Tomlinson had the team out of the prison gates, his snout-nosed daughters singing, “Yes, we will gather at the river; the beautiful, the beautiful, river—”
Tomlinson patted the valise next to him. “That’s good, dears. Give them one last chance to hear it.”
* * *
In the old execution chamber, rotting nooses hung above a gallows platform. Empty grenade casings and cannonballs were stacked on its thirteen steps.
Hunk said to Bishop, “Stretch the neck. Your brother, he’d threaten that some days.”
They managed around the crates labeled PROPERTY OF U.S. CAVALRY, THE ARMY OF THE CONFEDERACY, THE UNION NAVY, THE NAVY OF THE CONFEDERATE STATES, VIRGINIA VOLUNTEERS, SMITH & WESSON GUN WORKS. Hoods and tunics were in a large pile next to Apache spears, next to machetes, next to clubs, next to battleship shells, and next to mines.
“Your brother thinks he’s a conqueror. I just wanted money.”
Bishop said, “This . . . place can’t be his monument.” He tore open a box of .12-gauge shells and filled his pockets. “I’ll get the front gates, take the cannon. You set off this lot and bring down the cells.”
“Doctor, maybe a better way. Your bay’s on the other side. Get it. Find your brother. I’ll do this.” Hunk’s wounds spattered the top of his boots. He wiped them on his trouser legs. “I’m not going nowhere.” His words weren’t reaching Bishop.
The doctor loaded a regular shell in one barrel of the rig, Dragon’s Breath in the other. “I can give us two minutes. Cross the yard then get the wagon.”
Hunk watched him reach with his left arm and put two fighting knives into the right side of his belt. “This is what you always wanted, I think. I see what you are now. Rzbunare este pace. Revenge is peace.”
* * *
Moving as they did when raiding houses with Quantrill, shooting innocents, Fire Riders with rifles ran the hall to the warden’s office, then held by the smashed doorway, ready to shoot to pieces the first thing that moved, or made a sound. For that moment, everything was still.
One Rider gave a nod, and they peeled into the office, stepping over the wreckage. They found Smythe, a bullet hole in his temple and all the money gone.
The same Rider said, “In on this attack, took the easy way, knowing we’d hog-hang him and cut his throat.”
* * *
Hunk crouched by some barrels, leveling the Winchester, covering Bishop from behind. The rifle felt heavier to him, his hands and eyes wet from strain.
Bishop looked over his shoulder and touched the brim of his hat before stepping through the blown-apart section of the old wall. He threw aside the disguising canvas and walked into the day, the rig leveled from his hip, White Claw’s pistol held confidently in his left hand.
It took seconds for him to take in the positions of the Riders around the yard, the closeness to the horses, the howitzer, and his final target, the Temptation Wagon. He’d work around the base of the high wall, taking out any men there, reload, keep moving toward the wagon to get underneath.
Bishop hadn’t taken his next step when a Rider scaling the back wall shouted, alerting the yard, then opened up with a revolver. Bishop shot once, cutting him through the eye.
Hunk cracked off cover fire.
Red hoods charged from behind the med tent as Bishop moved, firing the first .12-gauge barrel to the chest of one, turning and then shooting the Dragon’s Breath.
Fire erupted from the barrel, slamming a second Rider backwards, his hood on fire. The buckshot tore through him, then burning and wounding a third.
Tunics were in flames as Riders dragged away the dying and dead. Screams and confused orders. Hunk didn’t let up, pumping shots into two more. Bishop fired precisely with the pistol, dead-hitting four Riders running for horses. They spun to the ground.
Bishop made it to the old barricades. He reloaded the pistol and the rig. Slipping a Dragon shell from the bandolier, the oil from the beaver skin pelt sliding the brass into the double-barrel, then making a single movement snapping it shut.
The blood washed through his eyes, completely staining his vision. Riders’ red tunics were gray moving targets. Gray uniforms. He waded in, not waiting for the first shot or giving surrender any chances. Attacking and advancing on the enemy.
Moving from the cover of old stones, Bishop fired a Dragon shell at a stack of ammo cases, blowing them apart and igniting them. Moving again, he leveled another Rider with a .12-gauge blast from the second barrel.
