Shotgun (6 page)

Creed sat command-high on his chestnut horse, doing a blind man's inspection of the shotgun rig, pulling the trigger line, and testing the straps that secured it. He shucked the spent shells, holding the gun next to his ear, snapping it shut, listening for rattles. There were none. He measured the stock with his palms, then ran his thumbs over the end of the barrel for sharp edges or sloppy job where it was sawed off. He gave his silent approval of the gunsmith.

Creed held the rig out in front of him, sensing its weight. “Just move your arm and it fires?”

Bishop's words were a strain, even as White Fox spread cinnamon oil on his lips with her index finger so he could speak. “My shoulders.”

“Do all the work yourself ?”

“There was a smith, followed my design.”

“Damn clever, but that's you, Dr. Bishop.”

Creed hung the rig on the saddle horn, while dropping from his tall horse. The chestnut sensed Creed's every move before he made it and adjusted, patiently helping his blind master.

Creed scratched behind the horse's ears, “Where's the boy?”

“Here, sir.”

The straw-haired boy led him around the dead, the smoky kerosene pools, and the bloody snow, to the little clump of trees where Bishop was lying. White Fox, next to him, rose up on her knees, but her hands were always on Bishop's chest, protecting him.

One of Creed's men shouted, “She's startin' somethin' !”

Bishop said, “No, she's not. And you men don't either.”

Creed was standing over Bishop now, and the doctor's gaze locked on to Creed's amber glasses. Creed cocked his head, sensing the moment, and nodded to Bishop in formal recognition. Spread out a few feet behind, Creed's men casually waited to shoot, guns resting on hips but with hammers back.

Creed said, “Let me see that thing she was after.”

Bishop said, “Your men need to stand down.”

“Apparently, you didn't leave many.”

“I see a lot of guns.”

Creed ordered, “Holster weapons!”

Some of the men obeyed. The one bleeding from the head didn't and Bishop said, “There's still one.”

“And always will be. You fought a good fight, but you're my prisoners, Doctor. Maybe you better explain to her just what that means.”

White Fox said, “I know.”

“Then toss away that pistol you had aimed at me.”

She threw the gun, with Creed listening for it to land in a bank of snow with a pillowed thud.

Creed said, “I'm entitled to inspect all spoils, even if I can only see them with my hands. Your latest invention, Doctor, the one that saved your life.”

“She saved my life.”

Creed laughed, “Bullshit. Go ahead, boy.”

The boy reached down for the breathing device lying next to White Fox, then stopped. Her eyes cut him.

He swallowed. “Ma'am.”

Bishop asked, “What's your name, son?”

“Hector Price, sir.”

White Fox kept her other hand hidden in the field kit, clamped around a scalpel. Bishop squeezed her arm, and she let the knife go.

Bishop said, “It's all right.
Otséeme
.”

She smiled to herself at being called “brave” and handed the device to Hector, who held it out so Creed could turn the small box over and over, fingers tracing its edges. He fit the mask onto his own face, drawing deep.

Bishop said, “Turn the crank.”

Hector turned the crank, as Creed continued with the mask; then the captain took it off, saying, “I feel my blood pumping.”

Bishop said, “Pure oxygen. The crank draws the air into the device which filters it through a cell filled with purified water, and the bellows pumps it out through the mask.”

“How'd you come to this?”

“Remember the fire at Lynchburg? Our men choking to death, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.”

“So, you're still a soldier.”

“Still a doctor.”

“And you carry your weapons with you.”

“You never know when you'll need them, Captain.”

“You were an officer, and proud to display your rank on your field kit. Maybe I can't see, but my vision's clear.”

Coming up out of some bloody slush, Fat Gut screamed, “What about the bitch with the arrows? She killed near half of us! And me!”

“You survived.” Creed handed White Fox the breather. “Be grateful for that.”

Bishop said, “I remember you saying that before, after a skirmish on the other side of the Shenandoah.”

“Because we have history.”

Bishop looked at all the guns ready for him, and the men behind them. “I might even recognize some of these faces, under the scars.”

“Scars you left them after our battles. These men have stayed loyal, all these years. Unlike you.”

