These Violent Times Page 7

  The fire threw the hand shadows around them.

  “Her name is ’Migisi.’ The Eagle,” White Fox said. “Wooden Leg knew the child. Her parents, dead in a raid. She doesn’t trust you.”

  “I understand that too,” Duffin said.

  White Fox said “Migisi” down around the little girl’s ears, letting her hear it over and over, and then the girl said her name back. In a quiet, almost-gone whisper.

  Wooden Leg mixed tea with the last bit of quinine from Bishop’s medical kit. White Fox lifted the tea to Migisi’s mouth. “I haven’t seen John Bishop since your town, Paradise.”

  Duffin nodded. “A lot of dead left behind.”

  “Migisi, open your eyes,” White Fox said to the girl, taking hold of her hand. To Duffin, “That was the last of Bishop’s medicine. We’ve been attacked by those in fear. What they couldn’t steal was destroyed. Many of them are dead too. They run. Collapse from fever. Even kill each other.”

  “All this brought by the attacks, this demon, or whatever the heck you want to call it,” Duffin said. “Listen, there’s more to the fort dispatch than I can tell you, but you’re going to have to come with me, one way or the other.”

  Wooden Leg covered her mouth with her hand, two fingers pointing outward.

  She had called him a liar. Duffin knew the sign.

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “White Fox is coming. I’m not playing a game.”

  White Fox looked to him, his hand absently moving near his gun, and Duffin was now exactly what she imagined: a “man of the law” who’d slaughter them without taking a second breath.

  “You are the messenger of the ignorant,” White Fox said as she stroked the side of the girl’s face. “‘Hávêsévemâhta’sóoma’ is the child’s word for what she saw,” White Fox said. “I learned your language from the poetry of Mr. Edgar Poe. If he were writing of this demon, it would have told about more than a being. It would have been about the fever. About you being here. It would have been the spirit of everything wrong.”

  “White Fox, I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Duffin admitted. “Look, I’ll see you get medicine from the fort. I’ll help you in any way I can. But you will be with me when I ride out to Bishop’s place.”

  Migisi didn’t thrash or scream under the caress of White Fox, but held her hands as tight as she could until White Fox had to separate from her grip. Wooden Leg took the girl’s hands, then covered them with her own before nodding to White Fox. Giving her permission to go.

  White Fox said to Duffin, “I will come, messenger, but on my own. Not as a prisoner. You see that you keep your word about medicine. As for Doctor Bishop, I will make my own mind up. Do you agree?”

  Duffin’s mouth registered dissatisfaction. But that was pride talking. He knew he could trust White Fox.

  He removed his hand from his holster and agreed with a single nod.

  There was not a moment of the meeting that White Fox had forgotten. She put it from her mind as she brought the painted down from the back side of the trail, slowing her pace, still undecided about John Bishop. But ready to confront Duffin about the medicines from the fort and getting them back to the Cheyenne camp.

  She was riding over a path she’d known for years, one that she’d run bloody-barefoot, escaping her drunken husband. Now she was on the painted, coming up on the old Bishop place with a different purpose, making her way through a split in a broken fence, stepping over the fallen rails. Then stopping. Cold. The painted snorted.

  White Fox sat up straight, stretching against the saddle, sharp eyes watching figures at a distance, moving behind the burned remains of the farmhouse’s chimney and fireplace.

  They didn’t speak, and the deep shadows made it impossible to tell their age or anything else about them. They were just there. Three in black, with guns, staying low and crouched, backs to the charred stone. Not looking at each other. All appeared to have two arms.

  White Fox threw a leg from the painted, dropping into the tall grass, making no sound, and pulling the battle shield from across her shoulders. She moved down the grade, stopping behind a deep gathering of Apache plumes that formed a tangled wall of shrubbery.

  The three hadn’t made a move. But beyond them, searching the darkness, White Fox could see Bishop and Duffin by the tombstone, torch planted, as Bishop dropped the glass bulb in front of him, then smashed it with his heel.

  “Go to hell. You really believe I’d have something to do with this?”

