Bushwhacked
BUSHWHACKED
THE JOHN BISHOP SHOTGUN SAGA
C. COURTNEY JOYNER
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2018 C. Courtney Joyner
Shotgun copyright © 2013 C. Courtney Joyner
Shotgun: The Bleeding Ground copyright © 2016 C. Courtney Joyner
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-4289-0
First electronic omnibus edition: January 2018
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4290-6
ISBN-10: 0-7860-4290-7
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
SHOTGUN
CHAPTER ONE - Nothing Dies Like a Man
CHAPTER TWO - The Fox
CHAPTER THREE - Deadeye
CHAPTER FOUR - The Major
CHAPTER FIVE - Dead Man
CHAPTER SIX - Blood and Trust
CHAPTER SEVEN - Brothers in Blood
CHAPTER EIGHT - Coffin Man
CHAPTER NINE - Eyes of the Dead
CHAPTER TEN - Dead Letter
CHAPTER ELEVEN - Into the Storm
CHAPTER TWELVE - Reunion
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - The Heart of the Enemy
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Snow Blind
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Bloody Dawn
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - The Price of Flesh
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Condemned
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - The Strength of My Enemies
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Taste of Hell
CHAPTER TWENTY - Escapes
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Blood on the Claw
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Good Deeds
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Fortress of the Dead
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - Bad Deeds
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - Keep My Coffin Open
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - Dead Men Kill, Too
THE BLEEDING GROUND
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER ONE - Dead Memories
CHAPTER TWO - Blood on the Horn
CHAPTER THREE - Prophecy
CHAPTER FOUR - Related by Blood
CHAPTER FIVE - Hired Guns
CHAPTER SIX - Hell Travellin’
CHAPTER SEVEN - Battlefield
CHAPTER EIGHT - Blood Ties
CHAPTER NINE - Bleeding Soldiers
CHAPTER TEN - Plans for Dying
CHAPTER ELEVEN - Riding Hurt
CHAPTER TWELVE - Assassins
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - The Bleeding Ground
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Wounded
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Resurrections
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Séotä’e
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - The Blind Dead
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Three Talons
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Warriors
CHAPTER TWENTY - Burning Down
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Detonations
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - The Trail
SHOTGUN
“You damn well know, I’ll do it.”
“Major” Beaudine’s spit-shined boot was flush against John Bishop’s right arm, pinning it down, while he turned the blade in the moonlight to heighten the threat.
Beaudine said, “So, your choice?”
Bishop managed, “You’re thinking I know something I don’t. I swear, I’ve told you everything. You got no reason to touch my family.”
Beaudine gripped the handle of the long cleaver, saying, “A liar always boils my blood.”
Bishop was on the edge of consciousness, trying to take in the faces of the other men holding him to the frozen ground. They were dirty fragments: mustaches dropping into beards, fresh burns, and one curtained eye. Their names were nothing but jumbled noise, while the screams of Bishop’s wife and son cut through everything to reach him. Their voices didn’t even sound like them anymore, though they were just a few feet away. Bishop cried out, twisting his head to see, as Deadeye and another man gripped him by his ears and jaw.
“Them ears’ll come right off!”
Deadeye asked, “Why are you tryin’ to look, anyways?”
Beaudine let Bishop know, “They’re breathing. I see her little bosom moving in and out, but it’s not honorable for you to make your wife and boy pay for your being contrary. Do you understand the penalties, what it means to incur my wrath?”
Exactly fifteen minutes before, Amaryllis Bishop had joined hands with her husband and son for a Methodist grace. John always gently rubbed her fingers with his thumb while his wife asked for blessing, and she flashed her blue eyes in a way that was supposed to be annoyance, but was something else.
Their son giggled as he reached for a piece of chicken before the plate was offered. Mama issued a smiling warning. “I know somebody’s birthday is in three days, but it may not come at all, if—”
Amaryllis’s voice was cut off when the front door was kicked off its hinges.
“Major” Beaudine and his men exploded into the house, tossing the dinner table, splintering a bookshelf, and slapping the youngest to the floor. Bishop sprang at the “Major,” but heavy fists from behind pounded him down, and Beaudine’s heel cracked his ribs with little effort.
Beaudine warned one of the others not to do more. “Show restraint, gentlemen. Our friend is essential to our mission.”
He knelt next to Bishop, measuring his words. “I am aware of the gold you and your brother liberated, one half of a million dollars. Don’t deny it. The letters he wrote you from prison, finalizing your confidential plans? I wrote them. You know your brother could neither read nor write, and so he trusted me to set down his thoughts. Devlin and I were cellmates, until the morning he was hung. He took me into his deep confidence, which I honor. You have all that money, John, and you need to share. Your brother is departed, but I am here. Death’s arrived, and I want paying.”
“I’m swearing, I don’t know a damn thing about any gold. There’s nothing between me and my brother. Never was.”
