Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  “When we fought, I saw his eyes, bloodred, and he killed everything. Then he was doctor again, fixed my leg. This time, I think he fights until he dies.”

  Crawford sealed the shells and loaded the rig. “So the doc’s finally a warrior.”

  Hunk said, “I just hope your daughter’s right about them getting to Heaven, for my own sake.”

  “Too late to worry about that, but I ain’t gonna be denied my pleasures in the here and now.”

  Crawford pulled the claw over his right hand and marched to the corral, with Hunk following. He jammed the five talons into the back of Colby’s body, deep between his shoulders. Hefting him up, he dragged him to the wagon. “Wish he could feel this, but does me some good.”

  Hunk gathered Colby’s feet and lifted, dumping him into the back of the cooler. He settled, dead weight, on top of the tarped explosives.

  Crawford bolted the half-doors. “That necklace from the tree, keep it.”

  “I took for my wife. I want to send her something before . . . before we do this.”

  Crawford shook the metal talons clean. “It’s Cheyenne. She’ll like it.”

  * * *

  The rusting steel grave marker settled into the soft ground quickly with Bishop leaning on it, pressing down. He backed up a step, seeing his crooked marker between White Fox and her mother. His name had been destroyed by Colby’s bullet strikes, but that felt appropriate to him.

  The sun was rising off the near Colorado peaks. The morning felt fresh, the clearing better than it had the night before. The bay and the stolen horses were in sight, drinking from the small stream that followed the woods.

  “It was your reputation brought that bastard here. Told me he’d read every word printed about you, even something in French. Cocky bastard.”

  Bishop didn’t turn at Crawford’s voice, just stood in front of his own empty grave.

  Crawford said, “I put up them markers so folks would think you dead, get you a little peace. But you wouldn’t have it, would you?”

  “I tried.”

  “Crazier than a suck-egg mule!”

  “The bloodier the legend, the more fear in the heart of my enemies. Isn’t that what you told me?”

  Crawford got down from his horse, carrying the shotgun rig and bandolier. “Sounds about right.”

  “I never said a word to those papers. They came up with everything. I’d never put your daughter into it.”

  “You took care of her, Doc. That’s how come I helped you this time. That prisoner says you got the blood eyes. I know what that is, ’cause it happened to me.”

  “A blood vessel breaks under pressure.”

  Crawford said, “That’s a doc’s way of figuring things ’cause then you don’t have to think about becoming something else.”

  Bishop was someplace else. “It’s not that.”

  Crawford crouched by the marker with ARCHISHA—MOTHER AND WIFE—SHE LIVES ALWAYS scrolled across it and pulled away some new weeds around it. “She couldn’t take it. Hung herself instead of living with a wild killer. That ain’t gonna happen to my daughter, not ending up here beside her mother.”

  Bishop said, “You got no worries, Noah.”

  “Hell, she’d never do herself in, but you might get her killed.”

  “White Fox has got nothing to do with me anymore.”

  “All right then.”

  Crawford held out the shotgun and the bandolier with the new shells. “Dragon’s Breath. Anybody tries for you, that’s the taste of hell.”

  Bishop took the rig and ammunition, tucking the gun under his left arm “‘Taste of hell.’ They can use that in the Gazette.”

  “Your idea,” Crawford said. “However this ends up, it’s going to make history some way.”

  “Maybe you can sell the marker for a few dollars.”

  “A few dollars never interested me, Doc.” Crawford kicked at several bent and twisted Colt pistols stacked behind the grave markers. Scorched pieces of twine were attached to the triggers, dangling loose about a foot. “What’s all this?”

  “Found them when I was rounding the horses. Colby tied pistols to the trees, cocked them to fire with the force of the grenade blast, give him some cover. He knew what we’d be using.”

  “But we still got the best of the little bastard. He wasn’t no warrior.” Crawford spit long. “You leave me all his fancy guns?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Burning Down

  The gold tassels hanging from the Temptation Wagon jiggled back and forth as Hunk braked on the side of a small road that gave them a clear view of the prison in the distance.

