Colby said, “What about him? Indispensable, too?” He nodded toward Hunk, who was taking a glass of store-bought rye at a mess table, watching a couple kids wash the white skeleton paint from the horses, scrubbing them down.
Smythe looked to him, then back to Colby and shrugged. “He turned in his cash like he was supposed to, and you’re here. Does his job okay.”
“But not with a standard of excellence.”
Colby slipped a blade from his blanket of weapons, fitting it in his palm perfectly as he moved across the yard. He brought it down fast, slicing Hunk’s ear cleanly from his head.
The ear dropped to the ground, and Hunk followed it, screaming. “Fiul daca o catea!”
Colby walked easily back to Smythe, wiping the blade clean, folding the ear into his monogrammed handkerchief.
Smythe said, “Now, that’s a Cheshire grin,” then barked, “Get him taken care of!”
Colby said, “He struck me, which was a mistake, but he can still hear to take orders. I was precise.”
Fire Riders pulled Hunk away, dragging him to the med tent in the corner of the yard. Hunk tossed them aside like rats in the well bucket, but more tackled him. Brought him down. One Rider calmed him with two whacks of an axe handle. The doc had a drink then started sewing him up.
Smythe slapped Colby on the back. “Right. You’ve had your treat for the evening.”
“My head’s clearer. When do I see your Mr. Bishop, the one with both his arms?”
Smythe spit a laugh, dragged to the cells. “Tomorrow. We’re waiting for a word from a man inside.”
Hunk’s voice was blasting from the med tent, “Am de gând s te omoare, banditule!”
Colby said, “Never been called a bastard in Romanian before. I was afraid my language skills were getting rusty, but Hunk’s given me some good practice.”
“Get some sleep, mate.”
“Oh, like a baby.”
The room was at the end of a narrow passage that laced the top tier of the prison’s main structure. Colby followed it to the last door, marked FILE ROOM, and went in, shouldering his Navajo-wrapped arsenal.
He put the arsenal at the foot of the small bed that still had some spring and didn’t seem ticky. Wooden cabinets, labeled PRISONER DEATHS, and ATTEMPTED ESCAPES had been pushed to the walls, making room for a small table with a pitcher, bowl, and towel.
Colby daubed the last few hours out of his eyes with the moist towel, before opening the file folder that had been left resting on his pillow. The first page was a wedding photo of John and Amaryllis Bishop, each one smiling wider than the other. The sepia had begun to turn and was spotting the image with brown, like dried blood sprayed across the bride’s dress.
Colby daubed his eyes again, thinking aloud. “The good doctor with two arms.”
* * *
Rose loosened the wrappings over Maynard’s wounds, the blood on the sterilized cotton having dried in a starry pattern and stuck to the gauze bandage around it. Bishop moved the cotton several inches, centering it on the wounds. “Keep the pressure on the bleeding point, there.”
Maynard looked up at Bishop, sniffed agreement. “I’ve had it worse. Think they hit slugs that were already inside me.” He let his eyes drift before snoring.
Chisum’s other men lay stretched out on their bunks, bandages around arms and chests. Legs elevated, a head completely wrapped. The ones who were awake got a few shots as Garrett went from bed to bed, pouring Chisum’s bourbon.
Rose said, “This feel like an infirmary to you, Doc?”
Bishop straightened. “One of the better ones. Chisum’s doctor did a good job.”
“He said the same thing about you.”
“Make sure they tend to their dressings, but that’s good stitching. He layered the wounds.” He said to the room, “You’re all going to heal up just fine.” He looked back at Rose. “And you’re a good nurse.”
Still in her denims and bloodstained shirt, she bobbed her thanks, then laughed. “I didn’t have much choice.”
Garrett said, “What about your supper?”
One of Chisum’s older men grabbed coffee from the stove, poured her a cup. “She ain’t had time to eat, been too busy helpin’ us! Garrett, you sit at the big table now, tell me how many we’re gonna bury before this mess is done. I served the Union, came on to Chisum’s to cow-punch, that’s it.”