“No, that’s not the answer.”
“Where’s my wife?”
“You must think clearly now, about the gold. Nothing else matters at this moment, I promise you.”
The man with the trimmed mustache and salvaged grey Confederate tunic, who spoke as if he were reading holy scripture, pressed his knee deep into Bishop’s back. Bones cracked. Beaudine asked again about the stolen gold.
“If anything happens to my son . . .”
Beaudine pressed his knee again and Bishop couldn’t move, his thoughts slipping away with his bleeding.
Beaudine said, “There’s a Foster Brothers cleaver with a polished blade on a thirty-one-inch handle resting across my saddle. It’s a thing of beauty, but you do not want me to fetch it.”
Beaudine put the last of his weight on Bishop’s spine, dropping his voice. “You need to concern yourself with gold. Try again.”
The outlaws waited for the answer, and Amaryllis swung a pork-fry pan from the Crawford stove, spattering hot grease across the face of one of them, sending him screaming into the cold. Time stopped for a few heartbeats as Amaryllis Bishop scooped up her son, his arms around her neck and their tears mixing on their cheeks, as she whispered a kiss to him.
That’s when the first shot was fired.
CHAPTER ONE
Nothing Dies Like a Man
Huckie’s Saloon, with its caving roof and sides, was a whipped dog cringing in front of the Colorado Mountains, ready to snap. It was the only place John Bishop saw with any signs of life, and he angled his horse toward it.
He was navigating a tough trail winding out of the steeper foothills that led to what was passing for some kind of a town. Bishop’s bay horse was cautious with her footing. The snow on the trail wasn’t deep, but a layer of ice beneath the white cracked under each footfall, throwing off her steps. Bishop patted her neck to tell her she was doing well as she managed a narrow cut between some tall pines.
There was another rider following, about half a mile back, but Bishop didn’t even turn to see, his mind and eyes locked straight ahead, the reins steady in his left hand to keep the bay sure. She responded.
The frozen white was blowing just enough that he had to squint to read the battered sign that declared Huckie’s. A pack mule snorted out front, and a mutt scratched at the front door, until someone let it in. There was loud, drunken talk followed by laughter. Bishop figured there had to be at least five in the place, including a cackling woman.
Bishop clenched the reins. His memories from months ago, the ones that beat hell out of him every other minute, had brought him to this place, but now he had to put feelings away. He was going to do this, and had to be clear about it. No backing down.
Chester Pardee liked Huckie’s. The drinks and the one woman were so watered and worn that even he seemed like a big shot in the place. He took another swallow of no-name whiskey and tried to fan his cards, but they were too ear-bent to separate. Pardee then studied each of them, pausing for a sip, making a show of what a fine hand he was holding.
Chaney, who had killed someone someplace, was getting tired of the put-on. “You ain’t droppin’ anything on the table, Chester.”
“I like to think my bets through.”
“Nobody’s got that much time. Play or fold.”
Pardee adjusted his fingerless gloves, and reached into his pocket for the last bit of paper he had. He’d gotten the coat from a dead man, and it was stained with his fortune, but the money was his own, and he placed an old Union twenty on the torn felt like he was presenting a king’s crown.
Chaney said, “The bill’s got blood on it.”
“What doesn’t? I know’d every one of ya and your dirty habits. I say can’t none of ya match it.”
Chaney nodded. “Things are temporarily lean, but I have twenty-three in silver, and this banker’s watch you’ve always admired. You’re being raised, Chester.”
Pardee reached into his jacket, and took out a letter that had been roughly folded into five sections, the words smudged by whiskey rings. Too many reads had frayed the paper, but Chester Pardee waved it at Chaney like a red veronica in front of a Brahma bull.
Pardee said, “You know what this is?”
Chaney didn’t change his expression. “You jaw about it enough.”
“Right, it’s a goddamn treasure map. I’ll throw ten percent—no, one percent—into the pot. One percent. One.”
Chaney said, “You might as well say you wipe yourself with it.”
“You won’t take that much of a chance, Chaney? You ain’t a gambler at all.”
Chaney looked up from his cards.
* * *
The Colorado snow eased as Bishop rode to the hitch rail. He threw his weight to one side, angling his right arm from its special sling on the saddle, almost turning in the stirrup, before dropping to the ground. Here, the snow was slush under his boots, as he listened again to the voices escaping from Huckie’s. Bishop rolled his shoulders and said something like a prayer before walking the last steps to the batwings that were banging against the front door.
The glass in the front door had a little split, and for some reason, Bishop almost knocked. Instead, he opened it with his left hand and let the door swing free inside, the glass breaking in half to announce him.
Pardee turned in his chair to see Bishop standing in the doorway. One of the others at the table belched, “You’re gonna have to pay for that.”
