Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  The boy held up the watch chain with Hunk’s ear dangling. “This isn’t what a Christian man of no harm wears. You are an assassin, working for the cattlemen. We got sheep, so you are to kill us. That’s easier to figure on than a-b-c.”

  Damp lamb’s wool was the air, and Colby could see two-blade shears hanging on the wall, large tubs for boiling, and bales of fleece stacked around the barn. Ten sheep stalls, open on one side, allowed the stock to wander as they pleased.

  That didn’t escape Colby’s sense of humor. “It pleases me that the lambs have their freedom.” He twisted on the rotating seat of the shearing chair, loosening the wire holding him there. Back and forth. The razor barbs sliced cloth and skin, almost to muscle, but started to give. “You treat them better than you’re treating me.”

  The boy said, “They can be trusted. My father had another regulator tied to that shearing chair for three days. When he was awake, he spoke of his work. I know your reasons for being on our ranch.”

  Colby settled. “You’re wrong as you can be, son, about why I’m here.”

  The boy moved to Colby’s weapons. “That’s not what I see.”

  “I understand, son. I do.” Colby worked his wrists and ankles. “May I have some more water? Wouldn’t it be soul-proper to give me some?”

  The boy took the cup and filled it. He was skinny, with a long reach, and kept as much distance as he could as he put it to Colby’s lips.

  Colby drank, his body turned slightly in the shearing chair, his arms stretched behind him, bent at the elbows. “Thank you, son. I’m sure you’re a fine provider.”

  The boy lowered the cup. “I have learned from my father—”

  Colby head butted the boy, then smashed him with a raised knee, catching his chin as he fell onto him. He scissored both legs, bound at the ankle, on either side of the boy’s neck, clamping him tight.

  It had taken seconds. As the boy struggled, his arms waving, Colby called out, “I know you’re there. You can come out. It’s all right. Don’t be afraid.”

  Lambs cried as the dumpling worked his way over the edge of their stall, tumbling to the floor. His eyes were as big as his four year-old face, and he wiped his tears on the sleeve of a nightshirt.

  The boy got out, “Jacob, run for the house!”

  Colby asked the child, “Your brother? Do you want to help him? Bring me those shears.”

  Jacob stood frozen, tears running down his cheeks.

  Colby growled out, “Jacob, if you want the bad dream to be over, bring me the shears right behind you. Can you reach?”

  * * *

  Rose slumped unconscious in the saddle as McCarty swung onto the brown and white. Wrapping his arms around her waist to sit her straight and steady, he laced the reins through his right hand.

  Garrett placed her feet in the stirrups, adjusting them sure, before pulling a small sack from the inside pocket of his long coat. There was the rattle of gold coins as he tossed it to McCarty, who caught it with his left.

  “Your victory pay. From Mr. Chisum.”

  “You could’ve kept it hid. I’m obliged to you, Garrett.” McCarty called out to Hunk, “I told you, gut-eater!”

  Hunk snorted as Bishop turned the handle on a brass Petit’s tourniquet.

  Drawing the strap slightly tighter above Hunk’s freshly bandaged knee, Bishop said, “Hold it.”

  Hunk took the handle.

  Bishop slipped a finger between the strap and the side of Hunk’s leg. “It’s slacking. This is a field piece. We need something to hold the pressure more exactly. I don’t want you to lose that leg.”

  Hunk smirked. “Oh, yes, I’m sure of that.”

  “Just hold it.”

  As Bishop started packing his field kit, Hunk said, “So what to do? I save my own leg, while you ride me to an execution? Do it here. Easier.”

  Bishop shook his head. “Not here.”

  Garrett placed a hand on Bishop’s shoulder, then held up the victory pay. Bishop glanced, but didn’t move for the money, just put the rest of his instruments in the kit.

  Garrett said, “You surely earned it, Doc.”

  “Chisum’s got nothing to do with me anymore.”

  “Hell, we all know that. You didn’t take a dime, but he wanted you to have something to help after, if you made it out alive. Maybe for your next war.”

  Chaney was adjusting the wrap of gauze across his cheek. “That’s more compensation than I’ll ever see for my pain.”