“Hell if I know,” Garrett passed the cup to Rose. “That’s why Doctor Bishop’s with us. Help with the peace.”
The old fellow said, “Can’t come too soon for me. I don’t like getting shot.”
Bishop moved to the bed where the shotgun rig, a blanket, and some necessaries had been put. “Still not sure what I’m supposed to do.”
“That don’t sound like much of a promise.”
Garrett said, “He’s with us.”
Bishop held back his answer for a beat.
Rose stepped in, “Let the man get some rest. Hell, we could all use it.”
The old fella said, “I just need me some more Chisum bourbon.”
Rose smiled. “That, too.”
Bishop started for the back door, all eyes on him. Garrett almost made a move, but poured shots instead, holding the bottle to the light before tipping it, a holdover from his bartending days. He saved the heel of the bottle for himself and drank, watching Rose follow Bishop into the dark, dutifully carrying his medical bag.
* * *
“Hurricane’s Mr. Chisum’s top horse.” Linus brought the chestnut out from the end stall. She was more than twelve hands high, with perfect ears and a white diamond between her eyes.
Farrow pointed to a scrolled saddle hanging in the tack room.
Linus tied Hurricane. “He never said nothing about his best horse or one of his best saddles.”
Farrow crowned his felt hat with the side of his hand. “I’m on a special mission for Mr. Chisum. It’ll be just fine.”
Linus laid a clean blanket across Hurricane’s back. “It ain’t that I don’t trust what you’re saying, Mr. Farrow, but lots of smiths tried for this job.”
Farrow slid fifty neatly folded dollars into the pocket of Linus’s leather apron. “I’ve got a ways to go tonight.”
Linus smiled. “And you’re just now out of the barn.”
Farrow took out a silver money clip straining with bills and held it out.
Linus glanced. “You can travel without cash?”
“There’s something waiting for me on the other end.” Farrow’s hand didn’t move.
Linus secured the saddle straps on Hurricane and grabbed the clip without another word.
* * *
Bishop found a place beyond the light-throw from the bunkhouses, and laid out his blanket. He set the shotgun rig in some grass and settled.
Rose put the med bag next to him. “They think you’re heading for the barn. Don’t get up.” She sat, tucking her knees against her chest. “Just so you know, if you did take off, I wouldn’t blame you.”
“That doesn’t go for the others. Especially Garrett.”
“He’s working his way up. Mr. Chisum found him. He was a stick man behind a bar. Now he’s eating at the big table, with you. You didn’t work your way up around here. You didn’t have to.”
Bishop said, “Chisum bought me out of a jail cell.”
“We know all about it. You’re all they could talk about for the last week.”
“You know why?”
Rose looked at him. “Because you’re the shotgun man. The avenger. You’re in the papers. They think that’ll scare off folks who want to raid our cattle.”
“I’d never think of myself that way, and Chisum knows it.”
“Mr. Chisum has a way of turning things in his direction.”
“That what happened with you?”
Rose picked up a piece of grass, chewed before voicing her thoughts. “I’ve been around since the Pecos. Things happen, you stick to what you’re good at. I know horses and cattle, and can shoot a
ll right.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re caught up in someone else’s land war.”
“Actually, it does.” Rose watched Bishop untangle the straps of the rig, lay them straight on the blanket, then said, “Today gives us some history, so I’m going to be a little forward.”
Bishop folded his sleeve around his half-arm. “I think I was, a little, so be my guest.”
“I know something’s going to bring you into this fight all the way. I ain’t sure what it is, but you’ve got skin in this game.”
“That might not be the right way to put it.”
Rose laughed. “All right. See, you wouldn’t guess from the way I present myself, but my woman’s intuition is pretty good.”
“You present yourself just fine.”
Rose whistled through the blade of grass then tossed it. “Really? Don’t want to bunk inside? That wind over the flats can bite.”
“I’ve had a lot of inside lately. This’ll suit me.”
Rose stood, dusting her britches. “You know what’s best for you.”