  It was a squat outline against blue mountains, with the blasted-apart towers and falling-down walls giving the impression of ruins, just as intended. There were no riders approaching it, no stray horses running.

  Hunk said, “Like nobody’s there.”

  Bishop was tying his bay to the back of the wagon. “Which means they’re all there.”

  “Yah, probably. And getting ready for a big operation. Lots of money, lots of promises.”

  Bishop took the shotgun rig and the bandolier with the Dragon’s Breath shells from his saddlebag and handed them up to Hunk on the driver’s bench.

  “You captured me and my arsenal. That should restore your standing with the Riders.”

  “My what?”

  Bishop said, “When they haul me out of the back, just make sure you go along, carrying the rig. We’ve got to get inside the main building, then follow the tunnels.”

  “Maybe I find gold, and you find your brother.”

  “Lock me up.”

  Bishop moved to the back of the wagon, throwing open the half-doors and climbing inside. He got around Colby’s body, which was wrapped and tied, and made it to a corner. The explosives, kerosene, and shrapnel were all in their places around him and properly covered.

  Hunk was at the door. “So now you’re my prisoner.”

  “Just get us inside. And when the battle starts, don’t be near this thing.”

  “How we get to be comrades?”

  Bishop, decapitated by the deep shadows, said, “A common enemy. Something Mr. Chisum believed in.”

  “So does your brother, believe me.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bogdan.”

  “Hope I see you again.”

  Hunk snorted, shut the doors, and bolted them, leaving Bishop in total darkness.

  * * *

  The string of fresh horses came first, followed by a howitzer, and then two flat wagons of cavalry rifles. Red-hooded riders flanked the stolen weapons, riding in a showy circle around the prison yard as Chaney fixed his camera to a tripod.

  He was focusing on ten Fire Riders standing with guns shouldered and sabers drawn, the horses and cannon passing behind them. He was experimenting. Trying to catch motion as an energetic blur, offsetting the posed Riders in the foreground.

  Chaney had told the prison telegraph boy, “I’d like to leave one image behind with my name on it. It’ll be worth more than the price of a tacky newspaper. Hell’s rings, they’re going to kill me anyway, so why not try?”

  He opened the lens exposure, and extended the bellows to its full length, before changing the position of the flash pans to throw optimum light. Chaney thought for a moment, eyed the Riders, then moved the pans again.

  Dev Bishop watched the yard from the small, barred window in the old warden’s office, with Tomlinson beside him, his two daughters wrapped tightly around their father’s legs. “This will be on every front page.”

  Tomlinson said, “The howitzer’s a good addition and very effective for certain assaults, but you have an entire town to think about. That’s your income stream.”

  Dev glanced back at the open ledger on his desk surrounded by a pile of notes and summaries. “Your world’s on the desk. The howitzer, maybe that’s my world.”

  Both girls pulled on Tomlinson’s knees for attention, and his hands went gently to them. �
�Begging your pardon, Mr. Bishop, but you’re not seeing what change is coming.”

  Dev was looking down into the prison yard again, past the horses and men to connect with Smythe. “I do, accountant. You do not. Not the way it matters.”

  Smythe gave Dev a wave from where he was by the open front gates, leaning on his crutches. He was watching the road that led to the entrance, seeing something fast approaching, and had to grin. “I’ll be a cockeyed son of a bitch.” Then he yelled, “Pickets! Make a line!”

  * * *

  Hunk steered the Temptation Wagon into the prison yard. Even seeing all the familiar faces pointing rifles and pistols, he didn’t snap the team into a run. He slowed. The bay, still hitched to the back, slowed too, snorting.

  His wounded leg was throbbing, and he felt moisture around the stitching where his ear used to be, but Hunk ignored those nerve stabbings, and brought the wagon to a stop beside the target range. He tossed a hand to the red hoods aiming at him.

  He listened for a sound from Bishop inside the wagon, but there was nothing, just the gold tassels rapping against the purple sides. Guns followed Hunk climbing off the driver’s seat, landing stiff-legged, just as Smythe dragged himself over from behind the Gatling gun, taking a small-caliber Colt from his belt as he moved.

