Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  The German said, “I only know what they tell me to do.”

  “If you’re not joining, I need another gun.” Hunk grabbed the rifle, jamming it inward, then yanking it hard, snapping the German’s arm at the elbow.

  He screamed as Hunk took the weapon, checked it.

  “I didn’t shoot, Karl. Gave you a chance. Get more men if you want, but I’d go home to my wife. Now.” Hunk swatted the German’s horse, watched them dart back up the hill, and away. Then, he pried open a case of dynamite.

  * * *

  The young woman and the boy were smeared with blood.

  “—as beautiful as the day I married you . . .” John Bishop’s voice was a drifting whisper in his mind. His mouth parted, thinking he was speaking, but words were a dried nothing. Pain streaked behind his eyelids as he turned his head, reaching out for the photograph of his wife and son, curled into a loving embrace. It was his favorite.

  But wife and son were soaked through red, and their image, their faces, crumbled in Bishop’s hand as he tried to hold them, the pieces sticking to his fingers.

  “You’re nearly dead . . . and closer to them now than you’ve been in years, brother. You should thank me.” Dev Bishop was halfway down the iron steps leading from the main cells to the condemned underground where prisoners sat in darkness, waiting for their turn with the hangman. It was called the Tomb because it got them used to being buried. He had the Navy Six and was gesturing toward an old cell, the door twisted apart. “That’s where I was the day you came. That last one, remember?”

  “Killed—”

  “What?”

  John Bishop tried speaking again, but nothing came out. He crooked his neck, taking in the empty cells from where he was lying. Bent metal bars became skeletons and the stone walls, stained by blood and fire and stretching upward into nothing but black, gave the feeling of a deep pit. A stench of rotting, something sweet and dead, stung Bishop as he slowly eased himself up, resting his only forearm on the bundle next to him.

  It was Colby, still wrapped and bound, with the ripe setting in. His “John Bishop Target File” was littered across him, those family papers and photographs sticky with his blood.

  Dev said, “Surrounded by death, but you’re a doc. Used to it. That’s one of my men, a real professional gentleman, and you killed him. How many dead is it, brother? One story I read declared over forty. I’d double that. I think it’s right—you and one of mine that you shot apart—buried in the same pit.”

  * * *

  In the tunnel behind the Tomb, Hunk had stopped crawling, wedging himself against a boarded and bricked access way sealed over with mud. His shoulders touched either side of the tunnel walls, and there was no room for him to raise his head as he slipped a quarter stick of dynamite up through his jacket with the tips of his fingers until he could grab it with his teeth and drop it in front of him.

  He heard Dev Bishop on the other side of the wall. “Only one life have I personally ended, and I’m the outlaw. You’re the hero. Funny world, ain’t it?”

  * * *

  John Bishop, surrounded by the cells, could see his brother standing, holding the gun.

  “We’re . . . supposed to . . . blood.”

  “Going to try about being brothers? Hell, the day you was born, I was finished.” Dev got louder. “Now that’s a fact. You got it all, so I made my own way, run territories, command these men.”

  “Mae . . . maniacs.”

  “Yeah, a few locos, but mostly soldiers nobody needed anymore, and raw-backs looking for work, half of those not talking American. Hell, I couldn’t read or write till a year ago. Not bad.”

  Bishop was sitting up. He slapped his right hand in a puddle of rainwater, brought it to his face, drinking what he could. Aware of movement—something in the dark beyond him, he said, “I did . . . nothing to you.”

  Dev had raised the pistol a bit, but stayed his place. “Nothing to me, or for me. Dumbest thing, you comin’ here to visit. Getting yourself set up. A leader can’t have no family ties. That’s one way he gets brought down.” He took a step down with his right leg, bracing himself on the landing to absorb the kick of the Navy Six. “You had your fine time, and fine life. I had this.”

  Bishop’s words cut against his vocal chords as he moved his left hand beneath Colby’s wrapped body. “Kill . . . killed my family.”

  “You’ve caused me a hell of a lot of trouble, and all because I couldn’t put a bullet in you my own self.”

  Bishop pulled Colby to him as Dev fired the first shot, punching the corpse in the back and legs, thudding dead tissue and bone.

