Shotgun (8 page)

“Sir, I'm getting our dinner. I can't be sitting around doin' nothing. Uh, with your permission.”

Hector stood at attention before Creed, pointing to a distant gathering of trees that were being swallowed by the long shadows of the setting sun.

After a moment, it dawned on Hector that his pointing was useless and he dropped his arm. “Them rabbits went right for the woods. I can still see their tracks. Must've been five or six. I can get 'em and we'll be eating for the rest of the trek, sir.”

Captain Creed said, “Take one of the men with you, and be back in an hour. You can tell time?”

“Yes, sir.”

The pocket watch that Creed took from his jacket was a fine, ornate piece, presented to him by his men for his leadership skills. He held it in front of the boy by its gold chain. Hector swallowed air before gently putting it in his palm. “Thank you, sir.”

“I expect my watch and you back in an hour, with or without dinner.”

The hour bled forty minutes, and White Fox had built a fire to burn low and steady. The fire was obeying, shielded from the wind by a small wall of snow that she'd iced from a canteen, making it solid. Bishop and Creed were beside the flames, as she stood by, waiting for Hector to return from the woods with an armful of rabbits.

Bishop said, “Hector's a good boy.”

“Yes. He volunteers for every duty he can. Now he comes up with his own.”

“My son was a lot younger, but there's a resemblance of spirit.”

“All boys look the same. That's why we give them uniforms.”

“They weren't the same to me, Creed.”

“Keep telling yourself that. You seem to need it.”

Just beyond the fire, the horses and Creed's other six men were dark shapes, outlined by the orange flicker. The six stretched out, assuming positions that favored their bandaged wounds. Their talk was all worn-out sneers.

Fuller took hold of Creed's horse, pulling the bottle of sipping bourbon from the saddlebag, where it was tucked next to the shotgun rig. Little of the bourbon was gone.

Fuller said, “Captain, you think—?”

“Each man gets one swallow to keep out the chill.”

“I'll make sure.”

Fuller walked to where the guns were stretched out, and handed off the bottle to Fat Gut, who guzzled deep. Fuller snatched it back, wiped the top, and passed it on to the next.

Fat Gut leaned against his Winchester like a crutch, bourbon wetting his chin. “You're really pushin' it with me, boy.”

Fuller said, “No, I ain't,” before letting the next one drink and throwing Fat Gut some more words. “I outranked you during the conflict, so I figure I still do. Wanna try? I'll even help you stand up.”

Fat Gut rubbed his leg wound, shrugging. “It's too damn cold. Lucky for you.”

Bishop watched Fuller pass the bourbon among the hired guns before saying to Creed, “Your bottle's getting some real use. Grant'd be proud.”

Creed's voice was in the back of his throat. “I expected better of you than cheap jokes. We're bundled around a campfire, not sitting back in front of a fireplace. Men who served are supposed to have a better fate.”

“Who claimed that?”

“It's not policy. It's what you hope for: that sacrifice will be rewarded.”

“Like the money you're going to get for us?”

Creed said nothing, just let the flames bounce across the dark amber of his glasses, outlining the edges. Finally, Bishop said, “There's a bounty on me, and I never robbed a bank or a train.”

“You killed a man.”

“That you said needed killing. You agreed with me.”

“I still do, but that don't change what's going to happen.”

Bishop felt the piece of arm that remained through his sleeve. “So how the hell do you know about Beaudine ?”

Creed took warmth from the fire. “Because he tried to join my regiment. The man'd worn the grey, claimed he had a change of heart. But then we found out he was wanted for strangling some strumpet, arrested right after he'd signed his papers. Not even Southern-born, but claimed he was a plantation owner—with acres of cotton and a hundred slaves—who felt the need to serve. He never served anywhere, except in prison or the crazy house.”

Bishop let Creed's words sink in before he said, “You told me something, Creed, but it's not enough. It's just a hell of a coincidence.”

“One of God's jokes—the war connects us all.”

