Claude Ray limped back to the kitchen, balancing on his one leg, almost losing the dish, and then catching it.
Garrett said, “He got pecosed.”
“I don’t appreciate that, Patrick,” Chisum said, then offered corunda to Bishop. “The frontline of the last cattle war was the Pecos River. That’s where Claude Ray got ambushed. Anybody got shot, the boys called it ‘getting pecosed.’ If you’d been with us, maybe he’d still have his leg.”
“Mr. Chisum, these last forty-eight hours have been all kinds of hell. You paid a lot for me to be at this table. It’s time to speak plainly.”
Chisum regarded Bishop. “I’m losing men and stock every week, and frankly, I can’t afford either. We’re down to bones and scraps, and the damnable Fire Riders are the reason.”
Bishop said, “Your scraps are enviable.”
Chisum was settled against his high-back chair. “I intend to hold on to what I’ve got left. The Fire Riders aren’t taking any more from me.”
Bishop said, “Farrow claimed we shared a common enemy.”
“You disagree?”
Bishop chose his words. “I have . . . suffered . . . at their hands.”
“And did real damage back. I know about your injuries, even the ones we can’t see. How much of your battle in Paradise do you remember?”
“Not as much as you’d like.”
Chisum took a drink. “I have a plan, and I want you to be a part of it. That’s very important to me. Patrick, you’re going to be leading this.”
Bishop said, “My own wars haven’t gone as well as yours.”
Garrett said, “You’re a sure man with that double barrel, and you saved some lives today.”
“I had help from a young lady who earned more than her share of your gratitude. All the men did. They bled for it.”
Chisum said. “My men are treated well.”
“The ones that live?”
Garrett said, “All of ’em. And Rose is taken care of. No worries.”
Chisum said, “Doctor, you’re making your points, but I need your medical expertise and that special rig. You’re a hell of a combination.”
Bishop regarded Chisum. “You said I might have a choice.”
“I already gave it to you, and you chose dinner instead of a noose. Good, sound thinking.”
Garrett snorted a laugh as Chisum continued. “You’re here, and I’m offering the opportunity to finish what you started. You won’t be going it alone.”
Bishop said, “I’d have your private army backing me?”
“Just my men. Think of them any way you want. I want the Fire Riders, so do you. Why not throw in? Help win this war against the red hoods, wipe out the scourge. You’ll be riding out rich and with peace of mind. What’s all that worth to you?”
“I have a lot of blood on me. So do you.”
Chisum didn’t push back. “When the time comes, I’ll have to settle with my Maker. I know that. As for your death sentence, the good people of Paradise are a forgiving lot. You’re no killer to them now. You’re an infamous character who spent time in their jail.”
Garrett said, “Stroll back into that town, they’d buy you drinks all night.”
Chisum said, “You can win us this fight, Doctor Bishop.”
“I’m just one man, Mr. Chisum, and not a whole one, but what’s left isn’t for sale.”
Chisum said, “You haven’t taken any money from me. In fact, you’re the only one who hasn’t.”
“My soul’s intact, even if the rest of me isn’t—”
“A man who underestimates himself makes a terrible mistake. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the most important person for a thousand miles.”
“Because we want death for the same people?”
Chisum said, “Let’s say we both have unfinished business. Partnerships have started on a lot less.”
“No.” Bishop looked toward the shotgun rig just feet away, the barrels pointed at him. “I told Farrow I wasn’t a hired gun.”
John Chisum said, “Not a hired gun. An ally.”
* * *
The little blond girl pushed the feet of the hanging corpse, giggling as it swayed. It had been on the turret for days, birds pecking at the head and hands, pulling his shirt, pants, and flesh to pieces. His shoes were gone, and his feet were coal-black from the blood gathered in his soles, the toes curled back into nothing.
The girl’s hair was stiff as old wheat, and she maneuvered it away from her eyes, snorting through a pug nose that took up too much of her face. She said to the dead man, “See, this is what happens when you don’t play by the rules,” then gave the body another push.
The rope holding it groaned, and the knot slipped, dropping it a foot. She jumped back just as she heard her father’s voice.