  “Oh I’m sure not,” Duffin said. “But you’re not the only one who invents whatchamacallits. There’s a lot more of these things, Doc, and you know the man that made ’em.”

  “I know you, too, Marshal,” Bishop shot back. “Does that make me a lawman?”

  “Ain’t the point, and it ain’t all,” Duffin said. “There’s a man cut in half with your shotgun. Found in the river and filled with this disease, accordin’ to our medic. I just want to hear your side of how it all happened.”

  “What man are you talking about? What river?”

  “You in a shooting at the Good Fortune Hospitality House?”

  “I was a target,” Bishop said. “Target shot back.”

  Their voices were distant across the open landscape, their words echoing to nothing after they spoke, lost in the miles of silence. Seemingly alone. At least, to them.

  White Fox had unhooked the tomahawk from the harness on her saddle, her eyes never leaving the back of the house. She felt the short-bladed weapon’s weight, how the handle laid in her palm, getting used to it again, while still only looking dead ahead. One of the figures moved around the side of the house, the other two taking positions behind burned timbers with guns raised. Staying to the dark, blending into shadows, and still silent.

  White Fox angled her body forward, targeting.

  She saw Duffin step to Bishop, his silver Colt out from its holster, but still low. Bishop’s rig snapped into place also, just as one of the figures at the side of the house lifted a Winchester, slow-chambering the bullet with his hands covering the hammer action to mask the sound.

  White Fox recognized the trick from his movements, but Bishop and Duffin were locked on each other and didn’t hear or sense the figure’s presence.

  The battle shield was now mounted at White Fox’s elbow, and she held the tomahawk out from her side, the handle aligned straight along her arm, fingers tight. Ready to release.

  Winchester stepped from his cover, rifle at his shoulder.

  White Fox hurled the tomahawk, the handle spinning, blade slicing the air before cleaving his head from behind—a pumpkin falling apart in a red geyser. Dead fingers spasm-shot the Winchester into the fireplace stones. A muzzle flash, then ricochet, as the shots reported back. Gunfire, reaction, and gunfire echo. All happening within heartbeats.

  Simultaneous action, as—

  White Fox ran for the painted.

  Bishop turned at the blast from the Winchester, rig up, barrels leveled, as two shadows moved from the side of the house, shooting. Bullets striking the headstone, screaming against the white marble. Sparks. Bishop dropped to a knee, firing the first barrel, then the second. Slugs still streaming around him. Roar of power from the rig, and both thrown off their feet by the buckshot. Landing doubled-over bloody into the grass, as—

  White Fox swung the horse around, charged from the hill, riding hard for the corpse of the first gunman. She leaned out of the saddle, her body angled to the ground. She grabbed the war club from his skull, bringing it up bloody, then galloped for the old well.

  Bullets tore at Duffin, fired from the dark. The marshal took cover by the apple tree and returned fire. Shooting at movement. At shadows. White Fox leaped in front of him. He followed her motion, grabbing the torch and throwing it toward the well. Shedding fire as it arced, throwing off orange, showing up the figures and lighting the ground beneath them.

  White Fox and the painted, the torch’s fire spreading out as wings behind them, leaped over
the old well, landing on the other side of the rubble. Smashing with the club end of the tomahawk. Once, then twice. Two more guns charged from the dark, even as the torch landed behind them, setting the grass on fire.

  Small flames. Growing. Showing their silhouettes.

  Bishop moved on them, shooting. Both barrels. Reloading as the silhouettes were hurled backward. Puppets with cut strings, hitting the ground as flailing arms and legs.

  One was still trying to shoot, bringing up a pistol. Firing up at White Fox on the painted. Dying aim. White Fox reared back, bringing the horse down on the outlaw. Hooves into chest. Bones splitting. He screamed, but with no voice. An open mouth, and muscles moving in his throat. Silence, as he slashed at the painted with a long knife, the horse jumping back, and the outlaw rolling from beneath. Standing, a Buntline special out of his long coat.

  White Fox smashed him with the shield, then brought the war-blade down, his blood spitting back. But he didn’t react. Only grabbed for her, pulling her wild from the saddle, smashing her to the ground, a heavy foot on her vulnerable chest.