Brass shucked, he reloaded one-handed, but faster than a rifle shot.
Bishop tore into Riders coming from all corners of the prison, trying to surround him. It was turn and fire—shotgun, pistol, then shotgun again—hoods hitting the ground, dead before weapons could even be aimed.
Quick-moving to the wall, Bishop got closer to the Temptation Wagon. Reloading on the way.
The ammo boxes were burning, brass casings heating.
Gunfire burst from the top of the walls, along the barbed wire. Hunk emptied the Winchester, punching a sniper with shots to the chest. Body jerking forward then back, the sniper fell screaming.
Bishop kept to the ground, sighting his target, then, moved for the wagon.
At the same moment the sniper slammed to the ground, the ammo cases exploded.
* * *
From the chamber, Hunk fired off the last cover round from the Winchester, grabbed a box of ammunition from a shelf, then stopped. His eyes fixed on what was behind the boxes, and he gave a shake of disbelief at what he was seeing.
Silver, light beading from it, neatly stacked in rows.
Hunk moved to the shelf, holding his hand against the bullet wound in his belly, ignoring his knee, and picked up one bar. ALFRED NOBEL COMPANY was pressed into the silver foil.
Hunk’s smile straightened. Breaking the silver wrapping with his thumb, he revealed the caked white gelignite underneath. He ran a finger along the edge of the explosive, then had to laugh to himself. “The silver he found.”
He took the Cheyenne necklace from his pocket, saying quietly, “So ia mea.”
Exploding ammunition from the yard filled the chamber with smoke and the shrill of bullets as they bounced off empty iron shells of rockets and grenades.
Hunk ducked the ricochets, the necklace back in his pocket against his heart. Blood stuck his shirt to his body, and he had to grab hold of an old Confederate standard pole to steady himself.
Hunk stiff-walked to the gallows where the stolen percussion mines were placed side by side on the fifth step.
* * *
Ammunition rain covered Bishop as he ran around the side of the wall. A slug pierced his shoulder, tearing him sideways, but not slowing him down. He was behind the hay bale targets, the Temptation Wagon directly across the yard from his position.
His rested his right half-arm on a hay bale, the barrel of the rig searing hot. The hay started to smoke. He angled the rig straight from the shoulder and a little downward at the fuse protruding through the iron plates under the wagon.
Behind Bishop, a Rider ran in fast on a new pony, drawing down with a Colt to shoot him in the skull.
Bishop cocked around, swinging the rig up and sending buckshot through the Rider’s gut. His body sloped from the saddle, the horse breaking across the yard as guns along the walls opened up, slicing the air with a barrage of rifle fire.
Blood ran down his arm, soaking the rig, but not affecting Bishop’s aim. The double-barrel was directed, the thin chains from the trigger tight across his back, and through the harness to his left hand. A slug ripped next to his face, but he didn’t flinch.
He couldn’t.
Bishop pulled the line, the Dragon’s fire exploding from the rig like a spear. Flames lit the fuse, the buckshot ripping the wagon’s purple wood and iron.
He pulled himself around the targets, the rifles pinning him down. He loaded two .12-gauge shells, dove from behind the targets, and shotgunned the top of the wall, pushing the riders back from their positions, away from
the wire.
The fuse burned to its end.
Smoke burst from the bottom of the wagon, the burning powder sprouting into black wings before the first explosions hurled the wagon into the air, the sides blasting apart in large, razored pieces.
Red hoods were beaten by the shrapnel, the flying wheels cutting them off their horses, an axle pinning another to the ground. The force blew through the prison wall, collapsing one side, throwing Riders from their sniping perches, burying them beneath rock and metal.
The second blast was the fireball, the kerosene jugs igniting in burst after burst. Flames ate the air, spitting shards in all directions. The fire ignited the bullet maker’s tent. More powder blowing it apart. The medical tent burst into flames that snake-jumped to the training area.
Guns, staffs, and bows, all devoured.
Riders were still shooting, trying for Bishop through smoke and panic. They broke from the side buildings, not running fast enough, the charges around the walls exploding inward. The ground erupting.