  The gun flames lit the Tomb, the sound bouncing off the stone walls a thousand times, colliding every moment.

  In the first jail cell, the access panel from the tunnel split open, pushed out by Hunk’s knees and elbows.

  Dev fired again, the slug biting Bishop’s leg as it tore into the cloth wrapping Colby’s body. Bishop reached in to free the gun he’d put in the dead man’s hand.

  Red hoods charged from the back cells, shooting wild. Bullet strikes ripped the floor and Colby’s body. John Bishop still shielded himself, trying for the gun.

  Hunk tossed the quarter dynamite, the explosion blowing apart the wall, sending pieces of the cell, section of the door, flying. A hood turned, as a bent iron bar spun into him, piercing his chest and knocking him dead off his feet.

  Hunk jammed the Winchester through the access way and opened up, taking down two Riders who were trying to stand after the force of the blast.

  Outside rang the clanging of a general alarm.

  Dev stumbled on the stairs. Holding Colby’s body, Bishop couldn’t free the pistol, so he squeezed the trigger with Colby’s stiff fingers. The shots blasted through the corpse bag, cutting Dev at the hip.

  Hunk tore through the access way into the Tomb, shooting a Rider charging from behind the iron stairs. Bishop brought Colby’s arm up and shot the last Rider in the chest.

  It was over in seconds, Hunk’s and Bishop’s ears were ringing like church bells as they made it to the iron stairs. Spots of Dev’s blood led to the trapdoor, which was closed and barred tight.

  Bishop crawled back to Colby’s body, pushing aside the torn bits and pieces of the target file until he found one of his wedding pictures with only its edges stained. He slipped the picture into his shirt. Hunk gave him White Claw’s pistol before clearing the wood and brick from the tunnel access.

  Hunk went in first, scraping his way against the earth walls. Bishop took himself along on his one arm, the slug from Dev’s gun working deeper into his leg.

  The alarm was constant, but dulled by the tunnel.

  They hauled forward, rats running across their shoulders, then down their arms. They kept moving. Faster. Bishop’s amputated right arm shook the rats off, his left propelling him to the tunnel’s end.

  The crawl dumped them into an open area, part of the original prison’s root cellar. Hunk twisted himself onto the floor. Bishop rolled out, rats scattering after.

  The room’s damp was years thick, and what light there was snuck in around the old trap for the slide that had been the vegetable scuttle.

  Bishop said, “We can’t have them using that.”

  Hunk lit a full stick of dynamite and threw it into the crawl.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Detonations

  Minutes before, Smythe had adjusted his crutches, bringing himself a foot closer to the Temptation Wagon parked on the yard near the bullet maker’s.

  Chaney was checking the image on his wet-plate camera, directing four Riders behind Smythe to hold their rifles, “in that Geronimo pose.” He said to Smythe, “Hoist your victory. Be proud, now.”

  Flash pans were aimed directly at the subjects, and all had eyes strained open with expressions frozen—serious. Smythe smoothed his suit lapel and held the shotgun rig high.

  The pans burst white-yellow, exactly as the first dynamite explosion from the tunnels rumbled the gr
ound.

  A kid asked, “Are—are we being attacked, sir?”

  Smythe ordered, “Sound the general, and all Riders to defense positions! Battle ready! Now, ladies! NOW!”

  The kid rang the alarm bell standing in the corner of the yard.

  Riders snatched guns from the racks, ran to stations along the walls, and climbed ladders to sniping perches, hoisting extra ammo cases by rope and tackle. Tarps were lowered, disguising potential targets as the bullet maker slapped pistols into the hands of Riders running for the corral, saddling horses, bringing them out.

  The howitzer was rolled into place, aimed through a port in the front gate, facing the oncoming enemy. It was loaded and primed.

  Smythe raised himself on his crutches, pleased, before taking himself to the main building, the rig hanging from his shoulder. Riders dashed around him, taking up weapons and throwing salutes that Smythe returned with pride. He got himself to the top of the main cell block, looking down as Dev slammed the trapdoor to the Tomb shut, then bolted it.