  He pressed the pistol between her eyes, with that silent, maniacal laugh. Bishop shot. Through his back, blowing out his chest. The outlaw spun on his feet, not dropping the gun. He dropped to his knees, still laughing. Shooting where he was facing now, low to the ground, striking the tombstone. The gun continued to fire in his dead finger even as he fell on top of it, flashes exploding under his body, then dying.

  Bishop was steady, with the rig aimed and no slack in the trigger lines. The last gunman’s mouth curled open, and he raised his pistol before the shotgun blast opened him up completely, into the dewy grass and mud beside White Fox, blood bubbling from his mouth and nose as if it were boiling out of him.

  Bishop shucked the spent shells, watching them land at his feet, as White Fox rubbed her hands across the painted, checking the slash before taking him by his war bridle and walking him back.

  Bishop stood by his wife’s grave marble, his shoulders slack, smoke still drifting from the down-turned rig. In a moment, he was before her carved name, some of the letters marred but still legible. He used his sleeve to wipe away the blood staining it.

  Bishop said over his shoulder, “You going to arrest us for this, for all what’s happened?”

  The deflated Duffin found a place against the apple tree and caught his breath. “Come on, Doc. This was a battle brought to us. You don’t charge murder in a battle.”

  “Like in Good Fortune,” Bishop said.

  Duffin deserved that and he knew it. He looked down, then over to watch White Fox, leading the painted over. He turned, looked to Bishop, then down to the red pouring from his own leg. Soaking the ground.

  Duffin pulled at the edge of his pants, hiking them over to see the bullet wound just above his knee, open and scorched by black powder. He clenched his eyes with, “Sweet Jesus, I didn’t even feel it this time.”

  “Nerves go numb, sometimes. You’ll feel it.”

  “Okay, Doc. But you still have to answer for the other things we talked about.”

  “Sure, Miles.”

  As Bishop turned away, Duffin collapsed.

  * * *

  The field medical kit was open, the surgical knives laid out on their leather apron, protecting them from the wet grass, and beside the shotgun rig and ammunition. Bishop and White Fox had Duffin under the shoulders, pulling him forward to straighten his wounded leg.

  White Fox took the miniature oil lamp from the kit and lit it, a waft of black smoke churning, then curling from its chimney, before the flame settled and lit the operating area around the apple tree. The horses chewed quietly to one side, and beyond the fall of the light, in bleak anonymity, were the bodies of the attackers. The still lay twisted in the grass, and by the foundation of the old farmhouse, where they fell.

  Bishop ignored all as White Fox held the light for him, and he worked through the medical kit with his one hand, picking up empty bottles, saying, “There’s almost nothing here. You’ve been busy.”

  “The medicine you left is long gone,” White Fox said unapologetically.

  “You haven’t done any surgery?”

  “I’ve done what I’ve had to do,” White Fox said.

  Bishop regarded her for a moment, holding the light, the halo cast showing up a face that was more beautiful now because of its experience. He let that thought go, pulling out a roll of surgical thread and unwrapping a small pack of wax paper around two small brass hinges, connected with an adjustable screw.

  Bishop said, “You’re going to have to be my hands, like before.”

  “But better now, I think.”

  Bishop grinned to himself, gave a little smile of encouragement, then attached a small magnifying glass to the edge of the oil lamp, bringing it to him like a monocle on its own, hinged arm. White Fox held the lamp over Duffin’s leg as Bishop examined it through the glass, the flesh-tears of the wound large in his vision, and the smashed, torn edge of the bullet visible just beneath the first layer of muscle above his knee.

  Bishop said, “It’s not swimming, so that’s good, but God knows what we’ll get when it’s removed.”

  White Fox put down the lamp and threaded the only suture needle, Bishop saying, “I always liked my design for this lamp. One of the best things I ever came up with.”

  “Those are always your words,” White Fox said. “’One of the best.’ Even about that.”

  “I love my work,” he said dryly.

  She cocked her head toward the rig, put the suture on the lid of the kit as Bishop fixed the brass clamps to the wound, opening the flesh more and pulling back muscle to access the slug. He chose a short-blade surgical knife from the few in the leather sleeve.