Bishop stood too, offering his hand. They turned as the man in the tall hat rode full-out for the main gate. They watched Farrow and Hurricane for a few moments, fast-moving shapes outlined by moonlight, then Rose walked toward the collection of barns and service houses. Bishop lay back on the blanket, finally getting some peace behind his eyes.
CHAPTER TEN
Plans for Dying
The skull shattered with John Bishop’s hard landing, teeth erupting from its jaw, falling back on him like rain as he hit the bottom of the pit. He rolled to one side, feeling the mountain of bone and shreds of hardened flesh powder under his weight, shifting like a sinkhole of sand, giving way. Swallowing.
His wife and son were beside him on the pile, just brittle remains—tufts of hair, eyeless sockets, faces locked in silent screams.
He heard the sound of pistols cocking, and instinctively tried to protect his family, cradling them as bullets ripped him from above. Slugs tore his back and neck, a geyser of blood spraying Amaryllis’s dried skin.
He brought the shotgun rig, slick with his own blood, up from his side and fired both barrels at the figure dressed in a flame-crimson robe. Looking down at him from the edge of the pit, he held a smoking gun in each hand. The shotgun blasts hit the figure in the chest, but didn’t kill. Somehow, he stood. Strong. Ignoring the massive wound, taking a step closer to the edge.
Letting Bishop see his face.
See himself . . . John Bishop . . . dressed as a Fire Rider.
He curtained his eyes with his palm, denying what he’d just seen, and sat up. Taking two shells from the bandolier, he slid them into the rig as his stronger self stood above him. With two good arms and two good hands, the image looked down into the death pit, defying one-armed Dr. Bishop to do something.
A blast from the shotgun was meaningless.
Bishop wrist-snapped the rig closed and lurched forward, trying to aim over the piles of bones to blow away the man with his face.
Just destroy the face.
Bishop’s mirror image steadied his pistols and said, “You’re where you should be, Johnny. Dead. With your family. Actually, you’re obliged to me.”
Bishop made the move to pull both triggers.
The barrel flames and the roar of the pistols came first, slug-punching Bishop backwards, deeper into the pit, more bullets hitting him as he fell.
Falling, he managed to pull the triggers, firing into the darkness. Into nothing.
Still falling.
* * *
“They killed ’em all!”
The voice barely made it through. Vibrations from the gravel wagon kicked Bishop in the head, waking him, bolting him to his feet. He cleared his eyes of the dream as the driver ran the horse team hard toward the gravel turnaround in front of Chisum’s house.
He yelled again. The alarm bell rang.
Men and riders broke from the bunkhouses, pulling on jackets and boots, shouting to each other to meet the wagon. A few had torches, streaking the sky before the sun broke.
Bishop called out, “Garrett!”
Pat Garrett slowed his horse and tossed him a canteen. “Get the sleep out of your throat. Chisum will want you to see this.”
“What’s going on?”
Garrett threw away the word: “Massacre.”
Rose ran from the small hut behind the barn, Claude Ray limping beside her, trying to hold her back. He grabbed for her arms, a piece of her blouse. She twisted off, leaping onto the back of the wagon as it jack-tailed to a stop.
Garrett and Bishop rode up just as Rose yanked back the canvas covering the bodies, twisted on top of each other. She pushed an old man’s corpse aside to find what was left of the towheaded kid who knew how to ride and rope.
Bishop was down from Garrett’s horse when Rose screamed.
It came from someplace deep inside as she tumbled to the ground, spitting up air and coffee. She jumped on the first empty horse she could grab and broke it into a run toward the hills.
John Chisum stepped onto the porch, buttoning his shirt as the other men crowded about the heap of bodies in the wagon. Above it all, the younger maid watched from Chisum’s bedroom window, the curtains breezing around her as she brushed her hair. And listened.
Chisum demanded, “Where’d you find them?”
The wagon driver already had a flask in his hands. “One of the Arkansas fingers, scattered on the riverbank. Animals got to a few, but I knew ’em by their clothes. Didn’t look to me that none even got to draw a weapon.”
Bishop turned the bodies over. Half-faces were frozen in surprise, with a bullet hole just above or below an eye socket. The backs of their heads were nothing but hair matted over gaping exit wounds.