Albert Tomlinson, a bookkeeping ledger in one hand and a small lantern in the other, called out to his daughter. “May Flowers! Leave that dead one alone, and send these boys out with a song!”
May Flowers defiantly nudged the body one more time before singing. Her angelic voice carried delicately across the open yard where riders in red were mounting up. Two of them checked the repeaters in their saddle slings, shouldered them, and listened.
“Yes, we’ll gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river; gather with the saints at the river, that flows by the throne of God.”
A rider with few teeth pulled his hood down, adjusting its fit, before grabbing a torch from an oil barrel and lighting it. He fell in with the two who’d checked their rifles, and they looked back at the perfect voice with the bulbous eyes and snout nose.
She was still singing: “On the margin of the river, washing up its silver spray; We will talk and worship ever, all the happy golden day.”
The three rode out the gates, the smoking yellow torch cutting the midnight dark.
“Gather with the saints at the river, that flows by the throne of God.”
Albert moved behind his daughter, easing her away from the dead man hanging, letting May Flowers’s voice follow the riders as the torch became a lightning bug, dancing for a moment, then gone.
* * *
Colby’s horse stayed true, following the slight curve of the trail. It was a forgotten stretch across the Wyoming flat, and he envied the animal’s night vision, keeping around gopher holes, and just enough ahead of the riders behind them, so he could have a good shot at each.
Just in case, he figured the order, as he always did to stay sharp. He didn’t have to turn around to know who was where. He could feel it. Hunk was out front, with the others following two across. They all had their hands casual on their guns, and one had a bowie knife in his belt for show.
Hunk came up alongside Colby. “You ain’t losing me.”
“Just getting the lay of the land. You’d say so if I was riding in the wrong direction, correct?”
Hunk kept his head down. “Got nothing to say about nothing.”
Colby saw the ball of fire in the distance, moving toward them at a full gallop. “Gentlemen, hold up.”
The men heeled, standing in their saddles to see the three Fire Riders charging out of the dark, becoming more distinct. They moved from blurs of motion, to shapes of red, to men in hoods and flowing tunics. The one holding the torch rode point, those with the repeating rifles flanking him. They came up too fast, heeling their horses to one side, avoiding collision.
The Rider with few teeth and the torch barked, “Where the Sam Hill is his blindfold?”
Hunk looked up, but Colby answered. “There’s been a change in command, so no blindfold needed.”
Torch nodded to the rifles on either side. “There’s a right way to bring a man in, and this ain’t it.”
The Uberti pistol was in Colby’s hand, leveled between the eyes of Torch’s red hood. “Before you try anything, understand I’ll put two in those with the rifles before your gun’s raised. Your horse is skittish, so he’ll bolt, and then I’ll put one between your shoulders before
finishing with the headshot. I thought you should know the sequence of events,”
Torch said, “Snap my fingers, and these rifles—”
“You’ll have a bullet through your eye before your thumb hits your forefinger. We take money from the same man. That doesn’t put us at the same skill level.”
“You’re all the chin music, ain’t ya?”
Colby said, “Think of this. Bring me in as a corpse, you’ll have a great deal to answer for. I do the same for you, I don’t think I’ll have too big a problem. Now, how do you want to proceed?”
Torch’s horse pawed at the ground as he knuckled the reins, looking at the men behind Colby to see their move. Nothing.
Colby said, “They just want to get paid. The fact is, Hunk knows the way in, so we don’t need an escort. Just your light.”
Torch back-stepped his horse. “I know how to follow orders!”
“Good. You can say I used guile to trick Hunk. And you.”
“Guile? What the hell’s that?”
Colby said, “You’ll all be properly educated, I promise.”
Torch angled his pinto around, quick-spurring it into a run. The flame was kept high, orange sparks spitting, leaving a trail behind. Colby and his band followed. Those with the rifles broke to either side.
Colby nodded to each. “Don’t worry, Hunk. If anyone’s reprimanded, it’ll be me. You won’t lose your status.”