  White Fox angled the light from the lamp, finally putting it on top of the headstone, with Bishop nodding his approval, before he cut into Duffin’s leg. Blood spurted, and White Fox grabbed hold of the slug with a pair of tongs, as Bishop held the artery tight, slowly closing it. Ebbing the flow. White Fox leaned in and began stitching.

  “Closer together, and don’t pull too tight,” Bishop said. “You know what I’ve taught you.”

  “I’m better when you are not watching.”

  “Miles will be better if I do,” Bishop said.

  He meant that as a challenge, not an insult, and White Fox responded as he knew she would. She adjusted her touch, bringing the suture to the edge of the wound, lacing it together, then said, “I also know what I’ve learned. You can move that now.”

  Bishop said, “This was a great thing in the field.”

  He released the clamp with his one hand, pulling it away as White Fox finished sewing around the wound, using smaller pulls for the stitching, and saying, “You compared what I did to beading. Once. You are lucky I didn’t have an ax.”

  “For the surgery or for my scalp?”

  White Fox answered, “I’m civilized. Remember?”

  Bishop said, “I remember, and I apologize.” White Fox shrugged but let herself have the moment. And the relief. The surgery had taken less than an hour, but the night was almost done and the sky was breaking apart. She lowered the flame on the lamp as Bishop wiped the instruments clean, packed them back into his medical kit, precisely, and with care.

  He paused, noting the worn-away gold of the army insignia across the lid, and what was left of his fractured name.

  “My past life in a box,” Bishop said. “It could belong to anyone now.”

  White Fox thought about the name and the flaked gold and said, “No. It is yours only.”

  * * *

  “These sons of bitches aren’t going to stay here and foul my land.”

  Bishop had rolled two of the bodies onto a ragged blanket, and White Fox picked up the other end, and they hauled them, like a travois, across the grass to the edge of a small gulley. Bishop pushed them down the hill, watching the bodies roll.

  Neither he nor White Fox said a word. Just kept on with their work.

&
nbsp; The last of the bodies was the thin scarecrow, his face still locked in a grin, lips pulled back across wide, yellow teeth in his silent laugh. Bishop turned his head to one side, seeing the extended and inflated veins, slashes of purple and blue bruising down his throat, surrounded by puncture marks from a hypodermic needle. That’s how he’d kept laughing after his lungs were mostly gone.

  Bishop said, “It’s a new world of addiction,” and rolled him into the gulley, his body landing on top of the other corpses.

  * * *

  The coffee they brewed in the pot from Duffin’s pack tasted like rust, but it was the only hot food Bishop had had in days, and he topped his off with some of Avery’s whiskey, what little was left. He and White Fox had kept watch on Duffin through the dawn hours, building a fire next to him. Bishop thought of digging a grave for the men he’d left to rot, or be eaten by coyotes, but decided that was for someone else. Anyone else.

  Duffin stirred. Opened his eyes, and immediately shut them again, wincing in pain. Bishop held out a cup that was more bourbon than coffee, with, “We’re down to bones and scraps, literally, but I think we saved your leg.”

  Duffin sipped greedily. “Again.”

  “Again.”

  Duffin held out the cup. “I’m always thanking you, Doc. That just seems to be the way it is between us.”

  “Frankly, that’s a relief for me. God knows, I’ve had it the other way too many times.”

  “But not with repeaters like me,” Duffin observed.

  “No,” Bishop agreed.

  “Can you fetch me my saddlebag?”

  White Fox rose and took the bag from Duffin’s horse, hefting it with her arm and feeling its weight. Her expression was dark when she set the bag down in the grass beside him, and he reached in for the army Colt.

  “I saw you took off my holster,” Duffin said, “and if I asked for it, you would’ve known what I had to say.”

  “I know you,” Bishop said. “I knew what you were going to say after ’thanks.’”

  Duffin had the pistol resting across his chest, aimed directly at Bishop’s face. “Your rig and that bandolier, put them in my saddlebags,” he said, then looked at White Fox. “And miss, I want all your knives too. And I think I saw a tommy hatchet.”