“I’m Shotgun’s prisoner.”
Crawford snorted. “I’ll be a fiddler’s bitch!”
“I want this Colby guy, too.” Hunk touched the stitching on the side of his head where his ear used to be.
“He did that? There ain’t a whole man between the three of us!”
Bishop was sitting next to his own marker, taking a small pull from the bottle. “Awful stuff. I’ve been spending a lot of time around graves lately.”
With a chuckle, Crawford grabbed the liquor back. “Yeah, what’s that tell you?”
* * *
The sun had just vanished behind the treetops, down to the horizon, when Bishop walked toward the dugout from the small side trail cutting the edge of the woods. The night birds were starting their song and the horses in the corral, stolen from a pony express depot, stirred along the high fence, nudging each other.
The weapon lines were tight across his shoulders, the anchor chain biting his skin and drawing on the triggers as he moved a few steps closer to the whitewashed dugout wall decorated with Cheyenne symbols and a large painting of five metal talons dripping red letters that formed the word Vóhpóóhe. He stopped, the mechanics of the rig clicking into place and bringing it to elbow height.
There were footsteps. A leg dragging.
Bishop got clear, moving to the corral, then stopping at a pool of Crawford’s blood by the fence.
Hunk took position by a corner of the building. They didn’t exchange looks as he threw the Adams grenade toward the woods. Spinning, the interior fuse burned down.
The pine trees blew apart at the middle, tops falling forward, crashing into more trees as pulverized wood spread into the air. The first gunshots came from beside the explosion as if the shooting was from the burst of heat.
Bishop fired into the pines, blasting through the brown fog of wood and smoke at a target he could only guess was there. More shots rang out. He turned, bringing the rig up from his waist, holding it straight out to follow movement through the trees. A shadow. Something.
He fired the second barrel, and ran low for the dugout, breached, and reloaded, the echo of the grenade explosion still coughing through the woods. He waited until it faded. Silence. Then he heard a sound like bones breaking before two blasted-in-half trees crashed into each other, hitting the ground.
Shots tore from the far side of the woods at that moment, random gun flames in the dark.
Bishop shot at the position, then held, watching as Crawford sprang up from behind the corral’s water trough, pulling the ribbon on the last grenade, and hurling it with all his force.
Fire burst with the second Adams, eating the tops of the pines, twisting them into the air upon detonation. Straight gunfire pumped from a corner of the woods at the same time, the slugs tearing into the corral fence. The horses charged out. They broke the rails, leaped, and ran as Bishop reloaded. He moved to the edge of the woods, dodging the horses and hunting for the target.
The rig adjusted itself, coming up to a middle-firing position as instinct made Bishop turn, pulling back on the trigger lines. Still turning, he saw Colby step from the shadows aside the house.
With two pistols raised, he fired the Remington Double Derringer first, then the Schofield. The slugs pounded Bishop’s chest, knocking him down. Colby kept with the Schofield, every shot an explosion of force from the pistol.
The last horse jumped the corral fence, running from the sound, smoke, and fire.
Bishop lay on his back, duster torn by bullets, his left arm still twitching.
Colby moved to him, both pistols still aimed. “You were a hard kill, sir. I know your history well, but I confess I regret not knowing you, because I have a thousand questions—”
The first barrel blew through Colby’s chest, sending him spiraling backwards as Bishop sat up and fired again, throwing him against a fence post before he dropped to the ground.
Bishop made it to his feet as Hunk moved to Colby and knelt by him. Colby’s eyes were wide, fearful. Both pistols were still tangled in his fingers. Hunk gently took the guns, then clamped one massive hand over Colby’s mouth and nose while looking down at the watch chain with his ear dangling.
Crawford whistled, then threw the long-bladed knife, which Hunk caught with his free hand. He tucked the blade behind Colby’s ear and started to cut.
Colby’s eyes were even wider as he recognized Hunk, and the realization of his last moment dawned. Then he went slack.