Hunk finally raised his head. “Think I don’t know, but I do. Think you’re too smart, but you’re not. Te voi ucide—o zi.”
“Nu ai nici un secret.”
Hunk nodded, appreciating that Colby had spoken to him in his own language, assuring him they had no secrets between them. Colby sped his horse slightly ahead, and began to whistle.
* * *
The porch was wide, running the length of Chisum’s house. He stood at the freshly painted railing, drawing on a briar pipe, keeping watch on John Bishop and Pat Garrett walking to a bunkhouse. Bishop carried his shotgun rig, and Garrett an unopened bottle of Chisum’s best bourbon. Garrett had a hand on Bishop’s shoulder, exchanging low tones.
Farrow stood with Chisum without a sound or a glance, eyeing the conversation neither of them could hear. “Garrett sealing the deal?”
“I doubt anything Patrick or I say has much impact on Dr. Bishop. He’s a man of his own mind.”
“Yeah, what he remembers.”
“He’s always to be treated with respect.”
“I’ve spent my time with him.” Farrow took a glass from a small table, checked it for spots before pouring water from a flowered pitcher. “He’s the key to these raids. If he rides out and gets captured or killed, your men won’t be responsible.”
“You mean my hands will be clean?” Chisum checked the pipe bowl, tamped the tobacco. “Never happen. Not now, not anymore. Good or ill, my brand’s on everything.”
“Do you want me to take the next step or not? Your choice.”
Chisum relit the pipe. “Damn right it is.”
“There was a strategy. That’s what I’ve been following. You want to change up?”
“Meeting Dr. Bishop has given me pause, that’s all. It’s called having a conscience.”
Farrow wetted his throat before saying, “Mr. Chisum, you want to head off defeat, offer your enemy something they’ll never get otherwise. Don’t you? You’re risking everything you’ve got.”
“Speaking to me like I’m a fool is a serious mistake.” Chisum watched the smoke rise and vanish as the night settled on the miles he owned. A zone-tailed hawk screamed, its voice carrying over the flats. “That’s a victory cry; he’s got his prey.”
Farrow said, “I’ve done my job, said my piece, earned my pay.”
“No, you haven’t.”
* * *
The towers of the prison were falling-down silhouettes to Colby; ruined, sloping giants against a night sky. Torch signaled approach, someone inside the prison responded, firing a shot.
The front gates parted.
Colby’s horse threw back its head, sidestepping as a gunman with a shaved head sprung from a hidey-hole by the stallion’s legs, like a striking rattler. Colby brought the chestnut around, holding it tight. The animal bit at the air, but didn’t buck. Didn’t panic.
Shaved Head threw aside the Shoshone blanket that had hidden him under the sand and climbed on behind the last Fire Rider passing, the rifle anchored on his hip.
Colby said to him, “Welcome aboard.”
The prison gates were fully opened. Heavy canvas, painted to look like stone, hung over one door, trapping the light of the cook fires and oil lamps inside.
Torch charged through, followed by the convoy of Colby, Hunk, and the rest. Shaved Head dropped off the back of the horse, helped close the gates, and threw the huge bolt.
Colby took his horse to the middle of the old prison yard. The others went to a stable hidden behind another canvas painted like ruins from a fire. Just to the side of the camouflage were a short-barreled Bulldog Gatling gun, tripod, and ammo.
Colby slipped the Uberti back into his jacket, taking in the place and its mask. The surrounding walls were ten men high, laced with a mile of rusty-tooth barbed wire. Sections of the wall had been blown apart by massive explosions, leaving twisted iron supports and mounds of shattered concrete behind.
The ruptures were filled with crates of bullet brass and slab lead, the rubble hiding a new forge for making ammunition. A bullet maker was working, pumping air for the furnace, melting lead, and pouring ten slugs at a time into molds.
He gave Colby a toothless grin. “Aye, a friendly cuss. Can’t shoot worth a grandma’s turd, but loves making bullets.” Reg Smythe extended a giant hand in greeting. “Mr. Colby, I presume.”