  Pain threw Dev off balance, blood from his hip painting his right leg. He recovered. “Call off the alarm!”

  “You need doctorin’.”

  Dev went up the main steps, favoring his leg and cocking a glance. “I know you gave the order so take the men off the wall, Smythe. I’m in command.”

  “I know, but I ain’t ignoring that blast or who shot you. The men are at the ready and damned fast.”

  Dev wiped his blood onto his hand. “They’re still not like the Apache. That’s what we need for raids. How you need to train them.”

  Smythe chose his words. “The men are ready for this fight, son.” He held up the shotgun rig.

  Dev dismissed it as if talking about his brother. “He’s in the Tomb, dying. Means nothing now.” Before Dev reached the metal landing, Hunk’s second dynamite charge exploded in the crawl tunnels.

  * * *

  Bishop and Hunk came up from the cellar by the old service stairs and moved into the main corridor, Hunk with the Winchester, Bishop with the specialty pistol. Both took a few steps then held, listening for movement in the maze of narrow halls and accesses. Bishop wagged his arm, getting used to shooting lefty. Thumbing the hammer, Hunk turning quickly from the waist, firing two slugs into the throat of the Rider at the end of the corridor.

  The Rider was collapsing to the floor as Bishop fired down the hallway, laying out two more running up from the opposite side. Clean head shots to both. Coming around, he killed a third, brandishing a saber.

  Again, it was over in seconds. Hearts stopping before the last of the gunshot echo faded off.

  Bishop left most of the third red hood on the wall, quickstepped around Hunk, and walked deliberately down a far length that turned into the open hallway of the second floor. He stopped, suddenly looking down at the black-haired little girl holding the breathing mask to her face. They were feet from the door to the warden’s office, Tomlinson standing behind April Showers, with May Flowers’ arms wrapped around his waist.

  He carried a small satchel, and they were all in their travelling clothes. April Showers’ device-breathing was as loud as the alarm. “Are you coming with us?”

  “Later.”

  Bishop nodded toward the door. “My brother?”

  Tomlinson said, “Smythe went in with your gun. That’s all that I saw. I’m taking care of my family.”

  Bishop scooped April Showers under his left arm and carried her to a small alcove away from the office. May Flowers ran after her sister, with Tomlinson beside.

  He looked to Bishop, then called out, “Smythe! I need to get in the office!”

  Smythe said from behind the door, “I told you to scoot you and your girls out of here!”

  Bishop and Hunk took places on either side of the door, weapons raised. Bishop, coiled, eyes washing red, signaled Tomlinson to try again.

  “Is anyone there with you? Devlin, is he there?”

  Gunshots ripped the door and frame and into the corridor, hitting the walls. Tomlinson pulled his girls to the floor, covered them both as Bishop shot the large hinges apart, the iron sparking.

  Hunk sledgehammered the wood, splitting it in half, and they plowed into the office. Bishop fired over Hunk’s shoulder, hitting Smythe at the warden’s desk.

  Smythe got off two more shots, one slug skidding against one of Hunk’s ribs, the other missing. With Bishop and Hunk before him, he let the pistol sag in his hand. The office was wrecked, their guns casually aimed.

  Everyone was wounded.

  “You aimed high, Doctor. Hit my shoulder. That was on purpose, I’m sure.” Smythe, his face pulped, looked to the safe in the corner, door wide, and money gone. “Aye, you’re too late.”

  The shotgun rig and bandolier were laid out on the desk as trophies, and Smythe pushed them toward Bishop, his movement opening his jacket, revealing the wound in his stomach, blood spreading wide and dark. He slumped back in the leather chair with the bullet hole. “Your brother didn’t shoot high. You really set him off. You’re the one man he can’t seem to kill. He beat me with your rig, then shot me for good measure. After cleaning us out, of course.” Smythe actually laughed at this last.

  Bishop said, “You’ve got a chance to survive your wounds, if we get you out.”

  “Can’t help being a doc?” Smythe pounded on his unfeeling legs. “I’d not be looking forward to more of this. Struggled along, goin’ home a rich man. Maybe buy me-self a new pair of legs, or at least a sweet strumpet for a bride.”