  Garrett said, “Mr. Chaney, I’ve known fellas cut themselves shaving who were in worse shape.”

  Bishop took the sack, slapped two gold pieces into Chaney’s hand. “For your camera.”

  Chaney was defiant. “I have another.”

  “I know.” Bishop turned to Garrett to return the gold, but he was walking for his horse.

  Without turning around, he said, “You made the right choice, Doc. Take the money. Help yourself. God knows the men calling the shots have plenty.”

  Bishop stored the money and medical kit in his saddlebags, before throwing a leg up and saying to Garrett, “You’ve got my patient. Get her home.”

  “We’ll do it. Hope you get home, too.”

  Hunk yelled from the back of the horse he was sharing with Chaney, “Garrett! I’m your prisoner, you need to take me to a doctor, then to Chisum!”

  Garrett was on his horse. “Not my prisoner, and you’ve already got a doctor.”

  “But this one tried to kill me!”

  McCarty brought the brown and white around, keeping Rose secure with his arm, cradling her. “If the doc wanted you dead, you’d already be buried.”

  Chaney held his hand against his bandaged face as if he was going to break into pieces. “I intend to quote you, Mr. McCarty.”

  McCarty howled, “Get my name right!”

  The outriders started moving the cattle herd from the far hills, heading them back toward the trail slow and easy.

  McCarty, holding Rose, broke the pace. He could feel her struggled breathing against him and urged the brown and white. The horse moved steady and fast, getting ahead of the herd, and following the trail to the next town.

  In a moment, they were through the trees. Bishop approved. Rose’s chances were good.

  Pat Garrett tipped his hat, which Bishop returned, before locking the rig from his waist, and looping the tether line from Chaney and Hunk’s horse to his own saddle.

  Chaney said, “I won’t be buried next to this immigrant.”

  Hunk said, “I wonder how you’re looking with a grenade in your mouth.”

  Bishop looked to Hunk. “Just keep pressure on that leg.”

  * * *

  The shears were too big for Jacob’s hands as he tried closing the blades through the barbed wire, only to have them slip sideways or clatter to the barn floor.

  Colby kept Jacob’s brother trapped, his knees locked around his neck, ready to snap it with a single twist of his body. His voice was soft. “Try again, son. This is magic. If you set me free, your brother goes free. Just cut the little wire, that’s all.”

  Jacob wedged the blade around the wire knot, trying to get a grip, the shears slipping away from his stubby fingers. Finally, the edge of the blades cut one of the wire ties, pulling the barbs back from Colby’s wrist.

  “Look at that. Your brother’s almost free. Just like magic. Try again.”

  Jacob jammed the shears under the wire for the last time, catching a piece of wire between the blades, then squeezing it with all his tiny strength. Wires popped apart, and Jacob fell backwards against a sheep stall.

  He was sobbing as Colby brought his arms from around the shearing chair, sitting up and releasing his brother. The older boy sagged to the floor, his brother throwing himself around his neck.

  Cutting and pulling, Colby unwrapped the coil from around his chest. “Boys, I’m going to need some help for the next few days. You have to take me in.”

  Jacob held on tight, as his brother said, “You
can’t be in the house. Father won’t allow it. Best ride on, sir.”

  “You’re a strong boy.” Colby freed his ankles. “I would say your father is gone, or—”

  “He’ll be back in the winter,” the older boy said, cutting Colby off. “He’ll be back before Christmas.”

  Colby stood, his clothes soaking from the barbed punctures across his body, and the large tear in his shoulder. He managed a step, steadying himself on the edge of the sheep stall. “I’ll be gone long before then. Help me inside.”

  * * *

  Bishop stood among the bodies of three Fire Riders, the dried mud plastering their red tunics with spatters of gray, hoods pulled away from buried faces. He was holding the Bloody Bill saber, broken off and jagged just above the haft. The shotgun rig was poised on his right side.

  Chaney was in front of the ruins of the emporium, adjusting the lens on his miniature camera as far as he could. The short glass near-rounded the image, taking in Bishop, the dead men, and beside them, Hunk, with his hands tied and leg bandaged.