“More than the war. I want Beaudine dead.”

“I know the feeling.”

“You lost your eyes, I lost my family.”

“And your limb.”

“I don't care about that.”

“I wouldn't give it no never mind if I found the replacement you did.”

Bishop paused, and then, “You've known me a hell of a long time. You're really thinking you can play with me like this?”

“I'm in command, and you're a prisoner.”

The back of Bishop's left hand smashed into Creed's jaw, sending his glasses flying into the fire. Bishop grabbed Creed's blue lapel. “You're talking in circles! Tell me what the hell your intentions are!”

Creed smiled, his scarred-over eyes meeting Bishop's. “Only give the enemy enough information to confuse.”

The barrel of Fuller's rifle was sudden, and steady, over Creed's shoulder, pointing right in the center of Bishop's forehead.

One of the guns shouted out, “Problem, Creed?”

Fuller said, “No problem, go back to your bourbon.” Then, to Bishop, “Know why I like the Morgan-James, Doc? It's lighter than a Sharps, and balances easy. I still have to load every shot, but that just means I can't waste any. So you let go of the captain, and fetch his glasses.”

White Fox stood perfectly in place, letting the wind blow through her hair and the fringing on her jacket, while casting her eyes to Bishop, then Creed, and the rifle Fuller had leveled. She nudged Bishop with her foot and said, “
Ována'xaeotse
.”

Bishop released the lapel, but stayed fixed on Creed's face, which showed no movement, no feeling. He then grabbed the glasses from the low-burning fire, the flames snapping at the metal frames, before cooling them off in the snow. Bishop pressed the glasses into Creed's palm. “Not even scratched.”

Fuller didn't lower the rifle even a quarter inch. Creed inspected the lenses with his fingertips before slipping them on. “The Dr. John Bishop I knew would never strike a man in anger.”

Bishop took a breath. “He's dead.”

Creed said, “Then maybe we should bury him.”

“Or each other.”

Fuller kept aiming even as Bishop held up his empty right sleeve. “See? Nothing. My temper got the best of me. It won't again.”

“But you're smarter than any man here, Doc. That means you can't be trusted.”

White Fox looked to Fuller and again said, “
Ována'xaeotse
.”

Bishop said, “That means ‘calm down.'”

Fuller held for a few more heartbeats, then rested his rifle on his shoulder. “I know what it means. My mama was half-Cheyenne. Didn't look like her, though.”

White Fox unclenched her fists, returning her gaze to the distant trees, which were now sharp black jags against the white, separating the moving snowdrifts from the starless night. The moon fought to break through the heavier clouds, to throw a shred of light on the miles of blanket below, but couldn't.

Creed said, “What about the boy? Do you see him?”

Fuller said, “Not yet.”

“It's been exactly one hour.”

“I don't have no watch, sir.”

“Don't need it; I know what an hour feels like.”

Creed wiped his eyes under his glasses. “He shouldn't have gone.”

“Hector's chasing rabbits and he ain't alone. You sent that one with the busted head with him, the loudmouth who always cheats at Monte.”

“I know all that. Someone needs to find them both.”

“You want me to stand guard on these two, or start a search party?”

Fuller half grinned at Bishop, while Creed said, “We've got enough guns for the prisoners. Are they sober?”

“Sober enough.”

“I'm ordering someone to go into those woods and find Hector!”

Fuller nodded, about to assure Creed he'd bring Hector back safe, when White Fox bolted. In a single motion, she sprang beyond the firelight, landed in the snow, and then started running for the tree line. Fuller whipped his rifle to his shoulder, pressing his eye against the long sight that was nearly the length of the barrel.

White Fox darted in one direction, breaking into another, then off again. Animal-fast, but she was shadowboxed by the snow, her back and shoulders coming into brief focus in Fuller's sight. His trigger finger tightened.

