Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  Chisum coughed. “Dead?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Tending to his own business. He brought down the most of the red hoods, and I gave him his money.” Garrett finished the glass. “Mr. Chisum, I’m saying it out loud—they were waiting. We were set up not to win this, but we did. Maybe it’s about time you declared yourself.”

  Chisum said, “You’re on the side of right. You have no worries on that score. What about Tunstall’s guns?”

  “McCarty made a good show of himself.”

  “John will be glad to hear it.”

  Garrett said, “You spent a hell of a lot on Bishop, maybe to give him up. But most of us are here because of what he did. His fight. As I see it, this battle makes all debts to you paid in full.” There was a threat under Garrett’s words and his forward leaning stance with his gun.

  Chisum let them both pass. “I’m damn proud of you, Patrick. You’re an asset to this ranch, and I hope to see you tonight at dinner. In the chair next to mine.”

  Garrett held out his glass. It was refilled.

  * * *

  The youngest maid helped Rose almost to the porch steps before they stopped. Rose whispered something to herself as she saw Claude Ray by the corral gate. In a new pressed suit, he was standing on two legs. He was holding a small gathering of violets in one hand, hanging on to a fence rail with the other.

  Words didn’t happen as he let go of the fence and started toward his wife. Taking an unsteady step, the prosthetic snapped into place. Stiff. Trying, he waved to Rose then took another step. Better each time, but he fought for balance.

  Rose went to Claude, almost catching him, her own wounds burning. They got hold of each other with both arms and wrapped tightly. The flowers dropped from his hand, scattering at their feet.

  Claude Ray didn’t break and held Rose tighter. “Not dancing, but close.”

  * * *

  Bishop pushed the bay fast along the field of tall grass, Hunk’s horse keeping the tether between them straining. A nye of pheasants broke from the grass, splitting in two directions, darting away. Bishop aimed from the saddle and fired both barrels, bringing down three birds. He slowed the bay, then cut into the grass to pick up the kill and hang them from his saddle.

  They were good shots, and the pheasants weren’t buckshot-chewed.

  Hunk said, “Good to see that thing can kill something other than men.”

  Bishop was actually smiling. “Enemies.”

  * * *

  Hurricane reared back, legs kicking wild as a rope went around Farrow’s chest and another went around his neck before he was hurled from the saddle. His chin hit the ground, head snapping back as two Fire Riders lashed his ankles tight. Farrow rolled to one side, squirming against his bonds, his Sears Roebuck vest and jacket caked with mud, dust, and someone else’s blood.

  A Rider pulled a rag from the water trough and stuffed it into Farrow’s mouth, killing his screams.

  Smythe was at the prison gates, jabbing at Farrow with the end of one of his crutches. “That was supposed to be our victory, mate. Splashed all over, to scare anyone who might come up against us. You said you had it worked out, but you didn’t, did you? If you’d done it right, you wouldn’t be in the spot you’re in now, right? Aren’t I right?”

  The rope was tossed over a butcher’s gallows and Farrow was pulled into the air by his ankles. He swung back and forth.

  Smythe pulled the rag from his mouth, sloppy water following. “Am I right? You corked it up.”

  Farrow’s eyes were closed tight. “This is making me sick! I can’t be upside down!”

  “You won’t be for long.”

  “I got Chisum’s trust and did what I was supposed to do!”

  “Saying it don’t make it so, mate.”

  “How could I know Chisum’s men would fight like that? Or the Shotgun would take you all on? You wanted a massacre!”

  Smythe said, “Yes, we did.”

  “I did my damn part!”

  Smythe stopped the swinging with his crutch as hooded Riders gathered around, breaking from the mess table and passing a bottle hand-to-hand. Some had torches. All had guns and blades. Farrow cried out over all their murmurs and accusations.

  Newspaper pages blew across the yard—Bishop and the Fire Riders scattered everywhere.

  Dev Bishop broke through the crowd of his own men to look Farrow in the eye as he hung like a hog for butchering. He put a hand on Farrow’s chest, holding him steady. “You let that photographer take pictures of my men. And my brother. And their bodies. Even after the fight, you could have stopped that. The photographer was your man, but you ran off. It looked like Gettysburg—my men dead and everybody seeing.”

