Shotgun: The Bleeding Ground

By C. Courtney Joyner

He lost his arm to outlaws. Replaced it with a double-barreled boom stick. Now Civil War veteran Dr. John Bishop is armed for justice--and extremely dangerous. They call him. . .

Shotgun
The Bleeding Ground

John"Shotgun" Bishop has tangled with plenty of lowlifes in his time--and he's got the missing limb to prove it. But few sink as low as his own brother Devlin, a crazy-mean cuss who'd steal the horns off the devil himself. This time, Dev's got his cold black heart set on taking over John Chisum's land, destroying the cattle king's dream of building a new town and laying down tracks for the railroad. So Chisum hires Shotgun and his Cheyenne partner, White Fox, to protect his investment. But when the Bishop family feud turns into an all-out turf war, Shotgun ends up on the wrong side of the law--stuck in the middle between the devil he knows and two deadly new players. Their names are Billy the Kid and Pat Garrett. And this time, there will be blood. . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pinnacle Books
• Release date: Jun 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9780786032358

Book preview

peace.

CHAPTER ONE

Dead Memories

The special bandolier was designed perfectly. Cut from beaver skin and holding six .12-gauge shells, it fastened tight around the upper part of John Bishop’s half-arm with two leather ties. The oil from the pelt let the shells slide easily from their pockets into the double-barreled, swivel-breech shotgun that replaced the rest of the right limb he’d sacrificed defending his family.

Bishop’s one-handed prep of the weapon was all skill and adrenaline; quick motion to open the breech, pop the shells into place with his thumb, then a jerk of the wrist to snap it shut. It was load, fire, shuck brass, and load again. He could do it in fifteen seconds; less, if he fell into a rhythm, facing enemies from any direction.

At the moment, only one enemy was facing him, but with two guns. A shadowed figure stood on a frozen ledge jutting from the side of an unforgiving mountain, its peaks twisted like diseased muscles.

The sun was behind him, making him a dark specter. Blowing snow masked his face, but he held a Navy Six in each hand, his stance daring Bishop’s approach from below. A horse couldn’t make it that far off-trail, and a man, just barely. He kept the Navies hammered back, waiting. He knew Bishop was there, someplace, waiting for his chance.

Bishop stayed out of sight in a deep wound in the mountain’s side—an opening in the rocks, hidden by tufts of dead grass. Without showing himself, he could see the man on the ledge twenty feet above him. The wound was good cover, but lousy aim, especially for a shotgun. He scrubbed the snow from his eyes with his left palm, looking for a better position, judging his odds of making it.

Shreds of winter light threw a hint of the man’s shadow at Bishop’s feet. He watched him inch to the other side of the ledge, ready to open fire as soon as Bishop stepped away from the mountain’s protection.

Filling his lungs with the cold, Bishop followed the shadow. The enemy on the ledge had the advantage, but at least he was finally a clean target. Bishop raised his half right arm, the elbow joint bringing the shotgun rig instantly into place, the metal supports on either side of the prosthetic locking its firing position.

Flexing his shoulders, he drew tight the silver chain that ran from the gun’s two triggers to the leather harness that fit snugly across his back. The chain looped through the leather and was anchored to a band on his left wrist so the triggers could be pulled with a simple tug or a half-move of the body. His body and the special weapon acted and reacted as one.

To goad Bishop out of the wound in the mountain, the figure yelled, Your ma never . . . but his words were murdered by the high wind. The second attempt was a shot into the sky, followed by whoops of laughter.

Bishop blocked his howls and screams, letting the sound of his own calm fill his ears, while keeping his eyes fixed on the man’s shadow, his moves.

The man leaned forward, trying for a glimpse, and then fired twice more, angry wild ricochets. He straightened, howling for Bishop over the storm.

Bishop charged from his cover in the mountainside, letting loose with both barrels, shooting upward, burning the air.

The man shot back at the same time, flame from the pistols flaring wide, a slug opening Bishop’s throat, spinning him backwards into a deep pit. He grabbed for a limb to brake himself. No use. He fell without screaming, hitting bottom with a head snap, the shotgun barrels smashing piles of jagged rock around him.

But it wasn’t rock.

Bishop lay still, snow cooling his face, life seeping through the fingers of the left hand he’d clamped on his windpipe. He tried moving. What he was lying on moved with him—little bits and pieces, crunching under his weight. He turned his head barely an inch, and his eyes met the shattered half-face of a human skull.

Beyond it, another, and then still another. Empty eye sockets, half jaws, and shells of broken teeth were scattered among the snapped, hardened bones of thousands of skeletons piled atop each other. Bishop forced himself up, his bloody fingers smearing wet on the dried remains surrounding him.

All that created the mountain.

Not stone and earth, but body upon body. It was as if a mass grave erupted its corpses and stacked them miles high. Muscles, ribs, spines, arms, and legs of the dead formed its hills, crags, and ledges. What should have been granite was gristled flesh, the mountain’s plants only tangles of rotting hair.

A patchwork of petrified skin made the steep walls of the pit. The stretched faces of men, all ages and types, were locked in agony, screaming silently.

