Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  “Got that feeling like in Carolina?”

  Bishop agreed with a look, and Garrett continued. “We don’t know how many Fire Riders are lying in there. Chisum sure as hell waltzed us into it.”

  “It’s what we signed on for.” Bishop leaned forward in the saddle, ready to try. “I’m still on my own business. If I go in, they’ll come right for me. I’ll do what damage I can, but it’ll give you all a fighting chance, maybe close in on them from the back.”

  Garrett said, “You’re no use as a dead legend, Doc. Who do you distrust more? The Fire Riders or Mr. Chisum?”

  Bishop’s shoulders were rolling, tightening the shotgun lines, the weapon aimed from his hip. “It’s an even split.”

  “How do I fare?” Garrett brought up his fine Colt with the scrolled barrel and fired three shots into the storm. The sky reacted with a hot spiderweb of lightning that lit up everything for miles.

  * * *

  That was Colby’s cue.

  He fired just to the left of the Colt’s barrel flame, estimating the location of his target’s head behind the junk pile. The slug tore into the old caboose roof first, the lead splitting into threes as it was meant to, then out the other side, creasing Garrett’s hat.

  Garrett swung the hammerhead around as Colby’s second shot sparked off a busted coupling hitch inches from Bishop’s temple.

  Slivers from the ricochet sliced Bishop’s face. He smeared the blood with his fingers, and Garrett grabbed the shotgun, holding him back. The bay twisted, pawing at the ground. Garrett nodded down the trail, water sloshing over the brim of his hat.

  Bishop looked.

  The herd was stampeding through the rain, legs pounding full-out, bulls and cows spread out across the trail, moving like hell.

  Roaring toward Myrtle.

  * * *

  Hunk took the shooting as the signal. The battle cry “Luati-le în iad! ” erupted from him as he leaped his horse from the old freight car. Fire Riders jumped alongside him, clearing the doors, and onto Myrtle’s main street. Red tunics flapped like demon wings, their painted horses rain-smeared white, making them ghosts.

  They hit the deep mud running, guns and sabers drawn. The storm exploded, blowing a hole in the sky above them.

  Thunder roared.

  On the trail, Rose and McCarty ran the herd from behind, shooting over them, whistling and screaming. The cattle charged faster. Heads down, horns slicing wet hair and rawhide, and eyes bloody-wide as they stampeded Main Street, ripping through the corral on one side, tents and outbuildings on the other.

  Charging the Fire Riders.

  Wild, the cattle plowed into men and horses, sharp horns piercing flesh, stallions screaming and bucking, throwing their riders. The red hoods scrambled, mud and soaked tunics weighing them down, as they shot at the herd before being trampled. Arms snapped and ribs powdered. Broken hands held on to destroyed rifles and bent-in-half swords.

  Horses cut the air with ghost-painted legs, flailing wild, before falling back, bellies gored by longhorns, crushing riders tangled in their stirrups.

  Lightning crashed.

  A pair of Riders took their horses behind a rail fence, firing at two Chisum men riding alongside the cattle. They hit them both, sending them spinning off their saddles before being crushed under the stampede.

  Quick screams sounded, then blood erupted.

  From behind the junk pile, Garrett shot one Fire Rider in the head, and Bishop blasted a hole in the other’s chest. The cattle busted down the corral fence, running in panic and dragging the corpses with them.

  Hunk jumped his horse over the bodies of his fallen men, making it to the barn near the rail spur. The walls of the barn shook as the cattle smashed them from outside, the planks buckling. Hunk ran to a back stall and untied the mule with the case of grenades on its back.

  * * *

  In the street, a Chisum gun rode in fast, staying wide of the cattle as they trampled the last of the corral, splintering it. He pulled a repeater from a scabbard, lever-cocking it in one motion, not seeing what was behind him.

  Bishop spied the outline of the Winchester taking aim from the emporium. He swung the bay around, firing a warning blast. The Chisum gun didn’t heed and the sniper’s bullet blew out his throat.

  Bishop watched him fall. He snapped the rig to his shoulder and pulled the reins on the bay as the gunman hit the ground.

  Bishop broke from his cover.

