These Violent Times Read online

  Shotgun: The Dr. John Bishop Saga

  by C. COURTNEY JOYNER

  Shotgun

  Shotgun: The Bleeding Ground

  These Violent Times: A Shotgun Western

  SHOTGUN

  THESE VIOLENT TIMES

  C. COURTNEY JOYNER

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE - “’Eye’ Witnessed the Slaughter”

  CHAPTER TWO - The Demon

  CHAPTER THREE - Last Rites

  CHAPTER FOUR - In Dark Memory

  CHAPTER FIVE - Blood and Ashes

  CHAPTER SIX - The Confederate Sailor

  CHAPTER SEVEN - The Traders

  CHAPTER EIGHT - The Lady Freemont

  CHAPTER NINE - The Forest Primeval

  CHAPTER TEN - Divide and Conquer

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - No Man’s Land

  CHAPTER TWELVE - Exodus

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - The Many Ways of Healing

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - An Uncivil War

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - The Beautiful and the Bad

  Teaser chapter

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 C. Courtney Joyner

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-4174-9

  First electronic edition: July 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4175-6

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4175-7

  CHAPTER ONE

  “’Eye’ Witnessed the Slaughter”

  At first, the two mounted men kept some distance from their quarry, staying tight in the charcoal-gray moon-shadows that fell like jagged patches from the tall sequoias. But then the ground became uneven with erosion caused by frequent gully washers, and the rest of the trek was handled without much skill. In the past, when they were out waylaying travelers instead of tracking, they’d managed skittish horses through narrow cuts in the Colorado woods. This time, though, they couldn’t keep the appaloosas steady or quiet. There were predators in the dark, in the cool air . . . and up ahead, even though that killer was not looking for the two men. As the animals fought against their bits, the hands of the riders repeatedly went for their sidearms, their ungloved fingers falling fearfully on worn, dry leather in anticipation of some kind of fast draw.

  Pop, pop, pop, they’d cut him down, just as they had in their minds and in talking about it. One shooting high, the other low. Had to hit something.

  The lead man would anxiously peer into the darkness ahead, the rear rider from side to side; then they’d each look up into the pitch surrounding the trees left and right. When nothing happened they would toss whispers to each other, laughing through their teeth, then shut up. They were playing it like excited kids, not like the killers they were.

  After a long moment of silence and calm, one of them idiot-cackled, “Two in the chest, two in the head. Right?”

  “And a third if it’s needed.”

  “It won’t be. He stays safe.”

  “That’s how it’ll be then,” the other agreed. “You ’n’ me will be . . . what did they call the old magicians? The ones who turned lead into gold?”

  “Al . . .” the head rider said tentatively, searching for the word.

  “Al?” the one behind said. “His goddamn name was Al?”

  They chuckled very, very quietly and briefly as an owl hooted, startling them.

  * * *

  A blind man could have shot the slender, idiot pair from their saddles. A sighted man could have done considerably better. This man—this man could have erased them entirely.

  John Bishop rode as if the two men weren’t there, as if they hadn’t been following him for hours. Stubbled chin pressed to the top button of his slicker, collar turned against a fresh drizzle brought in on the wind, an empty left sleeve pinned across his chest, Bishop didn’t break his horse into a run to lose the two riders in pursuit, and he wasn’t going to double-back and waste time on them. There was no point. He could hear their nervous laughter; they did everything stupid, careless, but whistle. Plus he was too tired and sore from covering so many miles in so few days. Besides, their careless chatter, clomping hoof-falls, and unwashed scent had already branded them amateurs. Even exhausted, he didn’t have to struggle to figure out where they were going and what they’d try next. He didn’t even have to think hard to figure out how they came to be here.

  Misty dampness fell on him when the last of the trees was behind him. It started to rain, then rain hard. He had two consolations. First, only the living could be discomfited by rain; second, the pair behind him would hate it way more than he did, since their horses would really fight them now, every uncertain, muddy step of the way. Coming from the woods, he picked up the south road into the town of Good Fortune, as the up-mountain waters from the storm came in a wave of deep black, rushing to his horse’s knees, splashing up to its belly. Bishop got to the road’s center, graded a little higher, but with its edges falling away into mud, washing to the bottom of the hill.

  The man’s dark Fish Brand slicker glistened now and then in the cloudy moonlight as he angled down a slope, one hand tight on the reins, horse moving straight through the wash, then picking up speed toward the Good Fortune Church of Redemption. Running ahead of churned water and broken tree limbs, he reached and rounded the church, and continued to the back of the Hospitality House and its open stalls for overnighters. Even in the dark, he knew his way. He smelled the pig slop to the north, the two public outhouses to the south, built by and for the church. Just a short walk ahead and he reached the large open door of the stable.