“Revenge?” Bishop let the word hang in the air before asking, “How long have you been tracking me?”

Creed said, “Not long after you struck out on your own. You're wanted for killing the gunsmith who made your rig. He was married to the squaw? That's reward money, and who better to collect? Obviously, I can't read signs the way I used to, but you weren't hard to find. Not if you keep using that rig.”

“And when are you going to kill us?”

Creed took off his glasses, to wipe them with a handkerchief from his pocket. His eyelids were heavily corrupted with raised tissue, and the eyes themselves seemed solid black, but were actually blood-flecked purple. Blinking was a slow impossibility.

Creed faced Bishop's voice and said, “No one has more cause than I do.”

Bishop said, “But you're holding back.”

“You know me, Doctor. You know there's a strategy.”

“Hell, yes.”

Creed let his words go flat. “I have some planning to do yet.”

“You're still riding Pride. He's about the finest animal I've ever seen.”

Creed said, “Of course, I haven't seen him in years, but Pride's the one thing I value from my days in command.”

White Fox helped Bishop sit up against the tree, and he gestured toward the smoldering piles of cloth with the right hand that wasn't there. “Those fires to smoke us out, they're old flags. You took that Bonnie Blue when we fought those guerillas out of Baton Rouge.”

Creed stood at attention. “Damn right. I captured them, so they're mine to keep or burn. I can't see them anymore, so they're nothing but shitty rags.”

“No, they have meaning. Every battle you won, and every man you lost. I know your feelings about them.”

Creed dropped to one knee. “Tell me, Doctor, that you're not using a bedside manner with me. Who do you think you're talking to? The only thing that's keeping you and the dog-eater alive is I haven't given the final order. You've got a lot of tricks in that bag of yours—you have my eyes?”

Bishop said, “I did my best.”

Creed pulled himself to his feet on Hector's arm. “You know how I lost my sight? What a fine field medic Dr. Bishop was? He was with the Virginia Volunteers. He saved hundreds of lives, but not my eyes. That was beyond him.”

Bishop hacked, his throat still burning, even as White Fox let him drink from a water bag. It went down cool, but there was still a taste of gunpowder and fire in his mouth and nose. That hot-metal taste brought the sound of screams and a battery of cannons back to Bishop's ears.

John Bishop looked at the dead men sprawled around the entrance to the cave, the light afternoon snow beginning to shroud them. But it wasn't the memory of their screams he was hearing.

It was the screams of Captain Creed, as he worked to remove the Howitzer shrapnel from around his eyes. Bishop slit his lids, and dabbed away each sliver of torn metal. It took hours, because Creed would stop him, and insist he help one of the other wounded, even as he cupped his hands over his eyes, to hold back their bloody wash.

Bishop said, “The Battle of Buffington Island. You wouldn't let me put you under.”

“I was in command.”

“You were out of your mind with pain.”

Creed said, “The pain was hellish for sure, but, Doctor, I was never out of my mind.”

White Fox helped Bishop to his feet, and he said to Creed, “It was the infection that took your sight. You'd just been sutured; you never should have crossed that river.”

“My men needed me. I didn't matter that I was wounded; it mattered that I lead.”

“That river was filled with bodies, disease. You slipped, and your bandages got soaked. Nothing was going to save your eyes after that.”

“You know the last thing I saw?”

“You're going to tell me.”

“The bandages pained me, and I tore them off while I was in the bloody water. There was a body of a little girl who'd been shot in the throat, just moving with the river. I don't know who killed her or why, but when I went under, her face was right in front of me and I looked into her dead eyes. Then mine were gone, forever.”

“Then how am I to blame for what happened?”

Creed kept his hand on Hector's shoulder as he faced Bishop and said, “Because I choose to.”

The gun with the head wound yelled, “What happens now? Firing squad? They took out half of us, they got it comin'!”

Creed said, “I think I'd enjoy that, but it doesn't serve the purpose. Doctor, tend the wounds of my men. The boy and your squaw can help. Then we march.”

“Where?”

“A blind man can't do much in the world. My ranch was lost, and my pension wouldn't keep a dog fat. So now, I do what I have to do. Just as you are.”