  In the window, Colby slammed home another shell, aimed, and found Bishop galloping for the stampede. He wanted a clean head shot, but Bishop threw himself to one side of his saddle, keeping the rig low, circling around the running cattle, using them for cover.

  Colby swallowed the blood backing into his mouth and fired anyway, the slug hitting another Chisum man square in the chest, picking him up, and dumping him on the street.

  Decent kill.

  He loaded again as Bishop rode out of his sighting.

  Thunder roared again.

  Rose and McCarty kept the cattle running, pushing them from behind to keep pulverizing Myrtle.

  McCarty said, “You’re doin’ fine, miss! Just keep one hand on your gun.” He saluted Rose, then ran his horse behind the junk pile where Garrett was positioned with a rifle. McCarty dropped from his horse and stayed down, waiting for the enemy charge, grinning as he checked his pistols. He howled a laugh. “You didn’t think you were gonna keep me with the cow asses, did ya?”

  He popped shots from behind the old potbellied stove, shooting the Fire Riders who rode around the boxcar to the rail spur, trying to escape the stampede. Hard targets.

  “That’s nine.” He looked at Garrett. “That’s the ninth son of a bitch I ever killed!”

  Garrett’s words were flat. “It’s good you’re keeping count.”

  McCarty fired again, wounding the Rider. “Hell, Garrett, ain’t this why I’m here?”

  Bullets from the Riders splayed around them, and McCarty and Garrett dropped back from the junk heap, letting the Riders come around the side of the destroyed corral. Garrett shot two, sending one heaving into the slop, the other opening up with a pair of pistols, angry at being hit, and swearing like hell.

  McCarty killed him between the eyes, the red hood splitting with the slug, revealing the Rider’s surprise. McCarty whistled at his own shot. “Ten. Ten men. Who can lay claim to that?”

  Garrett kept up the rifle fire. “Just give cover!”

  Bishop charged into the battle, coming up on the other side of the running herd, the shotgun braced against his shoulder infantry-style, ready to drop and shoot.

  Suddenly, the ground shook.

  The first Adams grenade landed in front of two Chisum men, blowing them sideways off their horses, animals landing on top of them. The rain turned the yellow heat of the explosion white, bloody mud bursting with it.

  Panicked blind by the blast, the cattle were running in all directions, trampling the dead, tearing into men and the last standing buildings.

  Bishop’s horse veered at the grenade’s impact, almost losing footing in the rainy slop. He kept the reins sure, and the bay responded. Leaning forward, close to the horse, Bishop plowed through the deep mud.

  No slowing down. Almost there.

  The next grenade hit a Chisum rider from behind, the force tumbling his horse forward at a full gallop, neck twisting into the ground. The rider landed hard, his arm snapping. He tried standing. A sniper’s shot put him down, landing him next to his thrashing horse. Pat Garrett fired the shot that mercy-killed the animal.

  In the window, Colby reloaded, seeing Bishop dodging the stampede, then tearing through the blowing smoke from the grenades.

  Lightning struck. With cattle scattering around him, Bishop leaped the bay to the small trail running parallel to the main street. Hidden by the old tents and lean-tos, it was the walkway for hookers and railroad men to get in and out, and too narrow for a horse and rider.

  Taking cover, he rolled from the saddle and
forced the bay down to the ground between the tents in a single motion. Coming up with the rig snapping out directly before him, barrels aimed, he shot at the Fire Riders riding against the Chisum men.

  He caught one in the chest, turned, and fired again, tearing another off his horse at the knees.

  Bishop’s head pounded, a wash of blood filling his eyes from inside, casting everything he saw with a red shimmer. He was “seeing blind,” reflexes faster than before, senses sharper. No hesitations. Instant.

  Beyond instinct, beyond the adrenaline of combat, he’d transformed into something else, Bishop was finally the weapon.

  Colby watched the Fire Riders go down, admiring Bishop’s speed and deadly aim—nothing random, no counting on the spread of the buckshot. He calculated Bishop’s position from the tilted direction of the last blast and fired from the window.