Bishop kept his head down with his arms straight at his side, his black duster a size and some too big, hanging scarecrow loose, but it gave him the freedom of movement he needed. The first time he saw himself, he thought he looked like a specter from Poe. Bishop cleared his throat, but didn’t speak.
Huckie’s was all whispers and mutterings; guesses about Bishop passed from the drinkers who sat at the old silver exchange counter that now served as the bar, to the laughing whore on the straw bed tucked away in a corner, with the pull curtain above it. Bishop had their attention, until he raised his eyes. The whispering stopped, and then started again, punctuated with loud snickering.
Bishop’s face was softly round, and not protected at all by his blond beard—the kind of face that made men like these laugh among themselves before trying something.
“Chester Pardee.”
Pardee paid no mind. He slipped the letter back into his jacket, and said to Chaney, “You can’t kill me for tryin’.”
Chaney said, “Find somebody to stake you, or fold.”
Bishop hadn’t moved; he tried again. “Chester Pardee.”
Pardee said, “It’s freezin’ in here.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“We’ve got a game, jackass.”
Bishop took a single step closer to the table. “Then you don’t know me?”
Chaney said, “You lost, Chester.”
Pardee said, “Hold up! You say you know me? Stake me to this pot. I got the cards, amigo.”
“You really don’t remember?”
Chaney said to Pardee, “I called, that’s it.”
Chaney laid out two pairs of faces, while Pardee tossed a weak five-high straight on the table. Chaney gave Pardee a smirk with some pity.
Pardee faced Bishop with, “Whatever the hell you’re on about, it didn’t mean nothin’! You just cost me!”
“Slaughtering a man’s family doesn’t mean anything?”
“What man?”
The first blast ripped through Pardee’s shoulder and sent him spinning out of his chair, spurs catching the edge of the table, sending the whiskey, cash, and five-high flying. Pardee twisted on the bowed floor, screaming out for Jesus, but Jesus didn’t make a move. Nobody did.
The whore burst into tears because she’d never seen a shooting up close before; everyone else rubbernecked for a look, not exactly sure what had just happened.
Bishop stood over Pardee, gun smoke drifting from the end of his sleeve where his right hand should have been, but wasn’t. Instead, the two barrels of a Greener shotgun poked from the ragged cuff, which had been singed by the blast. Burning threads danced from the cuff to the floor.
The double barrels were in place of Bishop’s right arm, attached somehow at the elbow, and held waist-high steady. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, keeping the weapon dead-centered on Pardee’s chest.
Pardee was still crying out for Jesus as he struggled to stand, red spreading across his jacket. He tried drawing his Colt with fingers that wouldn’t work. “You ain’t given me a sloppy Chinaman’s chance!”
“What kind of chance did you give my wife and son?”
“Jesus Lord.”
“I’ve still got the second barrel.”
“Can’t you just let me out, Bishop?”
“So you know me now.”
“What happened wasn’t my doin’, I swear. That’s not why I was there.”
“
I can barely see where my wife threw the grease from that hot skillet.”
“Please, let me ride out and you’ll never hear my name again.”
“Beaudine.”
Pardee said, “If I live another twenty years, it won’t matter. I’m already dead.”
Bishop had to shift his weight again, but, with effort, he kept his voice calm and the shotgun aimed at Pardee’s chest, “You wanted to know about gold I didn’t have. Well, now I want to know something. I’m counting.”
“Beaudine’s crazy, and I fell in with his gang. That’s all it was: us tryin’ to eat. Nothin’ personal.”
“I’m only going to five.”
Pardee stammered through tears, giving up a crossroads where Bishop could look for Beaudine, and kill him, if that’s what he intended. Pardee even gave his permission.
Bishop said, “You know what retribution is?”
“It means I’m done.”
“If you can get off the floor, I’ll let you try.”
Pardee didn’t move. Bishop said, “I’m not a murderer.”
“You’re a blessed man, Doc. Better than I’ll ever be.”
Pardee dropped his words as he grabbed Bishop’s left hand, and yanked him forward, slashing him with a rifleman’s knife he had strapped to his boot. The blade sliced deep, from earlobe to the corner of Bishop’s mouth.
Pardee whooped, “How you like that—?!”
Bishop heaved backwards and brought up his right arm in a single motion. Buckshot ’n’ fire erupted from the sleeve a second time, rag-dolling Pardee into a stack of empty beer kegs. Wood and bone shattered together, then settled into silence. Pardee’s eyes stayed wide and his grip on his pistol never relaxed.
Everybody froze for a moment, and then the talk started, along with nervous laughter. One old boy said something about a “nice killin’” and spit a stream of tobacco juice that spattered a brown halo around Pardee’s head.
Bishop waited for someone to try something, but no one bothered. The mutt in the corner wagged his tail and barked his approval. Chaney, the card player, scooped the poker pot into his hat as Bishop took careful steps to the shattered door.