  Smythe said, “Well, this is like seeing a Highland ghost.”

  “Because you send those câini to kill me?”

  “I know some of your talk, boy-o. Those were your brother Riders, supposed to bring you in, but you didn’t give them much chance.”

  Smythe leaned by the horse team, the pistol casual in his hand. The other guns were moving in closer to Hunk, a foot at a time. One kid pulled off his hood, wiped the sweat from his eyes, but never dropped aim of his rifle and bayonet. Hunk disregarded all and walked to the back of the wagon.

  Smythe said, “You’re travelling in interesting style, boy-o.”

  Chaney turned his camera around, focusing on Hunk and all the weapons pointed at the same target as if aimed at a giant rattlers’ nest.

  Hunk brushed a Rider aside with a massive hand, stood beside the bay, and said to Smythe, “You know this fine horse?”

  He threw over the bolt, opening the doors, then took Colby’s body by the ankles, pulling it out, and letting it sag to the ground at Smythe’s feet. It was a tangled bundle, with Colby’s head exposed, face slack, and eyes filmed over.

  “The fancy talker. You give him special job to get the man what belongs this horse. And look.” Hunk pushed on Colby’s sagging body with the toe of his boot. “Look how he failed.”

  Smythe said, “Killing Mr. Colby, now that’s a bold move.”

  “Yah, and this.” Into the back of the wagon, Hunk barked, “Get out of there. Now.”

  * * *

  Dev was leaning into his office window, palms flat against the wall, watching the yard as his brother climbed from the wagon.

  John Bishop’s only hand was in the air, surrendering to his brother’s men.

  Dev’s breath caught somewhere deep inside him.

  * * *

  By the wagon, Hunk said, “See. I’m the one didn’t fail.”

  John Bishop finally lowered his left arm and looked to Hunk when the first rope wrapped around his neck, pulling him off his feet. He clawed, the rope being pulled tighter by one Rider, choking, while another lashed his ankles tight.

  Dev shouted the order through his barred window. “The Tomb!”

  Some Fire Riders heard him.

  Excited and laughing, Chaney captured it all, switching out negative plates as Bishop was dragged across the yard, twisting in the dust, Riders running alongside.

  Victory shots popped the air while the old bullet maker tossed empty brass like it was confetti bouncing off Bishop’s chest. Smythe said to Hunk, “Very well done, boy-o. I’d give you full marks.”

  Hunk watched John Bishop for a moment—a roped prisoner struggling before he was hauled into the old cell block—then reached under the driver’s seat, taking out the double-barreled rig and the ammunition bandolier. He said to Smythe, “Everything, all from this Shotgun.”

  “Devlin will be most appreciative. I’ll see to it.”

  With the Colt aimed at Hunk’s gut, Smythe pulled the rig away from Hunk. “How many of my men did you get killed in Myrtle? You had a case of grenades, and still lost everyone. Didn’t even bring back Chisum’s herd.”

  Hunk felt a bayonet’s jab at the base of his spine.

  Smythe split the breech of the rig and examined the shells. “How many of my men, boy-o?”

  Fire Riders took the horse team bridle, and led the wagon to the other side of the yard.

  Hunk watched his prize capture rolling off and said to Smythe, “He wanted the brother more than anything. I figured that would be enough to make me all right. Take me inside so I can show my prisoner.”

  Smythe shook his head in wonder. “Aye, you’ve got as much brains as a mountain of slag.”

  The giant’s moves were unexpectedly fast. Hunk turned, grabbing the rifle and bayonet from the Rider behind him. Wrenching it upward, he nearly bent the barrel. The Rider fired, shooting wild. Hunk pounded him down with the butt of the gun, spun, and buried the blade deep into the chest of another Rider attacking.

  Hunk’s voice was a roar, jerking the speared Rider off the ground, then pitchforking him across the yard. His dead weight smashed into the red hoods by the rifle targets.

  The moment of silent shock offered only breath and heartbeats. as Hunk swiped his stiff leg into Smythe, taking him off his crutches. He freed the bay, swung on, and charged.