  The slug danced an inch from Bishop’s head as he dove. Springing the rig’s breech, he reloaded then snapped it shut. Automatic. Bishop let fire go, spreading another Fire Rider with buckshot, dropping him into the stampede. The cattle were still running. Onto the side streets they ran, pulverizing storefronts and men, their cries and the thunderstorm the same.

  Dodging to a new cover position, Bishop loosed first one barrel and the next, blasting rider after rider. Dead off the saddle, the bodies fell as he shot another before the first hit the ground. He grabbed the second box of shells from his saddle, filled the bandolier and both barrels.

  The Rider with the Bloody Bill sword dove from his horse into the tent canvas, and came up firing, pistol in one hand, saber in the other. Bishop blew his arm off at the elbow, the sword spinning away, then finished him with the second barrel.

  He breached, reloaded, and aimed for his next targets, trigger lines set across his shoulders. He fired again before running the length of the street, using the cattle for cover. He dropped to the ground opposite Hunk’s position in the barn door.

  Hunk pulled the strap on another Adams grenade and hurled it, the blast tearing open the junk pile, ripping jags of iron and wood shrapnel through the storm.

  McCarty and Garrett were foxholed behind the junk pile, debris slicing above them. The explosion sent their horses running. Garrett came up and opened fire on the hotel room window, cracking off a series of shots.

  Colby ducked against the window frame, Garrett’s slugs punching the walls around him. Another spasm choked his throat. His hands were shaking as he grabbed a handful of shells, loaded, and fired at a distant Chisum rider. He watched him drop and felt better. Spitting the acid from his mouth, he loaded and scanned for Bishop.

  Colby said to no one, “You are mine.”

  Hidden by the far corner of the emporium, Bishop was facing the barn and out of Colby’s sight. The last of the cattle were slamming each other, still crying, but slowing.

  The thunder was rolling off.

  * * *

  At the end of the trail, the last of the cattle were running into Myrtle while the storm travelled back toward the mountains. Their horses throwing mud, two Fire Riders rode down hard from a cross street and trapped Rose along the edge of the main trail. Their horses blocked her as she tried bringing her brown and white stallion around. They jammed her ribs and then her back with rifles as she turned. For a moment, a rifle barrel brushed the edge of her jaw, and she felt the sight.

  One Rider, blood streaming from the edge of his mouth onto his hood and tunic, managed, “Chisum let you do this? Get yourself killed for this flapdoodle?”

  Rose said, “What about you? Earning your pay?”

  The Rider pulled off his soaking-wet hood and ran one hand across his bleeding sandpaper face. “Sorry, lady, but you work for Chisum. I got to show something for today other than some missing teeth.”

  * * *

  At the barn door, Hunk yanked the strap, setting the fuse on the next grenade. He leaned out, reeling his arm back to throw toward the junk heap where Garrett and McCarty were laying rifle-fire cover.

  Bishop triggered, tearing open Hunk’s knee, folding him. The grenade rolled from his hand, the fuse sizzling inside its iron globe.

  Bishop saw a break between the cattle and ran from his spot. Slipping. Dodging.

  Colby fired, hitting a shorthorn cutting in front of Bishop, colliding against other cattle and bringing one down. Howling screams and bloody chaos continued.

  Colby shucked the spent cartridge.

  Slammed by the animal, Bishop rolled toward the barn, scrambled to his feet, and grabbed the Adams from a deep hoofprint. He hurled it with his left hand toward the second-floor window.

  Colby reloaded.

  Hunk yelled a warning.

  The grenade spun in the air, leaving a tail of smoke and coming into focus as Colby pressed his eye against the telescopic sight.

  * * *

  Rose didn’t move as the Rider raised the rifle to point at her heart. She eyed the rifle but stayed even in her tone. No panic. “Did you ever ride with a young boy? Great with a rope? You should know, since you killed him so he wouldn’t talk about your raids.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Near the emporium the grenade exploded, hammering their horses. They reared, Rose and the Rider fighting to stay on.

  Rose’s pistol blew apart her rain slicker, catching the Rider in the chest. She turned, and fired again, clipping the second one’s shoulder. Red sprayed from his side as he whipped his horse toward the small cut off the trail.