  The troughs plunked loudly, full from the rain, and a lantern hung from a shoulder-high hook just inside. He could see halfway into the structure, but heard all the way. He waited a moment, expressionless. The packed dirt floors were swept clean of hay, and Bishop’s was the only horse. He dropped from the saddle, the rain trailing off his garment, then sent a spray of water flying from his hat after snapping it against his hip.

  He leaned toward the stable’s lamp and lowered the wick, darkening the stalls, before wiping his eyes with the side of his one hand to see beyond the pigs and the hotel to the distant woods. To make out any movement along the tree line. Shapes that might be the men. But the only thing moving was the wind-carried rain, drenching muddy streets and pouring from the stable’s tin roof.

  Leaning against the closed door on the other side, a man said, “Seems like you rode dee-rectly into the eye of the storm, Doctor.”

  “You ever breathe through your nose?”

  “Eh?”

  “Seems like you still wheeze like one of Mott’s hogs,” Bishop said.

  The man came forward with heavy steps. “My lungs is my lungs. And you, you bring two storms.”


  Bishop one-armed the saddle from his horse, wiped it down. “Always the soul of a poet, who’d sell out his grandma for a dollar.”

  Joseph Daniel Avery was a transplant who used the extortive skills he had learned as a New York City policeman to build a career in the West. The story of how he came to leave was one the fattish man loved to tell, and tell often. There were two police departments in 1857, when he was a shavetail just in. The Metropolitan and the Municipal. There were jurisdictional squabbles and the Municipals lost. Avery was one of them, and they did not give up power without a fight. It was 800 to 300, the odds in favor of Avery’s side—and they lost. They were beaten and ousted and unable to work. So Avery came west, using the talents he had picked up in nearly two years: working with reporters, working with gangs, working with smugglers, working with prostitutes, all the while patrolling with a cheerfully rosy face and asking the Irish women on his beat how their flower boxes grew.

  “You do me a wrong,” Avery said, fingers pressed to his red waistcoat. “Wouldn’t do it for under five dollars.”

  Bishop finished bedding his horse. “And we talked about usin’ ’Doc,’ versus ’Doctor.’ You recall?”

  “Forgive me, I can’t help admiring a man of education,” Avery said. “But I’ll be careful about using titles. Even for a surgeon.”

  Avery grabbed the railroad lantern, turned it on high. It shined dully off his bald head, the flesh scratched here and there with old scars from blunt instruments. Hooked over his right wrist was an umbrella, which he let slide to his fingers. It was a bright red frilly thing forgotten by a working girl. A smirking grin still lived in the saloon owner’s round face, despite the punishment he had taken in his forty-odd years.

  Finished with the saddle, Bishop turned toward the back door as though he had no intention of waiting. Avery quick-stepped to catch up.

  “You, sir, have been in the Gazette again,” the beefy man said.

  “What of it?”

  “Nothin’,” Avery said. “Nothin’ at all.”

  With a grunt, Bishop yanked loose the ties securing a carpetbag to his saddle, hefted it to his shoulder as they walked. His eyes moved left and right—a habit in any new place. “Get yourself a stable boy? Never seen the place this clean.”

  “I did it just for you. Now, it’s drink time.”

  “You’re making me feel special,” Bishop said warily. “I don’t like that.”

  Avery laughed, his velvet-coated belly shaking, as they stepped into the rain and navigated the side of the hotel. He kept the red umbrella over them both. “Maybe it’s the weather. We’ve been getting soaked on-and-off—mostly on—for a week, but I approve. Smells fresh, don’t you agree?”

  “Fresher.”

  “Makes me happy,” Avery said, talking loudly over the patter. “You know why? It makes everything look silver. That’s a right thing for a silver boomtown, even a dead one. But, my friend, I feel we’re on the eve of resurrection.”

  Bishop let the “my friend” pass without contradiction. “A poetic soul won’t stop double pneumonia.”

  “I’ll nurse myself with rum and cocaine,” Avery said. Almost added “Doctor,” but stopped short. “As for you, I believe you’re immortal. At least, that’s what the penny dreadfuls say.”

  Bishop did not comment on that either. Cheap literature, sensational thrills. Consumed by readers in filthy cities or on remote spreads who never experienced actual, bleeding horror. The kind that played through your memory as slow as a cloud crossing the sky, one cloud after another cloud after ano—

  “You’re not sporting your double-barrel special,” Avery went on.

  Bishop heard but his mind was back on one particular day, a day he could never leave. Or which would not leave him, he wasn’t sure. He once asked about the difference. Asked a Chinese, an old man on a cattle drive Bishop encountered. The skinny wisp of a man knew the language but didn’t talk much. Didn’t even ask about his arm. Wasn’t like Avery here, which told Bishop the Chinese cook probably had something to say. Getting himself a plate of fried corn and warm bread, Bishop asked the man where he had worked before this.

  “Trains,” the Chinese had replied.

  “Cooking?”

  The man had nodded.

  “Like it?” Bishop had asked.