Bishop stood, picking up his field kit with his one hand. “And what do you think I'm doing?”

“Going after Beaudine and his gang of egg-sucking gutter trash.”

Bishop regarded Creed for a beat, the mention of Beaudine's name pulling him up short. Creed said, “I told you we've been tracking you for a while. You must remember I credit myself with knowing my enemies. I know all about it.”

Bishop said, “Is this your get-back for your blindness? Deny me
my
revenge for my wife and son?”

“The world will be a better place without Beaudine's gang. Hell, every one of them deserves to be shot, hung, and shot again.”

“So what's your strategy, Captain? What are my orders?”

Creed said, “You have wounded to attend to, Dr. Bishop.”

“I need that device.”

Creed threw it to Hector. “He means the breathing gizmo, not the shotgun. That rig's mine.”

“Brother John,

“My guess is that when you read this, I will be gone. We will have had a little talk, settle our scores, and considered what might have been if I'd taken a different road. I know you feel superior to your older brother, and probably with good reason. I have many thoughts to express, and since I never learned to read or write properly, my cellmate is setting all of this down for me, using the best language in his capability.

“You were barely in long pants when I left Virginia, and Ma and Pa had long before decided you were the favorite. You were smart, took to school, and looked like our father. I hated school and don't resemble either of our parents, and those differences have been between us ever since.

“I was in jail for robbery when you were getting out of school. That was not my first time locked up, but the first time you were able to visit me, which I appreciated. When you were studying medicine, I was on the other side of the law in the wild country, and was then in jail again for the manslaughter of a miscreant. You did not visit me then, but I understood that mama refused to give you her permission, so I hold no grudges.

“With the war came your commission and my own difficulties; I killed my fair share, but was not in official uniform, and so I am now to be hung. That uniform makes all the difference doesn't it? As do the rules, which you have always respected, except that one time.

“That one time is why I now regard you as My Brother John

“Since my death is now a thing of yesterday, it is my desire that you should keep all of the Army gold that we hijacked together from the troop train coming from Richmond. I don't know why you threw in with me on this, but I am glad that you did, brother. This fortune has always been our secret, and since you were the only one to know its final location, it was also our trust. Despite the end of conflict, the government will never stop looking for that money, and I know you have the strength to keep it safely hidden. I thank you and respect you that you did not spend it, as I knew you would not, but now all of it is yours to do with what you will.

“One half of a million dollars is a great deal of money, John, and I am facing the hangman with at least the good feeling that after a life of doing wrong, I helped a good man provide a special life for his wife and son.

“I look forward to the day when we are joined again on the Streets of Glory.

“Your older brother, Devlin Bishop.”

Widow Kate read the last paragraphs aloud a second time, then leaned back in her overstuffed velvet chair, her fat fingers locked together in pause. She wiped away a small moustache of sweat before speaking.

Kate said, “That's what you've been chasing all these years, Beaudine?”

“Pilfering that letter from my jacket was a foolish mistake. I remind you, again, of my rank and the consequences of disrespect.”

“Oh, no disrespect intended, but you should be glad I read it. You owe me quite a sum, and this gives me some hope of being paid.”

“Madame, you'll get yours.”

Beaudine sat opposite the large, dark oak desk that hid half of Kate's massive body, adjusting himself on a stack of fine silk cushions that had been sewn to the seat and back of a finely carved rocking chair. Like the desk, the chair was highlighted with streaks of lamé, while the rest of Kate's bordello office was all silk wallpaper, carved ivory dragons, and Chinese vases on thin pedestals. Heavy drapes killed the sun, and the oil lamps around the room burned low.

Kate removed the glass flute from the small lamp on her desk, turning the flame down to a blue burn as she said, “The chance at half of a million dollars in one fell swoop is a hell of a thing, if it's there. I've had my chances to grab quick fortunes, but let them pass. I prefer to amass my fortunes a few dollars at a time. That way, I know it's real.”

Beaudine leaned suddenly forward. “Now you don't think it's real? Dev Bishop was my cellmate.”

Kate smiled, shaking her head. “I know you wrote the letter, Major. It has your exaggerated flair.”