Hunk looked down at him like he was about to spit. “That’s what I wanted, so he’d know it was me taking his last breath.”
Crawford said, “You going to finish the job? Looks like he had a piece of you for a souvenir.”
“Not important now.”
“Doc?”
Bishop nodded, opening his duster and revealing a slab of thick buffalo hide across his chest. Slugs from the two guns were splattered flat against it. He pulled off the hide with his left hand and let the steel grave marker he was wearing behind it fall to the ground.
* * *
The dark was the dark, even after the bag was pulled from Chaney’s head, and the bandages unwrapped from his eyes. He could feel someone pulling on the dressing of his facial wounds. “That’s me, damn it! I’m already deeply scarred.”
Chaney sat with his back against a cold stone wall, wanting his sight to adjust to the room and the shadows moving in front of him. Red tunics, ghosts of color, as they hovered in the two pitch-black doorways on the other side of the subcellar.
Chaney could see a bit more, taste the damp as he spoke. “Would one of you untie my hands? You’re obviously in total control. Where would I run to?”
Startling him, Dev Bishop’s voice came from behind Chaney. He stepped in front of him, holding a bellows camera. “Nowhere, so you’d best settle in.”
“Settle in for how long, Mr. Bishop?”
Dev liked the recognition. “As long as it takes for you to write ten of those stories.”
“I had no idea you appreciated my work.”
“I don’t. You’re not telling things right.”
“Oh, you want me to extol the virtues of your Fire Riders, rather than condemn? Not an easy task, sir, considering.”
Dev had moved closer. “Smart aleck. I don’t need help recruiting. They’re lined up out the door. This is about you showing the world more than a stack of bodies and making a false hero out of the man with the shotgun.”
“Not my choice.”
Dev slapped Chaney’s bandages. “Did we do that to your face?”
Chaney jerked his head back. “Your brother, Mr. Bishop, shot me. And killed one of my family.”
Dev was considering his words under a laugh. “I see. So you’re a coward, and that’s why you write what you do.”
“My editors claim that our readers admire your brother for, what they see as, standing up.”
“Against?”
“Well . . . against your supposed aggression.” Chaney quickly added, “Their words, not mine.”
Even closer, Chaney felt Dev’s words against his face. “Then you’ll knock him down. Make your people understand that the worst thing they can do is favor him. You’ll write about that and about tyrants like Chisum, who think they can own anything they lay eyes on. You do that?”
Chaney said, “Oh, yes. Yes, I can.”
“The territory I control is open. Anybody can do anything they want as long as we’re in for a piece.”
“Just a tax.”
“That’s right, and we’re a hell of a lot more fair than the Washington pettifoggers. No blood has to be spilled. Just follow the rules.”
“That goes for myself, as well?”
Dev hauled Chaney to his feet, then handed him the camera as the hooded riders stepped from the deepest shadows, all with battle knives. “More for you, amigo, than anybody.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Warriors
The ladle had been shoved into the coals under the soup pot, heating th
e handle to bending before Crawford slapped the hot metal against his knife wound, searing the flesh closed. He held it, belly hair burning back, skin sizzling until Bishop yanked it from his hands.
Tossing it aside, Bishop said, “It smells like that, it’s cauterized.”
Crawford roared, “That’s how we doctor around here!”
Bishop snapped the shotgun rig from his elbow. “And I’m the one’s crazy as a suck-egg mule?”
Crawford smeared the wound with a mound of bear grease then buttoned his long flannels. “You’re the one wants to take on a whole goddamned army, not me.”
“How’re your ribs?”
“Two, maybe a third, broken.”
“Bastard wasn’t kiddin’ with that Schofield. I know you saved me, Noah.”
“But that ain’t gonna be all, is it?”
“No.”
Hunk said, “You got Apache here?” On the other side of the dugout, he was sitting on the edge of a rope bed covered in finely tanned hides, admiring the razored edge of a War Hawk Club.