  The Chinese looked at him before turning back to the chuck wagon. “It is gone. If you stay fixed in a moment, the world passes you by.”

  And that, in a phrase, in a quiet sentence thrown off as casually as Bishop had brushed rainwater from his cheek, was his own life since that day. Since that day in the Colorado foothills where he had settled with his wife and little boy, tending to settlers trying to build the West. A quiet day, a quiet existence, until—

  “Are you okay?” Avery asked, showing uncustomary concern. Another hint.

  “Fine.”

  “I said—you’re not sporting your double-barrel special,” Avery went on.

  It was easier to answer than to not bother. The Chinese fella also told him something else, unsolicited, when Bishop returned the plate.

  “It takes more energy to do the right thing at the wrong time,” he had said. And that was truer than any truth Bishop had ever heard. It fit with the other piece. A moment passes, you’re still in it, the events and people that created it—gone.

  “Fools see it, they’re encouraged to try,” Bishop answered Avery to end the discussion. For now. “I just want a little hot coffee, a lotta sleep.”

  “I can accommodate,” the other man said, his eyes searching his companion. “But your rig’s tucked into that horrendous carpetbag, yes?”

  “You so eager to see it?”

  Bishop took the man’s next move as a “no.” Avery shivered all over, not from the rain. He was like a jelly, this man, this opportunist, shaking in some spots after others had stopped.

  “Still selling guns to the Comanche?” Bishop asked.

  “I try to supply whatever my local customers demand,” he said. “You should understand.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “The North sold to the South during the war. Guns. Food. Medical supplies.” Avery slapped his vest proudly. “I am a man of enlightenment. We are all Americans.”

  “You get that from your reading?” Bishop asked.

  “The dreadfuls?” Avery snickered. “No, sir. The Constitution.” They’d made their way to the front porch of the Hospitality House and Avery opened a tall, slatted door to the saloon with a grand gesture. “But . . . I do so admire those others. Enter, and bear witness to my latest effort.”

  Bishop cleared the door. Stopped. His dark eyes grew. Not brighter, just larger. “What in hell do you call this?”

  “A tribute,” Avery said proudly, hanging the lantern on a peg by the door, then collapsing the umbrella. Water rained on his muddy boots, flecking the wood floor. “I’m truly gratified that it took your breath away.”

  Avery walked to the bar, lay the lady’s umbrella beside a Colt .44-.40 carbine, loaded. He placed a carved-silver strainer over an absinthe glass, added a sugar cube. It was a delicate operation for the fat-fingered man, who alternately watched Bishop drop the carpetbag on a chair, move through the saloon, and shake his head with an expression that had shaded from surprise to “Sweet Mother of Jesus,” leaning toward disapproval.

  Most of the place was as Bishop remembered: polished oak bar with a large French mirror behind it, long-ago cracked, and a scattering of poker tables filling up the empty spaces; all worn-out felt and phony gilt like most places he’d been to outside of a big city.

  But now, corner to corner and floor to ceiling, pages from newspapers, Harper’s Weekly, The Police Gazette, special editions of Deadwood Dick, were pasted to the walls, smothering them. Hundreds of overlapping photographs, sketches, editorials, and headlines:

  Doctor/Killer and His Double-Barreled Law

  The Mysterious Bishop Heals, Then Slaughters

  CONFESSIONS OF DOCTOR DEATH />
  BLOOD LOVERS:

  The One-Armed Avenger of Colorado

  And the Cheyenne Who Kills With Him

  DEAD MAN RIDING

  ¡Me Llaman Escopeta!

  Avery poured the absinthe, melting the sugar, then took a cobalt-blue bottle from his vest pocket. “So how does it feel, being a living legend?”

  Bishop said, “Not exactly what I’d call it.” He wiped his eyes with his palm heel. “I’m content just being ’living.’”

  “Amen to that.”

  Bishop squinted his tired eyes. He was trying to take in a Police Gazette cover, showing him standing before a stalled locomotive, shotgun rig aimed, the engineer with hands raised in fear, the fireman on his knees, praying.

  “Jesus—”

  “Is that an observation or a description of the savior there-depicted?” Avery smirked.

  “Don’t add blasphemy to your sins,” Bishop cautioned, ignoring the fact that he was the one who took the Lord’s name in vain. He had been justified. Avery was just a slob.

  The overweight bartender added a few careful tears of laudanum to Bishop’s absinthe, then prepared his own. “What would you prefer for my establishment?”

  “Prefer?”

  “Yeah, on the wall? Some burlesquer sprawled on a couch? A cancan line with all the goods in ruffles and shadow forcing drunks to squint?”

  “I really don’t know,” Bishop said. “Or care.” He looked around, noticed a bullet hole near to the wall. Someone had fired on the way to falling backward, already hit. He looked to where the shot would have originated. There was a dry, brown smudge on the floor.