  The Riders opened fire. Gunshots flew and orders were shouted. Smythe rolled onto his hip, shoving his dead legs aside with both hands, then leveling the Colt, shooting twice. A slug blew Hunk’s shoulder, spraying red, knocking him sideways. He stayed on the horse, leaping over the howitzer, and running beyond the prison gates.

  Across the yard, Chaney clicked the shutter release on the bellows camera and threw his head back, shouting, “Yes, yes, indeed!” He looked up to the warden’s office window, and Dev Bishop was gone.

  * * *

  The broken-stone floor sliced John Bishop as he was pulled through the corridors and down the steps to the main cell block, the rope tightening around his throat. His eyes rolled and pain in his head erupted as they let him lie, a crowd of Fire Riders moving in around him.

  He saw the little girl with the breathing device over her mouth, watching.

  The device he’d made.

  April Showers waved, saying something into her mask as the trap door opened. Bishop was picked up by the shoulders and ankles and hurled to the cells below.

  She could hear his falling as she drew again through the tube attached to the oxygen box.

  Beside April Showers, Dev also watched his brother. Holding a Navy Six, he said, “That’s not the man to favor, little girl. Not to help your papa.”

  “He helped me.” She looked up at Dev and kept inhaling deep.

  * * *

  The Fire Rider with the German accent kept his right arm extended, aiming the rifle as he brought his horse closer to Hunk. The two flanking him rode up, then fell into step beside the German, waiting for orders. They had all sprung from the hidey-holes outside the gates, and had trailed Hunk to this point.

  The German was straining, but had his aim. “That was a good shot, a good one the English made, but not for killing.”

  One of the Riders, the scalps of Union troopers hanging from his belt, nodded toward Hunk, who was now barely on the bay, bloody arms dangling, eyes closed, his chin pressed against his chest.

  The German said, “That’s not all his blood.”

  The Rider said, “He’s bled out deader than Honest Abe, which is the only honest thing he ever did.”

  Hunk blew a hole in the Rider’s chest before he could turn and share the laugh with his buddies. The other Rider flanking the German was surprised, never even getting his gun above the leather b
efore Hunk shot him perfectly between the eyes.

  Both fell from their horses, leaving the German pointing the rifle at Hunk, who, in turn, had one of White Claw’s specialty .45s pointed at the German. The recut grip fit perfectly in Hunk’s large hand, and the new trigger guard accommodated his fingers.

  The barrel of the pistol seemed inescapable, and Hunk said, “You’re not shooting, Karl.”

  “I can, still.”

  “You’d have already. You see how they turned on me. They can do the same for you.”

  The German kept the rifle up. “Ride out, Bogdan.”

  “Ride with me. Let me show you something. You’ll have the rifle.” Hunk urged the bay to a run, and the German followed, holding the Winchester out to his side, aimed at Hunk’s bleeding shoulders. The two men rode for a time, circling back toward the prison, then taking their horses down a series of grassed hills to a small road that led to the oldest part of the structure.

  Like the rest of Rawlins Penitentiary, the stone wall was fire damaged, with large sections taken down by the cellar explosion from years before. Rock and corroded steel were piled up, forming their own new wall.

  Hunk got off his horse, taking a few steps to where a trench had been dug along the foundation.

  The German asked, “What are you showing me?”

  “Money, Karl. All Bishop’s money, buried in the tunnels here.”

  “A fairy tale I’ve heard before.”

  “A kid was here. He told me. Explosives also buried here, like we used in the mines.”

  Hunk knelt, grabbing at large sections of muddy earth inside the trench and digging it out with his fingers, revealing the edge of a dynamite case. “See? He’s right about the bombs. He said there could be gold, too. Help me find, and I’ll give you share.”

  Karl had the rifle aimed downward from his saddle. “They promised a reward for you.”

  “Dev Bishop or the English with no legs, they ever pay extra? For anyone? Or given us fairly for what we stole? No, but they shot me quick enough. There’s a crawling tunnel there. That’s how they get out. Leave us to hang.”

  Karl quietly housed a shell, cocking the repeater.

  Hunk moved to him, the end of the rifle barrel almost flush with his chest as he looked up at his friend.