A shout ripped from Bishop as he blocked Fuller, grabbing the barrel with his left hand even as pistol shots popped from the other hired guns. Fuller hard-swung the rifle, catching Bishop in the shoulder, knocking him back, onto the fire.

White Fox dove into the trees.

Creed barked, “Sniper, what do you have?”

Fuller focused his sight on the movement he could barely make out along the deep shadows of the woods; it was something dark moving through something darker. Fuller wiped snow from the front of the scope with his thumb, and then pressed his eye to the piece, aiming down. “I'm seeing some shadows, but can make out her head. Your call, Captain.”

Bishop said to Creed and Fuller, “Fox can see in the dark. She's not escaping—she's going to find your boy!”

“We're losing the shot!”

Creed finally said, “Don't take it.”

Fuller lowered the rifle. “She's gone.”

“I recall seeing you pray, Bishop. So you better get to it, begging God to make sure that dog-eater comes back with Hector. Because I am thirsty to have you shot.”

Bishop said, “But you have to deliver us alive.”

Creed almost smiled. “A dying man still counts as alive, and that gives me a lot of leeway.”

 

 

The dark was enormous and far reaching, growing out of the ground and towering into the surrounding night, where it met more darkness. Thick, mountainous clouds churned high in the Colorado sky, and let no light escape from the stars or the moon.

Hector sat at the base of one of the huge shapes, straddling the roots that twisted from its trunk into the snow, blowing warmth into his palms. At this hour, the woods weren't trees, just blackened giants, with a hundred huge arms, and standing so close to each other, they formed an enormous wall to the outside. The path between the trees was scraping-narrow, with each tangled access looking like the next and the next. Moving twenty feet in any direction only confused him more, and so he sat, with three dead rabbits and a man's corpse beside him.

Hector blew again into his cupped hands, feeling his own warm breathing against his palms and his face. Even the gloves his mama knit for him weren't helping. He began rubbing the cold-tingle out of his arms when he heard something: that almost-squeak of a foot pressing into the snow. Hector turned; the movement could be right in front of him or a hundred feet away, but all he could make out was the shadowed dark.

To Hector, it sounded like a critter, or a person, or another kind of critter. He tried to pull his pistol from his jacket, but the steel felt colder than ice, and the sight got caught on his pocket. He yanked the pistol, a piece of his jacket hanging from the barrel, but with nothing to aim at. Nothing. There was another footfall, that odd sound coming closer. Hector stumbled forward, pulling his leg away from the corpse folded beside him, and brought the pistol up, whipping it from dark shape to dark shape, wanting to shoot. At anyone, or any thing.

“Hector, put down that gun.”

Hector gripped the pistol with both hands to steady it as he aimed blindly at the trees. Then he heard, “I'll take you to camp.”

White Fox stood before the boy, holding out her hands. Hector blinked, thinking she was another trick of the shadows. “But you can't talk.”

White Fox eased the pistol from him, lowered the hammer, and then slipped the pistol behind her belt. She waited until the weapon was secure, with Hector watching, before saying, “You mean I'm only able to speak my Cheyenne? No. I understand. Everything. I hate it, but use your tongue when I choose it.”

“But why now?”

“You don't speak Cheyenne. And you're afraid.”

“No, no, I ain't.” Then Hector nodded with chattering teeth. “Jed died. Right where he's laying.”

White Fox bent next to Jed's body, which was twisted in an impossible position, his legs tangled in the tree's knotted roots and his head half buried in the snow, a white frosting building on his face.

Hector said, “We got them rabbits and started back. He tripped and that was it. Said he was dizzy, that his head still hurt from when you hit him.”

“
Onéstôhóné
.”

“I don't know what that means.”

“He was a fool.”

“Uh, yes, ma'am.”

White Fox struck a match on her leathers, the tiny flame showing the cut between the snow-heavy pines.

Hector said, “I didn't see that. We kept goin' in circles. I was afraid I was gonna end up like Jed.”

“I know these woods now.”

“But ain't you still our prisoner?”