The howitzer keeled over, the cannonball pulverizing the gates as the horses crashed the corral, leaping through the burning ruins to the open road.
Surrounded by the last of the running horses, Bishop pulled himself onto a stallion and raced out as more fiery debris fell, spiking the ground like volcanic ash.
In the chamber, Hunk stood over a flat percussion mine that he’d placed on top of silver gelignite bars he’d stacked on the gallows. Holding himself by the thirteen steps, damaged and bleeding, with the last bit of strength in his massive body, he thought of family, life in the mines, and treasure.
Riders burst in from the upper halls and came down the dirt ramp. With rifles shouldered, they dropped to their knees as a firing squad. One of them shouted, “Betrayer!”
Hunk regarded them with, “Rzbunareaestepace,” before using his last strength to bring down the butt of the Winchester on the mine’s trigger.
The trigger clicked. And there was a flash.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Trail
A thick fog had rolled in from the mountains in the afternoon, but split away as the sun went down and a steady snow began falling.
Widow Kate bunched her fur collar around her chins, one hand on the pistol in her lap. Mayor O’Brien pushed her wheelchair to the edge of the front porch of the House of Pleasures, giving her a wide view of Paradise’s main street.
The freshly painted saloons and hotels threw out some light and a little music, but that’s all. There were no fights or raised voices. Just some random sounds. Seemed most were waiting.
O’Brien touched a match to the bowl of the opium pipe Kate was holding.
“The cold comes on, and I feel everything ten times worse.” She drew on the smoke. “I’ve got to be taking care of that. This year. Get some of my health back.”
O’Brien said, “We’ve got a lot to tend to.”
Kate nodded, watching John Bishop ride his bay from the opposite end of the street, pausing at the corral by the train depot, then bringing his horse to the hitch post directly in front of her. He didn’t climb down.
“God have mercy,” Kate said. “Look at you. Face all scarred. That gun and those are your damned eyes? You’re the image of death, Doctor. Just the image of it.”
“His horse is in the corral.”
“The beauty he took from John Chisum? Likes to brag on that. Too much.”
O’Brien said, “Your brother’s here, and he isn’t. It’s his town, but the man could be anywhere.”
Bishop said, “Mister, you’re taking a real chance I won’t shoot.”
Kate drew the last on her pipe. “We heard about Rawlins. There being nothing left but a hole in the ground. Devlin didn’t know if you were killed or not. I bet against it. He was taking care of business until less than an hour ago, then he lit out.”
“Kate, you knew me once as a patient man. Don’t count on that now.”
“You settling family business, that’s good for me, but then it’s settled. You’re not to come back here, stepping into my affairs.”
“I’m not a lawman.”
O’Brien said, “There’s one waiting. If that goes bad, well, Tucker knew the risks.”
Bishop said, “Where?”
Kate smiled, drew out the pistol from her lap, and pointed it toward the coffin maker’s place.
* * *
The double doors to the coffin maker’s were open, breathing just a bit on their hinges with the night snow. Rig poised, Bishop stepped into the dark of the front showroom. The rows of pasteboard caskets seemed like the shadowed shapes of gunmen standing in the corners, against the walls, or playing possum laid out on a table.
The first drops of blood he saw were gathered in a pool, the imprint of a boot drying along the edges. Fine repeated drops went farther into the showroom, making a pattern around the rows of coffins.
Bishop said to the dark, “My brother. That’s all I want.” He took a step, following the blood, when Scalped Outlaw leaped from a far corner, tackling him from behind, slashing with a long blade.
Bishop was halfway around, smashing Outlaw down with the side of the shotgun, sending him to the floor.
Scalped Outlaw crawled to his feet again, his jaw wobbling free and yowling, “You’re the most famous man I ever kilt!” He charged, waving the blade, and then the knife from Bishop’s belt was in his chest, buried to the hilt, a move so fast, Outlaw didn’t even see it. He touched the knife’s handle, trying to believe what happened, then dropped his own weapon before stumbling backwards into a paste coffin, legs dangling over.
