, in Chisum’s collared shirt with the empty right sleeve pinned back, held the shotgun rig in his left. “Mr. Chisum, there were a few minutes today when I thought I’d never be sitting down for a meal again.”
“I offer congratulations on your victory. Also, apologies.”
“Taking down those men isn’t what I expected my first afternoon.”
“Why don’t you lay your weapon over there?” Chisum gestured to a dry sink against the farthest wall. A beautiful piece, it was in keeping with the rest of the room and the perfect place to display an array of imported liquors, custom cigars, and other vanities of a Big Auger.
Bishop was caught by the large oil painting immediately above the sink deft in its detail of the Tennessee Twin Rivers campaign. The surviving soldiers wore red-soaked rags, their uniforms unrecognizable, standing among a litter of dead comrades from both armies. An engraved plate on the gold-leaf frame identified the battle.
Chisum said, “The artist captured the horrors, didn’t he?”
Bishop’s stare was fixed on the dead. “From what I recall, and what I saw today. Thanks to you.”
“This isn’t how I wanted us to start. Again, your specialty gun can rest right there.”
Bishop put down the rig. “Were you at Twin Rivers?”
“I wasn’t, but I’m Tennessee-born. Lost family and friends. I was making sure our boys had plenty to eat and praying the conflict would end.”
“I’m sure you did all right.”
Chisum’s correction was measured. “Trading Confederate scrip for cattle, trying to get rid of that money before the surrender? I would’ve done better to feed the cash to the herd.”
“That bad?”
“End of the war, family gone, debts I couldn’t pay and no way to settle. No animals and no kin. Dead broke like everybody else and their grandpa.”
“Everybody else doesn’t own half of New
Mexico.”
“We both know that’s not true. I got new beef contracts only when the army was whole again. Lots of struggle till then, trying to build something.” Chisum nodded toward another art piece. “The painting near the window? Now, that’s a fine piece of work.”
Bishop moved to the beautiful depiction of branding time during a New Mexican winter, all shaded blues and white.
“Even got the jingle-bob of the ears. Every piece around this room is like a different part of my life, from the war till now,” Chisum said, looking over to Pat Garrett standing in the entranceway, waiting to be formally brought to the table.
Garrett had brushed his suit, kept his hat in his hands. “It’s a real tribute to Mr. Chisum.”
“Call them records of what we’ve accomplished so far. All are the work of American artists. I don’t need a European to show me my own country. Patrick, please sit at the place next to me.”
Bishop said, “There’s a lot of room on these walls.”
Garrett took his seat as two maids and Claude Ray set out calabacitas, beans, and fruit.
“Room for what happens next, Doctor. I’m hoping you’ll be there to see it. Please sit.”
Bishop’s place was on the other side of Chisum, opposite Garrett. The maids, all high cheekbones and beautifully proud, poured wine. The younger topped Bishop’s glass, casting a glance with fierce eyes. He met them.
There was a lightning strike of White Fox . . . battling her enemies.
Chisum’s voice pierced Bishop’s memory. “That skirmish wasn’t the best way to be introduced to life here in Lincoln.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Chisum, but . . . bullcrap. You got me to see your war up close, believing I’d throw in with you if I survived.”
Garrett drank his wine, silently proud that Bishop was using his words. Claude Ray set out the rack of roasted pork.
Chisum started carving. “You’ve got the wrong idea of me, Doctor. I’m not that calculating. I don’t play with anyone’s life. My men or yours.”
Bishop said, “That’s good to know. And I survived.”
“We want to find a way to stop these raids, get back to business. No more blood. I’ve been in this fight before.”
Bushwhacked Page 33