Garrett said, “Army sniper. I’d lay money. That’s not chicken shooting.”
Chisum said, “We captured one of the Fire Riders, and they killed their own rather than have him talk. Just a boy.”
Claude Ray hung on the side of the gravel wagon, looking down at what’d been left of Rose’s nephew. “Rose kept hoping he’d make it back, maybe stay on. She prayed for it. Really prayed.”
Chisum said, “These are the kind we’re dealing with, Dr. Bishop.”
Bishop was thinking of his son. “I know.”
“Get them buried, and place a marker so Rose can find him when she comes back.”
Claude Ray said, “She’s not safe out there alone.”
Bishop said, “Let her ride it out.”
“Sound advice.” Chisum moved to the railing, leaning forward. “I want every man—”
“You ask some of these men to mount a horse, their wounds will open, they’ll be dead in an hour,” Bishop interrupted. “They shouldn’t even be out of bed.”
Leaning on a rifle butt, Maynard said, “I got business to finish with these bastards, and I’m gonna finish it!”
Chisum said, “Only the able-bodied will have a part in our response, so get yourselves ready. Maynard, I wouldn’t try to stop you. What about you, Doctor? Are you included in this?”
Bishop looked back at his bedroll, with shotgun rig and medical bag beside it, then to the bodies. “I am.”
The young maid watched the men scramble before turning from the open window, and picking up her dress from the floor beside Chisum’s bed. She stepped into it, ready to serve breakfast.
* * *
The blood on Colby’s handkerchief was darker than before, and there was more of it. He seized again, gulping air, then spit tar-red across his own monogram when someone pounded on his door.
He didn’t have a chance to answer before a little girl, strings of black hair over a mean face, pushed the door open with her foot. Her head was too large, and one shoulder was weighted by an oversized carpet purse. She lurched into the room, wobbling a tray with one glass of buttermilk and a single piece of dry toast. “This is your’n. My arm’s going.”
Colby took the tray, and April Showers mov
ed to the bed where his Navajo cache was unrolled, and all the weapons laid out. He put his breakfast on top of one of the cabinets, watching her.
She seemed to sniff at the blanket before touching the leather-pocketed corners that held sets of custom-made knives. She played their edges with her fingertips then looked up at him. “That’s all you want for breakfast?”
Colby wiped a string of blood from the corner of his mouth, drank the stomach-soothing buttermilk. “It’s more than sufficient.”
“I don’t know what that means. I swept this room out three times ’cause Mr. Bishop said it weren’t clean enough for you.”
“You did a fine job. Thank you.”
The little girl examined the rest of the armory—the barrels of the rifles and pistols wrapped and cushioned, the ammunition, telescopic sights, special attachments beside them. She picked up a Colt short with a customized Beretta barrel. “You use all these guns?”
Colby unwrapped April from the pistol. “Not all at once.”
“You don’t have to talk at me like I don’t know nothing. My dad’s Tomlinson. You’re the special killer.”
Colby froze his smile and didn’t answer. “I saw a little blond girl last night. Your sister?”
“Yeah. Not even a year older, so we got to do our birthdays on the same day. That’s a cheat.”
“She can sing.”
“Like a dying frog. I’m better. Much.”
“You’ll have to favor me with a concert sometime.”
April Showers squinted at Colby, trying to figure. “You got all them special guns and knives, but you talk like an old lady. Don’t make sense.”
Colby finished the buttermilk. “Your father, where is he this morning?”
“I ain’t supposed to take you there. You’re to see Mr. Bishop. Your eyes is yellow like my cat’s, right before she died.”
They’d moved into the hallway. Holding his new target file, Colby pulled the door behind him. “No key for the lock, but I’m positive everyone here is trustworthy.”
“There’s that lady talk again.”
April Showers was already down the small, stone access way that led from the old prison offices to the cells, the too-big purse swaying from her shoulder. She slipped the knife she’d stolen from Colby’s cache into a pocket. “You got something else besides them guns? Money? Or maybe pretty earrings you took off somebody’s grandma?”
Bushwhacked Page 35