Bishop’s mind reeled, the stench burning his nose and eyes. He tried to whisper to God while managing to get beyond his knees, standing on bones and hardened flesh.

A slug hit him in the back, then two more tore each leg.

Blood sprayed, and he dropped again, his face beside the bodies of a young woman and a boy. They were curled together in an eternal embrace.

Your family’s been waiting, John. Just for you. The man with the Navy Sixes stood high on the rim of the pit, looking down, reloading. I know you want to be reunited.

Without the sun’s glare, Bishop could see his clothes were shades of red. His face, which he kept lowered was more distinct, but still curtained by ice and snow.

Bishop cradled the delicate bodies of his wife and son, protecting them as he heard the pistols cock. They crumbled to dust in his arms. The shots from above were a roar.

* * *

The water hitting Dr. John Bishop tasted of lye soap lumped in with chewed tobacco and spit-back. He rolled out of his bunk, coughing like hell. Sheriff Tucker stood by the cell door with an empty wash bucket, his flannels barely covering his whiskey belly. He pushed his bifocals up on his nose with a snort. Christ on a crutch, you got to shut up!

Bishop yanked the soaking wet dirty sheet off the bunk’s hay-bag mattress. He coughed more gray water, slopping his beard, then settled on one knee, fighting for air. Same dreams again.

You ain’t gettin’ nothin’ dry tonight! I’ve had prisoners mess the bed, piss the walls—

Clean up since?

Tucker’s voice got louder. They’ve killed each other, killed themselves, and none was more trouble than you!

My sincere apologies.

An arm sprang between the bars of the adjoining cell, locking Bishop in a choke hold. It was massive, covered with ape-like hair, and its owner stunk of sweet-jack rye from two nights before. I’m a man what values his sleep!

Tucker traded the bucket for a tarnished Colt pocket revolver and pointed it at the prisoner who was squeezing Bishop’s windpipe through the bars. Let him go, Harvey!

Harvey kept Bishop locked. Gonna shoot me? Make your sister a widow?

Best gift I could give her.

Bishop pulled at Harvey’s huge arm with his one hand, but it was made of God-steel.

Harvey’s laugh was like a mule braying. A one-armed man! Can’t do nothing!

Tucker took a step to Harvey’s cell, aiming the gun directly at the back of his head. But I can. Let the man go, Harv, or Esther’ll have a lonely Christmas.

Harvey relaxed his grip, dropping Bishop to the wet stone floor. Hell, he’s gonna hang anyway. What’s the difference?

The difference is you’re an inbred ass, and I’m the law. All right there, Bishop?

Bishop worked some feeling back into his neck with his one hand. I’ll make it to the hanging.

Don’t you have no more of that stuff to keep you quiet?

Chloral hydrate.

Besides the bunk, the only other furniture in the cell was a three-legged stool where a slop-drenched Bible and a small amber bottle were placed. Bishop’s cell was one of five, separated by a slab of waist-high iron plating and bars to the ceiling. The privy was a hole cut in the stone floor covered by a busted lid.

Unlike the rest of the town, the jail was sturdily built, something that didn’t escape Bishop when he’d ridden into town five months ago. Surrounded by clapboard and false fronts, it was the only stone building on the main street. The only sure thing about Paradise, Colorado, was its bad temper.

Bishop had met a proper lady, and she’d called it, The mule pie of Colorado.

He’d laughed at those words coming from her mouth, but that was before the robbery and the massacre. Before the blast that turned him inside out. Before being left to die. All the things that were a jumbled fog of memory.

Sheriff Tucker said, Hey, I gotta ask again.

I heard you. Bishop gave the empty bottle a shake. All gone.

That stuff got you through the nights, at least. Doc Benson claimed these dreams ’d stop in a week. He lit out, leaving you and your tortures behind. It’s been months like this!

Longer than that for me.

Harvey bellowed, That ain’t no comfort for the rest of us, you screamin’ like a virgin on her wedding night!

Bishop said, Seems to me that men and women scream the same way. He absently rubbed the stump of his right arm with his palm, his fingers tracing the elbow joint and the roiled flesh around it. He stopped himself when he almost clasped his missing right hand.

Look it! Crazier than an outhouse rat! Scratchin’ at an arm that ain’t even there!

It’s called phantom pain. You wouldn’t understand.

See, I know about real pain, the kind what sets your insides on fire. How ’bout feelin’ something real for a change? Something for all them men you killed?

You or Tucker ask me that three times a day.

Bishop flopped on his bunk, tired of conversation and ready to try sleep again. Just try. Water squirted and bits of wet hay dropped from the mattress bag as he stretched out, eyes shut.

Harvey said, So let’s hear it.

I guess it depends if they were trying to kill me. You know more about it than I do.

I can see lots of people wanting you dead.

Leave my prisoner alone. Tucker opened Harvey’s cell door with a large brass turnkey. You’re sober enough. Get the hell home.

But Esther said she didn’t want to see me for a week.

Can’t blame her for that. Find a stall at the livery. It’s no matter to me. And you borrowed my good Sears, Roebuck.