  Smythe said, “Oh, big mistake, mate.”

  Farrow coughed out, “But everyone’s still afraid of you, your raids.”

  Dev said, “Not as long as they see my brother defeating us.” He looked to one of the Riders, who was holding a machete.

  Smythe said, “Opening that throat will tell a story.”

  Farrow’s eyes were wide with panic. Dev squeezed his arm, reassuring him, “This is a failure from a man who’s a coward, not a traitor. Different kind of punishment.”

  Bubbles frothed from Farrow’s nose, the tears rolling back into his eyes. “That’s right! I’m no traitor. That’s why I came back here. To show you. I work for you.”

  Dev threw a look, and Smythe shoved the rag back into Farrow’s mouth, tickling his throat to choking.

  Dev turned and walked away as the first shots hit Farrow’s body, followed by a volley of others emptying their pistols into the hanging target. The rag erupted from Farrow’s mouth, his body spinning in place with every bullet strike. The last ones hit the ropes, and Farrow dropped to the ground, shredded.

  Smythe looked to Dev, then said to the men, “He gets buried proper.”

  Dev was holding Hurricane by the bridle. “This is a damn fine animal. One of the best I’ve ever seen.”

  Smythe said, “Then it wasn’t a total loss. That’s one of Chisum’s best, and you took it from him.”

  Dev didn’t have a word back. Just pulled himself onto Hurricane.

  Smythe stood before him, leaning on his crutches. “We’re not letting this defeat stand, Dev. We’ve still got Colby and all these fightin’ men. I don’t think your brother’s crazy or fool enough to take us all on. That’s bloody suicide.”

  Dev snapped the reins, and Smythe twisted out of the way of the horse. Hurricane cleared the prison gates, moving fast and perfect into the Wyoming night.

  Smythe gestured with his crutch toward Farrow’s still-tied body. “I don’t want that stinking rat here! Burn him!”

  * * *

  Bishop said, “The fort, which direction?”

  “It’s dark. How can I say which way? Or anything. I am confused by America.” Hunk turned the pheasant on its skewer and took another bite. His hands were still tied, but he managed.

  Bishop sat nearby, his meal finished, his eyes fixed on the open dark around them. “You’re running out of time with me.”

  “You can’t remember nothing?”

  “Tell me what I want to know.”

  Hunk said, “You sound like a town policeman. Police or sheriff, that’s the only thing in this country that’s the same. Since I got here, everywhere I go, someone talks a different talk, different language. No wonder you can’t understand each other. I’m from two countries, so worse for me.”

  Bishop was sitting up, his attention somewhere else. “How can it be two?”

  “Born in Bucharest, but joined Russian Navy. Docher—stevedore. You know this? My term ended and I had choice of Rumania or here. My wife and I went to Virginia, and I dug coal.”

  Bishop was listening to something far off drifting toward him. He set the gun hammers. “Why didn’t you stay?”

  “Private mine, did well. Workers all Rumanian, some Poles. Fire Riders kept raiding the sh
ipments. They were taking our money anyway, so I joined. Lots of trash, the others. Like me, they came from other places, trying to find money to stay here.”

  Bishop stepped toward Hunk, drawing his knife. “Is that why the loyalty?”

  Hunk followed the blade with his eyes. “I don’t have nothing better than them, and now, I’m prisoner. So, everything’s much worse than ever.”

  Bishop was hearing something in the dark, whispers he couldn’t make out. No animal calls or low whistles. Words. He hooked the edge of the knife between Hunk’s wrists. “Think they would rescue you?”

  “Your brother said I was a leader.”

  Bishop yanked the knife upwards, cutting the bonds. “So, you think you’re worth something to him.”

  “Now I run, and you can shoot me?” Hunk’s words were still hanging, when the Fire Rider charged out of the dark, billowing red and laying pistol fire.

  It was all of one motion, Bishop and Hunk diving out of the way of slugs tearing around them, punching a canteen and ricocheting. The Rider turned close on his horse and charged back, ready to empty another six.