Crawford said, “That’s Comanche. Born to the fight, every one of ’em. A Commanch come at ya? You’re pissin’ and prayin’ at the same time.” He picked up the five-talon iron claw from the kitchen table and fit it over his right hand. “I was good with this, and that Commanch was the one pissin’!”
“How many you killed?” Hunk swiped the air with the blade.
“Raiding party come in here, grab some horses, and try for my damn head!” Crawford said. “His brothers took off, chasing my best stock, left him on his own to kill me.”
Bishop said, “Always a mistake.”
Crawford nodded. “That Commanch damn near got me. That war club was sticking out of my neck . . . but damn near don’t count, do it? I laid his guts out so he could watch himself die. That’s what scares ’em into the afterlife.”
Hunk said, “Where is he, this Comanche?”
“I left him strung up for a while, to keep White Claw’s legend going, then buried him down creek way someplace.” Crawford moved to Hunk and opened his arms, showing the spears, shields, and axes hanging on the surrounding walls.
Hunk said, “These are all from men you killed?”
“Every damn one of ’em has blood on it, and not just mine.”
Hunk looked up at a mural that covered the curved ceiling above the bed. Tribal warriors charged across the sky with shields and lances, their horses breaking through the clouds to Heaven. The flicker of the one candle by the bed gave the mural life, its shadows making the horses run, the braves cry out.
“All of those warriors riding there, you fought them?”
“Fought ‘em all, and killed about half. My daughter painted it, to remind me that Indians ride to Heaven and I ain’t going to be so lucky.”
“Okay, White Claw.” Bishop opened Hector’s plans of the prison, laid them out on the kitchen table made from a tree stump. “Look at this. See what we need.”
Crawford said, “That paper’s for your ass. I was the first to sell army horses to them Riders. Gutted two who tried to short me, then they was good customers, bought regular.”
Bishop said, “But you’ve never been in the fortress.”
“It don’t matter. See, they ain’t gonna come at you one at a time, like that cocky bastard.”
Hunk said, “There’s more than a hundred at the prison.”
“So how you gonna kill who you want to kill?” Crawford turned, punching at nothing with the steel talons. “You got that gun rig, but you need something that’ll really bring blood to the claw.”
Bishop regarded Crawford, then said, “The wagon by the shed.”
It looked to have been an old dairy wagon, with a full-sized cooler that was painted dark red and yellow. Its sides were fringed in gold and purple, and large tassels dangled from the front and back. The door to the cooler had been replaced with stable half-doors for someone to lean out of, smiling. Light blue, it was secured with a heavy throw-bolt. The only other openings were circular air vents on either side of the cooler, repainted to look like a woman’s mouth blowing kisses.
The driver’s bench had been divided into two seats, with a special gun turret coming up between the legs of anyone riding shotgun.
Crawford said, “Pullin’ a gun or pullin’ your pecker, this is the wagon for ya.” He held an oil lamp high, throwing dim yellow around them.
Bishop unbolted the split doors and peered inside to find a bed frame, mold-eaten mattress, dirty sheets, and pieces of a broken chamber pot.
Crawford said, “Fella who owned it, called it Rolling Temptations. Only had his wife working, but he did okay, until he got himself killed, and she retired.”
Hunk swung himself into the turret seat. “We can shoot from here, maybe five minutes before we’re dead.”
Bishop said, “That’s not where I’m going to be.” He checked the screwed hinges on the split door before climbing into the cooler. His foot plunged through the flimsy wooden floor, the rotten planks splitting in half, revealing a false bottom underneath.
A raccoon scrambled out.
Crawford said, “He smuggled a lot of guns, some whiskey. If the laws stuck their nose in, he had his wife shoot ’em from the bed when they opened the back. Or he let ’em get their pants off, then shot ’em. Good customer, though.”
Bishop shook his foot loose. “How’re you fixed for powder, Noah?”
Crawford lowered the lamp, eyes narrowing. “Well-fixed, as usual.”
Bishop dropped from the back. “We’ll make some cuts from the inside, pull the bolts holding the cooler, then pack the floor with powder.”