  Rose stayed fast behind him, even as the first Rider was lying on the trail, counting his heartbeats and feeling the cold wet of the ground where he knew he’d be buried. His eyes were locked open to the light fall of rain.

  The injured Rider pushed his horse, cutting through the trees, the water in the branches above drenching him. One arm blood-coated and useless, he jerked his horse too far to one side, slamming himself into a branch.

  Almost on top of him, Rose pulled the stallion back, bringing up her pistol, when he used his good arm to hurl his Winchester, the weapon spinning. She ducked, the rifle breaking against a knotted trunk behind her. He lurched his animal down the rest of the cut, pushing to the open clearing on the other side of the trees.

  Rose and the stallion stayed tight around the tall pines, leaping a large tangle of roots. Finally breaking from the woods, they came out onto a field of tall grass that had been flattened by the storm. Cattle that had found their way to the spot were calm and grazing. A few nudged each other, and some were lying down in the cool wet grass, tending to their own.

  The injured Rider was there, catching air, his hood off. He was about thirty, his anonymous face softer than his partner’s. His mouth sagged open with pain as if he were silently screaming. He looked up as Rose came to him, the pistol protruding through the blast hole in her rain slicker. “How many times you gonna shoot me?”

  “Did you know a boy who rode with you?”

  Not hearing the question, the Rider continued. “Look, you all beat us down good, looks like. I don’t know how many are alive, but you can tell that to Chisum.”

  Rose stopped her horse less than ten feet from the Rider and looked beyond him to see Maynard sprawled in the field; a bullet in his face had taken off his nose and part of his cheek. She pointed at Maynard. “I rode with him.”

  The rider looked, then tried to get on the good side of the conversation. “I’m truly sorry. I didn’t kill him, but I know how that is, loyalty and such.”

  “He was a jackass.”

  “I’m sorry about that, too.”

  “You work with somebody, it counts. That’s how come I can tell you knew my nephew—a boy with sunny hair, better with a rope than anybody’s business. Tell me about the raids you did together.”

  The rider’s bloody arm was drooping, but his words were coming faster. “I heard you ask a-fore, I don’t know nothing either. I don’t. There’s a lot of us he could’ve been with.”

  “All you getting rich, stealing ca
ttle? Robbing banks? That’s why you killed him, so he couldn’t tell the law it was you?”

  “I swear on Mary’s virgin eyes, I never killed no one. Never robbed no bank. I did okay with cattle, but if you don’t shoot, I’ll take myself home and never stray again.”

  Rose said, “That money, that’s what my nephew dreamed over. All he could make rustling. Like you. You knew him, I know you did. You filled his head with those bad notions, got him killed.”

  The Fire Rider was wishing he had a gun, anything, when he said, “I—I’m married.”

  Rose ignored it. “Just a boy. Got himself killed riding with you damnable red hoods.”

  Before he could beg, Rose sensed something behind her. She kept her gun trained, but turned in her saddle and saw a man on Hurricane crossing the field at a quick trot.

  She was about to call out when Farrow shot her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Wounded

  The ammo in the bandolier was spent.

  Bishop dug into his pockets. Nothing. He breached the rig, pulling the dead shell from the right barrel, then checked the live round on the left. He shut the shotgun as quietly as possible, muffling its locking with his palm, and setting its position straight from the waist . . . to gut-shoot.

  He had one heavy-grain shell, and no idea who or how many he’d be facing when he reached the top of the stairs that led to the emporium’s second floor.

  Blood still washed across his eyes, turning his vision hellish. He was on the top step when his strength erupted again, kicking open the door to the room in the corner, tearing it off its hinges. He stepped inside.

  The window had been blown apart by the Adams grenade.

  Scorched by the blast, the frame and wall plaster were lying in the middle of the floor. Colby’s special ammunition was scattered. One bullet had been driven into the door like an arrow by the Adams’s force, splitting the wood.

  The only signs of Colby were the spatter on the wall about the height of his shoulder—if he was in his sniping position when the grenade blew—and one of his monogrammed handkerchiefs, also bloodstained, dangling from a jag of broken glass.