  Bishop dropped to a knee, and shot upwards, the blast slamming the Rider sideways, his body hanging in the saddle, the horse still running into the dark.

  The second Rider leaped from the shadows on the other side of the fire, slashing Hunk with a cavalry saber, a revolver in his other hand, shooting wild.

  The bay and Hunk’s horse tore away from the shots. Bishop turned, fired a barrel with his shoulders, sending the Rider falling forward, the legs of his tall horse buckling. Horse and Rider slammed to the ground, the Rider diving away. He sprang up, bringing up his gun and opening fire.

  Bishop hit him with the second barrel, blowing out his chest. The horse scrambled, and ran. Bishop brought down two more shells from the bandolier, loaded and closed the breech. The barrels swung around from his hip, locking into place as he turned.

  Hunk was on his feet, turning in one spot and holding a knife in front of him. His eyes darted from one side to the other, looking for movement. This was the Fire raiding pattern he knew and had used himself. Attack, pull back, and attack. Keep the target guessing.

  Bishop was by the low fire, searching, the rig set.

  Hunk faced the dark just beyond the light. He knew a third rider was going to come in from behind. Could feel it in the silence. No whispering. No signal.

  Instantly there, the Rider came running in fast, using a Winchester repeater, slugs tearing. Hunk leaped forward, grabbing the animal around the neck, his feet dragging as the horse ran, the Rider pounding at him with the butt of the rifle.

  Hunk’s massive hands locked around the horse just behind his head. His arms coming together, he pulled it down, slowing its run until it folded to the ground.

  The Rider jumped from his saddle, kicking away from the horse and grabbing his rifle. On his feet, he cocked it, firing one shot.

  Bishop opened both barrels on the Rider’s chest, rocketing him backwards, the repeater firing into the sky.

  The campfire was done, the last bits of orange dying. In darkness—not even stars—Bishop and Hunk took to the ground. The Rider’s horse bolted to its feet, ran toward a black void, and was gone.

  Bishops whispered, “How many do you think they sent for you?”

  Hunk was catching his breath. “I don’t know. The one with the sword, that was my friend, also from Bucharest.”

  Bishop said, “Call out.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe some more of your friends are around.”

  Hunk tried to see Bishop’s face, but the dark was total. He was a shape against miles of blackness.

  Bishop’s disconnected voice was flat. “I’m still giving you a choice. They won’t.”

  Hunk finally spoke. “Acest lucru este Bogdan! Cine este acolo? ”

  An Ozark voice yelled back. “Hunk, you know I don’t understand that loco crap of your’n!”

  Bishop asked, “Who is it talking?”

  “It’s Ellis.” Hunk called out, “Grudge Ellis! Everybody dead?”

  “Yes, they all are. What about the shotgun man?”

  Hunk felt Bishop’s hand on his arm and said, “Shot and crawling away to die.”

  Ellis called back, “What about you?”

  “I’m hurt.”

  Ellis said, “I’m coming in and I’d appreciate you not trying nothing.” He lit a torch, let it flame, and held it before him as he crossed the field to the small flat where Hunk and Bishop had made their cook fire. He carried a Navy and kicked at the body of one of the Fire Riders with a hole blown through him.

  Hunk was down, leaning on his good knee, still holding the knife, when Ellis pointed the pistol at him. “I’m real sorry about this, Hunk. We been trailing you since Myrtle, thought we’d get more of Chisum’s men, but, you know, we didn’t want no other fight right away. So we rested up.”

  Hunk said, “Until tonight.”

  “Well, we got our work to do. And you know you can’t come back with us. Mr. Bishop and that Tomlinson don’t allow that.”

  Hunk stood. “Yes, when you’re gone, you are gone.”

  “That’s right. You should’ve been dead already, but I guess you got some cat in you. Turn around? Make it easier on both of us, probably.”

  Hunk stepped away from the torch, his arms folded across his chest. But he didn’t lower his head or close his eyes. He just stood, waiting for the shot.

  Finally, there was a sound. A gurgling.