  Smythe raised the pistol.

  Hunk pulled up the Winchester, cocking it.

  “You’re taking it all down, are you? Everything we built?”

  Bishop said, “This place should be ashes.”

  “And then his little town?”

  “If that’s where he’s hiding.”

  Smythe said, “When I was chief guard, I called this the Abyss, from Dante’s Inferno, running the last circle of hell. Then your brother started talkin’, and I helped him take over. I was conjuring something great and followin’ a man what couldn’t read or write. My old dad’s laughin’ from his grave at a fool son.”

  Bishop fit the rig over his half-arm and bloody shirt, settling into the amputee cup.

  Smith said, “These fellas trained well and are finally gettin’ it. It won’t be no easy battle, even for you, Doc.”

  “I never wanted it to be,” Bishop said, slipping his left arm through the shotgun brace, bringing the trigger lines tight.

  Hunk opened a box of cigars on the desk, and grabbed a fistful, saying, “But we will be inflicting pain.”

  Smythe had the pistol angled to his temple and said to Hunk, “Of that, I have no doubt. Never seen anyone stronger than you, boy-o, or more tilted than the doctor. Accountant, you’re keeping your girls in the hallway, yes?”

  Tomlinson gathered the girls to him, but April Showers twisted away, trying to see, as Smythe fired the shot.

  “You’ve protected my girls so far. I just want to get them to safety.”

  Bishop said, “And the satchel of money.”

  “There’ll be more men coming.”

  Bishop was tying off the bandolier as they made their way down the corridor, Tomlinson and his girls leading.

  Hunk said “The kid, he showed us where there could be treasure. Made a map.”

  April Showers ran ahead and around the corner to the open landing that brought all the lead ways to the old and new prisons together. She stood in front of one of the fire-scorched portraits in the gallery of previous wardens. “I also told that lady-talkin’ man about this place. Go ahead, you’re the scary giant.”

  Hunk took hold of the painting and lifted, removing it and an attached section of the wall, wood painted as stone, that hid the way to the old execution chamber.

  Tomlinson said, “Warden’s escape.”

  Bishop’s head was down, pain increasing with his heart beat, eyes flooding red. “The stores?”

  Hunk kept
the cigar in his teeth. “And treasure.”

  Tomlinson said, “You’ll find what you need.”

  April Showers tightened the ties around Bishop’s arm “Sometimes, thinking about you gives me nightmares. Other times, okay.”

  Tomlinson took the hands of his daughters and quickstepped them away. The sisters turned, wrinkled their noses, then ran with their father.

  Out of sight, May Flowers started to sing, the beautiful sound drifting back.

  Bishop and Hunk went through the false wall and onto a dirt slope that had been graded by the wheels of carts weighted by stolen weapons. They made it halfway.

  Standing guard, a Rider with two revolvers stepped out from behind a stone arch. He tried to say something cocky as he shot.

  The flash of the Rider’s guns and the magnesium-fire explosion of Dragon’s Breath from the shotgun collided in midair. The flame swallowed the Rider, then the black powder and buckshot blast tore his chest and threw him backwards off his feet, his body open and red tunic on fire.

  He rolled off the slope to the chamber floor.

  Bishop pulled the shell and reloaded from the bandolier. “Blood on the claw.”

  * * *

  In the prison yard, Riders separated themselves into patrol units, charging the main building, following the gunfire. They broke on either side to close in when ordered.

  His daughters on either side of him on the driver’s bench, Tomlinson braked his prairie schooner with the wildly colored canopy at the main gate. Two Riders standing with the howitzer blocked the way out.

  “We have business to conduct for Mr. Bishop. Open the gates,” Tomlinson ordered.

  One of the Fire Riders stepped forward. “Yeah, and where the hell in creation is he?”

  Sweaty and with his hood pulled back, the other one said, “Somebody’s giving us what for!” He pulled the cannon aside.

  Tomlinson pushed his glasses up on his nose and gave the reins a quick jostle. The wagon lurched forward. Chaney ran up from behind and crawled in. Rolling back, he tucked his legs under his knees, camera and negatives cradled in his arms like newborns.