  Chaney held the camera steady. What he was seeing was distorted, but true. Bishop kept still until Chaney said, “All right. You wanted to send a message, Doctor. This will surely be it.”

  Bishop said, “You’re the one who sends the messages. I’m sure you’ll give the story a lot of special touches when you write it.”

  “I’ll invent very little this time.”

  “You can probably take the bandage off in a week, but keep your face clean. Avoid infection.”

  “Doctor, you still haven’t made reference to who I am or my family’s history with you, which is rather colorful.”

  Bishop said, “I’ve known who you are since Paradise. Somebody told me your cousin’s name is on the list of men I’ve killed.”

  “It’s quite a lot of names.”

  “My burden. He was the gambler?”

  “A poor one.”

  Bishop nodded. “He certainly used poor judgment. Are you looking to settle?”

  Chaney flourished. “Not now. There’s too much reporting about you I have to do. That’s my priority above personal concerns. And . . . I choose not to be shot by you twice in one day.”

  Bishop turned to Hunk, who was still mounted, and slipped the broken saber under the tourniquet strap, turning the handle halfway. “That should work. Give your hand a rest.”

  The handle steadied the pressure, allowing the proper amount of blood flow to the damaged knee.

  Hunk nodded. “It’s . . . it’s better. Feels better.”

  Bishop knelt by one of the dead Riders, a shotgun poking out from beneath his blood-sticky tunic. He wrenched the weapon away, opened it, and took out two unfired .12-gauge shells, then found half a dozen more in a side pocket. He slipped six in his bandolier, loaded the rig, then hung a small canvas sack containing the last of the Adams grenades off his saddle horn.

  Hunk said, “That Chaney’s taking another picture.”

  “I hope he gets a good one.”

  “They won’t like you taking ammunition from their dead.”

  Bishop climbed onto the bay, the newly loaded rig angled at Hunk. “Seems appropriate to me.”

  Hunk said, “So, I’m the prisoner. Now what?”

  “Death, probably. But Hell first.”

  Chaney fitted the last small negative plate into the camera and steadied himself on a piece of the emporium balcony laying in the street. The battle hadn’t gone the way he was told, but what had happened he could sell all over the world.

  He waited, thinking how sure he’d been that Bishop would go for the killing shot and finish him off, but had doctored his face instead. Then, insisted that he take photographs.

  Bishop was bringing his horse around, and Chaney had the miniature camera solid in both hands, his thumb holding the shutter open long enough to balance the muted daylight, long enough for the tiny negative to capture a battleground littered with enemy dead and Bishop riding away from it, a Fire Rider prisoner tethered behind him.

  The shutter clicked.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Resurrections

  Sheriff Tucker rested the Henry rifle on top of the cremation urn and sighted. He was close, maybe ten feet away, but wanted to see the bullet enter, enjoy its exit, and the aftermath. That thought made him smile.

  He kept the rifle aimed at the oversized, green-lacquered coffin, a gold-inlaid dragon coiling around it twice before the head and tail met on the highly polished lid. The dragon’s eyes were red jewels that shone in the broken bits of light coming in from the shuttered windows of the workshop.

  The voice seemed to come from the dragon. “Just how damn stupid are you, runt?”

  Half-hidden by the huge coffin, sitting up like a corpse reacting to a formaldehyde gas bubble in its stomach, a man rose. Dead-thin, with crude stitches joining his forehead and hairline, a souvenir of a scalping, the outlaw looked to have been killed years before.

  But there he was, lighting a cigar and paying little attention to Sheriff Tucker or his threats.

  Scalped Outlaw said, “Wave that Henry around all you want, but I’m not doing a goddamned thing until I see the boss man.”

  * * *

  Albert Tomlinson leaned against the ticket agent’s window of the Paradise train depot, reaching for a stack of telegraph messages that he could see had his name across the top as RECEIVER.

  “That’s the way to ruin your suit!” Junior heaved his words as he shuffled in through the back door from the stables, dragging a canvas mail sack behind him. He got himself to a stool and held on. “That’s wet paint on the window. Put on not ten minutes ago. I’m surprised at you, Mr. Tomlinson.”