“You compliment and offend at the same time.”

“One of my many talents.”

Kate took a jade pipe from her top desk drawer, and held the bowl over the lamp's flame. Her concentration was total, her thick fingers now delicate instruments, as she felt the pipe's temperature before opening a small ivory pillbox and removing a pea-sized dollop of opium to drop into the pre-heated bowl.

“My third husband was a sea captain who introduced me to the ways of the dynasties. I learned a lot from the Chinese, not the least of which was how to run this place. They know their business.”

After a few moments, the green-yellow started to smoke, and Kate took a long draw on the pipe before leaning back in her chair and allowing the feeling to wash through her.

Kate judged Beaudine's dark expression and said, “The girls have no idea I allow myself this. If they did, they'd assume I condoned use for the non-injured, not understanding the discipline it takes to control your consumption. Fighting the tiger keeps me strong. Do you understand, Major?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, given some of my extreme hospital experiences”—Beaudine's voice was drifting—“and the soldiers I know prefer opiates to whiskey. Miss Nellie Bly, who I had an interview with earlier, will be writing extensively about the problem for
The Pittsburgh Dispatch
.”

Kate said, “That wasn't Nellie Bly, Major. Remember where you are.”

“I do—I do—but you interrupted us, while we were discussing dire issues. Some of which concerned you directly, Madame. That wasn't appreciated.”

“There was no interruption, no Nellie Bly. Just one of my whores and, a crazy man.” Kate added after drawing on the pipe, “Maybe not all his fault.”

Beaudine studied his boots, the ragged edge of his sewn-together tunic. He cleared the air with a wave of his hand. “I get lost sometimes, Madame, but I always find my way back. Always.”

Kate said, “That's why I allow you to bed here.”

Beaudine bowed his head. “I know, truly, that I never had the chance to talk to Miss Bly, and tell her of the terrible conditions in the hospitals where I was a guest. But I should have, really. That would have been valuable.”

“I agree.”

“Hospitals and prisons, that's been my life. Did I say anything to that girl? Do anything unseemly?”

Kate put another match to the pipe. “You were a gentleman in your session, and if you said anything to Thelma, she'd forget the next minute. She's a sloppy girl. Swills laudanum like it was fresh cider and thinks I don't know it. Doesn't have the character to indulge and still keep her wits about her. Not like me.”

Beaudine nodded to Kate and said, “Some are born to lead.”

“And some are born to stay on their backs.”

Laughter ripped Kate, flesh jiggling, before she drew deep on the pipe and closed her eyes as the feeling kissed through her. Her eyes were still closed when she said, “That gold shipment is real, not a flight of fancy, or something for you and Nellie Bly?”

“Real as death.”

“Why don't you have it yet?”

“The good doctor John Bishop wouldn't cooperate.”

“Did you kill him?”

Beaudine's voice lowered. “He was—destroyed.”

“That doesn't say it, and you didn't get the money.”

“There's tracking to be done. My men will be joining me, and we'll set off on our mission. That's the last question, Madame. I've already given one interview today, and your tone is grating.”

The Colt Lightning was in Kate's hand instantly, her flabby arms steadying the gun directly at Beaudine's head by resting on a large dragon carved from a solid piece of jade.

Beaudine said, “Threatening an officer is a very serious offense.”

“Living in that head of yours must be a hell of a thing. I'd hesitate killing you, but I'll shoot. Or, you can come upstairs with me for a moment.”

Beaudine stood. “I understand. Opiates have poisoned your reasoning.”

“No, they just keep my aim relaxed. Afterwards, I wouldn't mind having a little late supper, since you're spending the night.”

Kate moved around the desk as Beaudine stood. He didn't put his hands up, but kept his eyes on the Colt pistol following him. “Are you really that worried I won't be paying your whore her piddling amount?”

Kate said, “This is the problem, Beaudine. You can't follow the path of a conversation: we're talking about something bigger than what you owe. Understand? Come on. Let's see if you can make it upstairs without straying.”

Kate opened her office door. “Major.”