  Hunk turned to see Ellis drop to his knees, the cavalry saber protruding from his chest. The torch rolled out of his hands, and the weight of the pistol took his other arm to the ground, followed by his chin. Ellis’s eyes were wide and wondering. They stayed open.

  Bishop was standing behind Ellis, the rig down at his side, his hand slick and red with the blood from Ellis’s back. He looked down at the body, the blade run through it, then to Hunk, who was holding the torch above him, throwing out a full circle of orange light.

  Bishop said, “Are you going to tell me what I want to know? Show me?”

  Hunk peered at Bishop. “Your eyes—”

  “You’re a Fire Rider, You want to be with them, be with all the others?”

  “You save me, then kill me.”

  Bishop said, “I warned you.” He moved his shoulder, and the shotgun sprang from the elbow, settling at his right hip, trigger lines ready. His expression was a mask as he favored his left side for a moment, shifting his body so the shotgun compensated, rising half an inch for a perfect kill shot.

  “Time is now up. You decided. You’re of no use.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Séotä’e

  From “The Angel of Death Strikes Without Mercy—Again!” by Virgil Demetrius Chaney:

  Neither prayers nor bullets will ever stop him! Doctor John Bishop, who lost his family at the hands of filthy curs, now brandishes a double-barreled shotgun made of God’s steel, meting out bloody justice to all those who wrongly cross his path.

  The latest scene of slaughter and justice was a small cattle town of the peaceful kind, where families live and grow in a Christian manner. That peace was shattered by the arrival of the demonic force known throughout the Southwest as Fire Riders, who invaded the town for their own evil purposes, only to be thwarted by Doctor Bishop, also known as “Shotgun” or “The Angel of Death.”

  Acting alone, Shotgun brought his own style of justice to over one hundred demons, sending them to their maker by way of a fiery hell, spit from the end of his two-barreled arm extension. I was there, witnessing it all and taking the photographs before you, at great and distressing risk to my own life and safety.

  Try as I might, I could never turn away from the sordid, bloody end of these devils, much as I wanted to. They are a prime example to all lawbreakers as to what to expect when you draw yourselves against Shotgun.

  But we, as citizens, must always ask the ultimate question—is this man a true spirit of justice
, meting out bloody ends to those that deserve it, or a wanton, dangerous, criminal who belongs dancing at the end of a strong rope? We, the citizens of this great land, deserve to sleep peacefully and secure.

  Retired Army Captain DuPont Creed of Del Norte, Colorado has called Dr. Bishop “a mad dog, who needs to be put down with all force.”

  Hero or insane killer who slaughters at will? Those questions and more will be answered in future issues.

  The man with three chins said, “You really ain’t got nothin’ here I want. On the counter, I mean.”

  White Fox turned the newspaper over to see the photographs as the man examined the buffalo hides.

  He ran his fingers through the short hair, laying out and checking the thickened skin on the planked door between two salt barrels. He was making a show of his expertise even though his eyes were rolling from Fox’s shoulders to her ankles, then back again.

  She had her hair tied back, revealing the perfect planes of her face, but not allowing any kind of vanity. Her leathers were loose and absent of any Cheyenne markings, and she kept a black duster draped around her shoulders. She was almost lost in it, with the collar up past her ears and the right sleeve pinned to the side.

  “They’re calling you Séotä‘e because you’re coming and going like a ghost. Nobody never sees you no more.” The man with three chins waddled around the trading post, one hip grinding as he knocked at some hanging beaver pelts and pottery with a cane that was actually an old wagon wheel spoke. “Now, don’t start that nomáht-sé’héó’o stuff with me. I savvy, know it means thief, but I can’t give you no real money. This is trade. I’ll allow two dollars apiece for them buffalo, and that’s a fair bargain. And don’t put on no high manners to make me think different.”

  Fox looked up, her fierce eyes peering over the clothes. “No, you cheat.”

  “I’d put myself against any post this side of Red River. I don’t give short weight or hold back blankets when the snows come. I don’t live big on your backs.” Three Chins hoped for a reaction, but she gave him nothing. “Fine. Be a damn statue, but there ain’t no more buffalo need, so I ain’t giving you more credit than two dollars. You used to be kinder to me, would smile.”