Bishop said, “Tucker! Your man’s done!”
No response. Only faint music from the street.
Bishop kept the rig up, his eyes back to the floor and the droplets leading into the workshop. He stayed with the blood, rig locked from his hip, and called the sheriff’s name again. Even more than in the showroom, there were places to hide—rows of leaning caskets, large sections of lumber piled against the walls, coffin lids propped with them.
The blood continued but was smeared as if the wounded had fallen to one knee, then crawled through it. Bishop followed the direction toward the back where he could see the edges of a handprint against a wall.
Jags of memory cut through him—gun against his temple, the whip across his face. “It’s not your jail now, Tucker. You got paid for tonight. Don’t try anything. Maybe live to spend it.”
He took another step and saw the reflected movement in the polished surface of Widow Kate’s green-lacquered casket. The lid of a coffin by the doorway moved just enough for a pistol to emerge. Chromed, the barrel caught the light.
Bishop fired, tearing the coffin and Sheriff Tucker in half, scattering them on the floor. He cleared the shells from the rig and reloaded with buckshot and his last Dragon’s Breath before going to the back wall.
More than a single handprint showed above the opening that had been broken through and then shored up, leading into a small shaft from the played-out gold mine. Someone had lingered at the break, supporting themselves as they gave orders or prepped a trap for anyone following.
The shaft was dim yellow, lit by small, fluted oil lamps that had been mounted on the rebuilt walls. The blood was harder to see, drying and mixing with the color of the earth.
Stepping in, Bishop drew the rig in close.
Dev using the mine for escape wasn’t a surprise. The papers had written about his getting out of prison twice before by digging tunnels. Bishop had been a surgery student when he read about his brother in the same dreadfuls that now wrote about him.
On shoring lumber, he found more blood and another handprint slick and wet with the mountain damp. Or new, which meant that Dev could by lying in wait around the next turn.
Bishop turned down each lamp that he passed, making his way farther along the shaft, keeping his own pace despite the bullet in his hip towing him back. Crouched, his hat scraped the mine ceiling.
He doused a
nother lamp so not to be a silhouette-target, followed a blast of snowy cold coming from the mine opening just ahead, and stepped into the bases of a series of small, black-rock mountains.
He wrenched the lamp from the wall before ducking beneath the last support beam and walking into the blue winter night. He stood by the mine opening, peering at the crags of the rocks, trying to sense movement.
The clear sky and mountains were still, meeting just right. The cold coming from them hit Bishop clean and felt good. Pure. That he could draw deep into his lungs.
He knew he was bleeding again and figured his chances of getting the job done before bleeding out. In a moment of instant knowing, he dove into a mountain crevice before the first shots tore at him.
He found his place under a ragged cliff, the gunfire coming from an outcropping above. He scrubbed the snow from his eyes and saw the cast of Dev’s shadow before him, backed by the light of the winter moon.
Bishop watched the shadow of Dev’s movements on the ledge above, his inching along the side, gun aimed downward, trying for a back shot.
Dev said, “You’re trapped, John. You ain’t gonna hit me with a shotgun blast from there. You can hide and freeze or come out. Hell, you’ve wrecked everything I built, killed my men.”
Bishop was eyeing the shadowed moves, setting the aim of the rig from his elbow and angling it upward. He saw just a bit of his head, then a bit more.
He called out to his brother. “All I wanted was what I had. You could’ve left me alone.”
“No, I couldn’t.” Dev laid down three shots in quick succession, rapidly firing down to the rocks, but leaning forward on the ledge. He broke his shots, waiting for Bishop to fall out dead before him. He took two deep breaths and thumbed the hammer again.
Bishop swung out from the crevice, letting fire with one barrel, catching Dev in the arm and gut. Spinning him over and off the ledge.
The winter air held the smoke of the gunfire as a thin fog that Dev fell through, hitting the rocks, ripped by jagged edges, then rolling to the base of the small hill.
Bishop walked down to him, the rig extended, and the lamp in his left hand. Dev still had his Navy as he stood, everything about him sliced to the bone, but still reacting when he saw John Bishop’s solid blood-red eyes.
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