Voices, mild groans, and laughter from the other bedrooms drifted about the hallway in a mix as Widow Kate and Beaudine made their way to the small set of curved steps that led to the attic bedroom. She kept the Lightning close to his spine, and he buttoned his tunic and flattened his lapels before going up.

Kate said, “Your session was fine, and I trust you'll pay what you owe. It's what happened afterward that's a problem.”

The cramped attic room was the same as Beaudine had left it, except the redheaded girl was lying on the bed, night clothes shredded, her head cocked at an impossible angle with deep purple bruises smothering half of her face and the sides of her neck. Kate stood behind Beaudine, close enough to see a shimmer of sweat on the back of his neck, but there was no other visible reaction, even as she gently prodded him with the barrel of the gun, poking his ribs. He ducked under the doorframe to enter, then took a few steps to the bed.

Kate said, “You claimed you forgot something and had to come back up. Remember?”

“No, I do not.”

“But that's what you told me,
Major
. Then the girls and I heard the screams, and found this.”

Beaudine bent down, brushing his fingers across Thelma's strawberry curls. His mouth went slack, as he leaned just an inch from her face and blackening lips, before looking back at Kate. “It's the one I knew as Nellie.”

“You can call her any name you want, it don't make no difference to the law.”

Beaudine swallowed his words. “You're trying to hoodwink me, Madame. It's not appreciated.”

“But we all heard it. Thelma screamed at you, disobeyed orders, and you set her straight. Now the Marshal likes to stay over when he's riding through the territory; would you like him to know about this and the treasure, or should we keep today's interview between us?”

Beaudine stepped away from the corpse, his fists clenched. “Is this supposed to frighten me?”

“No, but your loss of freedom might. Your gold quest will be a damn sight tougher if you're in a jail cell, waiting for the hangman.”

“I've been there, and now I'm here.”

Kate met Beaudine's hard look. “Don't act like I haven't taken everything into account. I'm not one of the dog-tail felons you ride with. I'm talking real business—are you up to it?”

Beaudine slumped against the doorjamb, his shoulders and arms sagging with all that he was carrying. He looked to Kate, rubbed his temples. “My mind's swimming, and that's a dangerous thing.”

Kate said, “I've got just the cure for that downstairs.” “You have me at a disadvantage now, Madame, but tomorrow won't be the same. All this betrayal will come into focus, boiling my blood. I'll be hell-fired for sure.”

Kate eased Beaudine out of the room, pulling the door shut behind them, “We'll see.”

 

 

The coffee had cooked down to acid-brown when Lem poured himself a cup. Howard pulled a new shoe from the coals of the campfire, and Chaney struggled with his horse's left hind leg until Howard shoved him aside, straddled the shank, and nailed the shoe into place.

Lem tipped his coffee. “Tubal-Cain from the Book of Genesis, the first blacksmith! I bet you could give him a run for his money, Howard!”

Chaney said, “You got the strength for it.”

Howard gave the horse a pat. “Takes more than that. You have to know your animal, which you don't. If he'd walked one more mile on that shoe, he'd be lamed for sure.”

Chaney offered, “Then I'm obliged.”

Lem said, “See? It's a good thing you're here.”

Howard looked to Chaney. “Yeah, so why are
you
here?”

Lem countered, “Come on, we talked that through. It never hurts to have an extra gun.”

Howard said, “Or target—what you got painted on your back?”

Lem finished the coffee. “It's all going to depend on Beaudine, and if we want to carry on.”

Chaney said, “I thought that was Bishop's call. He raised the stakes by coming for your bunch.”

“That's true, and if I had more than forty dollars to my name, I'd say the hell with Beaudine, the hell with Bishop, the hell with it all.”

“But now you're thinking about the chance of that gold.”

“I'm thinkin' about death, and the money. And wondering which we're going to find first. Just wondering.”

Howard drank some coffee, then spit it into the fire and said, “You're not all in, Lem?”

“Hell, yes, I am. But I'm feelin' better now that there's three of us.”

Howard said, “And the law.”

Chaney looked to Lem, who was grinning. “What do you mean?”

“He means this.” Howard took a bent deputy's badge from his pocket, and pinned it on his torn vest, directly over his heart.