“You presume correctly.” Colby noted everything about Smythe seemed overgrown—thick red hair, thick English tongue, gin-blossomed face on a head cut from granite.
Smythe said, “You’re the one what changed up the rules on us. I was Sergeant Smythe, now just Reg.” Smythe’s squeeze numbed Colby’s fingers before he got his hand back, worked the blood back into it.
Colby asked, “So, Bogdan made his report?”
“That damn name’s too hard to spit! He don’t work that fast. Besides, he can’t write. Hunkie told me you took over. Not a problem here, mate.”
Colby said, “I won’t abide second-rate treatment.”
A stable hand took Colby’s horse and walked it to a newly built structure with a tented exercise paddock on one side of the yard.
Colby said, “Quite a place.”
Smythe looked up. “Been here more than twenty-five years . . . as a sergeant of the guard, not behind the bars.”
Colby judged the man to be well over six feet tall, but he was almost doubled over, his legs dangling useless as he leaned on two heavy crutches. Dead weight.
“And not always a cripple.”
“Where did you take the bullet?”
Smythe balanced himself on the crutches topped with stuffed leather. He moved forward with his arms and then pulled himself to them, like a dog dragging broken legs. Colby stayed alongside.
“Run-in with an old prisoner. Now, he’s not walking the earth, and I am. Almost. But I never question the Lord’s providence. Build an empire, you pay the price. Am I right Mr. Colby?”
“Indeed, Mr. Smythe.” Colby noted an area bordered off as a target range, men challenging each other with long-staffs. They were crude skull crushers, but learning. More canvas, shredded into strips with brush and branches sewn on, hung from wire stretched between posts, hiding the training from the outside. “Breeden’s Rangers?”
Smythe drew his crutches up, smiled. “You’re good. The only unit to make proper use of camouflage in the conflicts, but that’s not my thinking. I sold Dev Bishop an old trick of Blackbeard’s—take a shipwreck, outfit it with the newest guns and men ready for attack. Lying on its side, no one suspects nothing . . . until it’s too late.”
“How long have you wanted to try that?”
“Since I was a lad about ten when me dad told me the tale.”
“I thought I heard the sea coast in your voice. This prison’s quite the shipwreck.”
Smythe’s laugh was burned into the back of his throat. “Biggest ever. Everything’s got to be protected. These men are going to be a true army. Not yet, but soon.”
Cases of cavalry rifles were stacked open, gun sections wrapped and tied. A couple Fire Riders assembled the weapons, set them on wooden racks next to the firing range. Perfect assembly line.
Colby said, “Ah, the new carbines. Devlin took my suggestion.”
“Lifting them from a troop train was hell’s own job, but your thoughts do not fall on deaf ears, here, boy-o. Now, if we can learn that idjit to make the ammunition for ’em, we’d be rolling in clover.” Smythe took himself a few feet closer to the entrance of the cells. Like the rest, the stone building was smoke-scarred, with shattered windows and a hole in the roof. But it was all paint and lumber fooling the eye.
He made a sweeping motion with a crutch. “More than a hundred stationed here, most taking the old cells, but they want for nothing. We’ve got med wagons, good horses, good food, decent whiskey. Better than anything else they’ve known.”
Colby saw the crazy quilt of Riders’ faces.
Smythe said, “Ex-slaves, coolies from the railroads, Swedes from the mining camps, Dagos and Jews run out of the waterfronts.”
“Different without their hoods, yes?”
“Nope, the same. They all thought they were going to get a chance out West, and got cheated out of it. That’s how Dev rounded them up.” Smythe’s grin broke his face in half. “We’ve got the men spoiling for a fight, an arsenal of over five hundred weapons, including a Gatling, mines, and grenades. That’s something to brag on.”
“All perfectly camouflaged. From the outside, just a place for coyotes to hump.” Colby said, “You could take an entire town.”
“Or a bloody state. Dev Bishop’ll lay it out for you.”
Colby nodded toward the hanging corpse.
Smythe said, “A renegade who didn’t share our vision. He’s past ripe and should probably come down, but still a good reminder.”
Bushwhacked Page 34