  Tomlinson instantly yanked back his arm, then pulled his glasses down his nose, peering through the bottom lens of the bifocals, examining his jacket for stains. He brushed at his tweeds, picking off a bit of tacky paint. “You have a number of urgent communications for me.”

  Junior’s wooden teeth got in the way of his words. “I was going to send a boy. Any problem getting anythin’ from me since you been here?”

  Tomlinson spotted another smear of blue. “No, your work has been satisfactory, so far.”

  “You bet it has. The mail should interest you.”

  “The package to my daughters?”

  Junior said, “Already sent.” He fished into the sack and handed Tomlinson a rolled newspaper before moving to the telegraph desk and sorting through the messages with shaking arthritic hands. His habit was to lick his thumb, separating each telegram at its edge, then pulling it from the pile. Tomlinson had three.

  Junior handed over the telegrams. “Sorry about your jacket, but we’re getting a fancy do-over, too.”

  Tomlinson put the telegrams in his side pocket without reading them. He stayed with the newspaper, turning its pages.

  Junior pointed to an article. “My good friend wrote that piece. Know what happened in our jail, don’t you? Right across the way? That Shotgun Bishop was here. Now he’s killin’ like it’s open season.”

  Tomlinson didn’t answer. He walked from the ticket window, around the side of the station, following the newly built planked sidewalk. He didn’t look away from the article, purposely shutting out the activity and rising noise around him.

  Up and down the street, crews were painting storefronts, replacing windows and doors, hauling away piles of flood debris in flat wagons. Even the graveyard next to the jail had been mowed and its fence whitewashed.

  Music leaked from a couple joints, the sound of the morning pianos scraping each other before mixing with the work voices in the street—shouted greetings and orders and the constant sounds of hammers and saws.

  What wasn’t being built was reopened. Paradise was full of railroad men, cowboys, and laborers staying over for a night or a week, but all for sure leaving their pay behind.

  Tomlinson quickly avoided two workmen hauling a chuck-a-luck table into an unfinished saloon. Some old boys hung out by the front door, waiting
for it to be set up.

  One of the workmen stumbled, catching Tomlinson’s attention. “That table’s worth more than your house. I’ll be back to check installation. These . . . gentlemen . . . are anxious to play.”

  One old boy belched out, “The Sheriff’ll lose more cash than all of us put together! That dumb son of a bitch couldn’t find luck if it bit him sittin’ down!”

  There was more hacking laughter until Tucker busted the jaw of the laugher with the butt of the Henry rifle, swung around, and slammed another in the gut, dropping him to the sidewalk.

  It had happened so fast, Tomlinson didn’t even have time to turn around. The gamblers were sprawled around his feet, yelling and cursing. The laugher spit a tooth and some pink.

  “Those are potential customers, Sheriff.”

  Tucker casually wiped his glasses on his sleeve. “This little lesson in respect won’t stop them from betting their pockets. Your problem’s across the street.”

  They waited for a liquor-heavy wagon to pass before crossing to the coffin maker’s.

  “How long was John Bishop in your jailhouse?”

  “At least a month, till Chisum bailed him out. You know all this . . . or you ought.”

  “It was a missed opportunity. You should have killed him when you had the chance.”

  “I just do what the money tells me.”

  They were standing beneath a sign that read YOUR VESSELS TO HEAVEN—$19.95

  Tucker said, “You’re in charge. Have at it.”

  Tomlinson entered the front room of the coffin maker’s shop where the finished models were set out. A few were made of rosewood, metal handles at the feet and head, but most were painted pasteboard, with a place for a name on the lid, and Paradise scrolled alongside so the insects would know where you ended, broke.

  Tomlinson had Tucker cock the rifle deliberately for the sound, but made him follow behind two steps as he strode into the workshop. Months before, that would have been unthinkable, but the bookkeeper’s mild nature had been replaced by a sense of authority over the men whose salaries he was controlling. The curved posture was gone, his words carrying quiet force. He told the dark of the room, “I’m paying you. This stoppage is unacceptable.”