“Jesus—”
Bishop said, “There was a time, I couldn’t even recall your face.” He cracked open the lamp and hurled the broken well at Dev, soaking him with the oil. “Now, I remember everything.”
Dev almost laughed through his bloody teeth, using what he had left to bring up the pistol and shoot as the Dragon’s Breath shell erupted from the shotgun rig.
The flames engulfed him, the buckshot blast blowing him back and down the rest of the mountain. A fiery heap, rolling yellow and orange, the oil leaving a burning trail of acrid smoke behind the dragon’s tail.
There was a scream, and Bishop glanced to see Soiled Dove standing at the end of a small trail by the mountain base, holding Hurricane by the bridle.
She screamed something at him again, but he didn’t hear as he watched the fire at the bottom of the hill burning smaller and smaller.
* * *
The apple tree was bare, but the branches had reached out in all directions since the time Amaryllis had planted it. It was her favorite thing, caring for that tree, and Bishop liked leaning against it, his back to the grave marker of his wife and son.
The bay was drinking from a trough and reacted when White Fox ran her hands across his back as she passed. She was wearing her leathers, her hair straight and tied in long braids to hold it against the wind.
Bishop looked up at her but couldn’t stand.
She said, “I didn’t know what I would find here.”
“That letter you wrote, all in Cheyenne . . . I figured it out.”
“You remembered your words.”
Bishop said, “Eventually.”
She bent down to him. “Everything the woman said to you, she predicted?”
Bishop gave that a moment. Without looking at her, he said, “I don’t know.”
White Fox put an arm under his shoulder.
Bushwhacked Page 51