“Lotta work. How long you been figurin’ on this?”
Bishop snapped the breech on the rig and pulled the spent shells. “And I’m going to need some ammo.”
* * *
With Bishop and Crawford pushing, Hunk pulled the wagon, backing it from the side of the dugout and over to the overhang where Crawford did his gun and smith work. He dropped the wagon’s falling tongue and stepped into the work area, taking in the rows of calibrated barrel extensions, specially cut shoulder stocks, and pistol grips. Trigger and safety mechanisms were precisely laid out on two large workbenches, with fine tools beside them.
Crawford allowed himself a laugh. “Not what you figured from White Claw, huh?”
Hunk admired the pieces of a Winchester Repeater that were being refitted.
Crawford said, “Everyone claims the ’73, but they ain’t seen what I’ve done. They’ll drop from heart attacks soon as they hear the cock.”
“A clock maker in my village, his shop was looking like this.”
“The doc’s rig is the best thing I ever done.”
Bishop came around the wagon, unhooking the trigger lines from the shotgun rig, letting them slacken, then bringing up his arm so that the double-barrel was in front of Crawford. “Now you’ve got to do better.”
Crawford spit heavily and released the harness, pulling the rig from the amputated arm. The cup had rubbed the skin raw. He placed the rig on the workbench next to a box of .12-gauge brass casings.
Bishop turned to Hunk. “Pull out the floor from the back. Save the scraps.”
Crawford put a can of black powder on the bench next to the casings. “Okay, Doc. We’ll draw some blood, then show ’em some fire.”
Hunk yanked out the flooring, tossing out the bed and the sheets as Bishop worked one-handed, knocking the bolts from the inside of the cooler with a hammer, then loosely setting them again. He took the screws from the door hinges, replacing them with wooden pegs as Hunk piled more trash from the back of the wagon.
Bishop said, “Add to the scrap pile all the metal bits you can find, then bundle it all in the old sheets.”
Hunk said, “I was in a cave-in once. Most men I ever seen die. My boss got his head knocked in two, which was okay. You work this out, set off these bombs, we’ll have a cave-in there, too.”
Crawford packed old, reinforced ammo b
oxes with four scoops of black powder from a barrel, tamping, then closing and sealing each tight for pressure. Filling the false bottom, he laid the boxes side by side with a fuse connecting them, and then covered it all with a rolled canvas. He picked up several clay jugs of kerosene, putting them atop the canvassed boxes, along with the bundles of scrap wood, old gun parts, and metal shavings.
His face and beard crusting, Crawford smiled. “Blood on the claw.”
Bishop set the kerosene and bundles into the wagon, tucking them into corners of the floor or nestled between the walls and ceiling. Small nails held the bundles in place, and the jugs were tied in place.
Hunk worked underneath, hammering a wedge between the iron plates, giving just enough room to pull the fuse to the black powder out from inside, then tie it off. He wiped grit from his eyes. “You got some more powder? One box, packed tight.”
Crawford handed him the box. “What was that word you called me?”
Hunk tied the box under the driver’s bench and secured it on either side with scraps of wood. “Nemernic. It means to you are the ass of a mule.”
Crawford worked on the shotgun rig, adjusting the trigger tension. “I’ll have to recall that one.”
Hunk stood up, looked to Bishop. “We’re taking a lot of Riders with us. Maybe all.”
“That’s the point. Don’t forget Colby.”
Crawford said, “Hell, I’m letting the wolves have that high-toned prick. Be disrespected like that? That’d really boil his shirt.”
Bishop flattened his words. “We need him. He rides in back.”
“You’re the doctor. I’m just a goddamned gunsmith.”
“Who has everything.” Bishop held up a glass bowl of magnesium chips. “This stuff almost blinded me. You know how to finish this. I’m going to round up the horses.”
Crawford poured out a powder mixture through a small funnel into the brass shell casings and said to Hunk, “He’s going to get his war.”
Bushwhacked Page 47