Harvey grabbed the rain slicker he’d been using as a pillow, then stepped around his brother-in-law, who was holding open the cell door with one hand, keeping the Colt in the other.

Harvey said, You’re coming for Sunday supper?

Tucker wiped his spectacles on his sleeve. We’ll see. Now get on to the stalls, sleep with the horse pies.

That suits me right to the ground. I can’t abide to be around no half-a-man anyways.

Bishop regarded Harvey. How do you feel about the boys who fought in the conflict?

What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

I’m just trying to learn about you, Harvey.

Tucker stepped in front of his brother-in-law, jamming the pistol into his chest. Out.

Bishop had his left arm behind his head. I apologize again, Harvey.

He’s gone. Notice how much better it smells? Tucker opened the door to Bishop’s cell, the Colt still leveled. We’ve been together awhile, Doc.

Bishop’s kept his eyes shut and didn’t move.

Tucker continued. Since the so-called massacre I mean. You’re going down in the history books for that one. Train sailed off the tracks.

All I know is what you told me.

The newspapers.

Them, too.

You saved some lives that day, Doc, but you left a lot of blood ’n hair behind. That was some real killin’ you did.

Bishop broke his words, trying to end it. I—don’t—remember.

Tucker said, Not while you’re awake. That’s because you’ve gone crippled in your head.

You’re not going to let me sleep, are you?

Trying to help is all.

Bishop showed his impatience and sighed. Tucker, I can’t remember clear the last ten minutes, last week, or last month. But funny enough, I do remember a thing or two about medicine.

Hell, I know you’re the real deal. Your field kit’s in the closet. I’m not saying I know more about what’s wrong with you than you do, but see, I’m lookin’ at you from the outside. Maybe that gives me something, huh?

Bishop didn’t answer.

Tucker pressed. I’ve figured out a few things, like what’s making you tick.

I always like to hear from an educated man.

Funny. It’s usual for prisoners to look down their noses at the lawman. It’s their nature. I’m surprised a doctor would run his mouth that way.

I guess I can’t do anything right today.

Maybe you should give me a listen.

I just want some sleep.

Yeah. You’re praying for it.

Bishop opened his eyes. He tilted his head to see Tucker standing over him, wearing a crooked kind of smile, the Colt an inch from his temple.

Tucker quick-touched Bishop with the gun. Now, I don’t have your fine learning, but you live long enough, you pick things up along the way. I can fix your problem.

With that old .44?

I seen men break at Shiloh. Bawl like a newborn and never come back. See, mixed up in your head as you are, I don’t think it’s ever gonna leave ya alone.

Probably not.

You can’t sort nothing out if you can’t recall it.

I can’t call things up the way I could, but it seems I had a patient once, shot by his drunken wife. After that, he couldn’t remember his own name. Bishop let it sink in. The doc with no memory remembers the patient with no memory. That’s what Harvey ’d call outhouse crazy.

Tucker said, Maybe he’s right. What you went through was like the war a second time. Fighting off the robbers who blew the train off the track; helping those soldiers protecting that gold? Even when they were being shot to pieces, you were in there.

Bishop gave a moment before saying, Killing a lot of men, I guess.

That’s what’s doggin’ you . . . because you was doing both. Being a doc and a killer. Tucker’s voice stayed a hiss. Can you live with that torture?

You claim they’ll hang me as soon as the circuit judge rides in.

Who knows when that’ll be? Maybe months? You really want to go on like this? Hell, I wouldn’t. Bein’ no use to myself or anybody else. Doc, you know how bad it’s gonna get.

Bishop smiled. So, what’s your thinking, Tucker? That maybe I won’t get hung? That’d be a problem?

Not for me. Not really. The lawman dropped his voice to barely a whisper. If you tried an escape, I could shoot you with cause. I’d do it right, too, and all your loco talk’d be over for sure. Now, that’s peace, ain’t it?

Bishop shut his eyes again and gave a quiet laugh before he spoke. Right now, that doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, but I’ll wait for the judge.

And tell him you don’t remember all the blood you spilled? Tucker was only a step away from Bishop. Sucking in his gut, he suddenly took an official tone. I was offering a real way out of your suffering, but if you ain’t going to take it, let’s look at it another way.

Bishop lay still, knowing what was next.

Tucker said, The judge don’t care if he kills you or if I do. It’s the same sentence.

Going to try this play again? Bishop brought his right arm down to his side, measured his words. Either I pay to end my intense suffering—

"That smart mouth again. That you remember."

Or I pay to get to trial.

Tucker said, You’ve been a lot of bother, Doc, but I’m a good man. Merciful. You got a lot of them train robbers, but they still got away with a strongbox of cash. And what about that gold you got squirreled off someplace? How ’bout all of that?

You listen to too much barroom talk. I couldn’t give God a dollar if he struck me with lightning. Bishop felt the barrel of the Colt against his temple again, the vibration of the hammer locking into place.

Tucker leaned in whisper-close. You really want to go out a liar?

Bishop didn’t blink.

Tucker said, Wait for the judge? Live with night terrors? Your business, but the only way that’s gonna happen is if you pay to stop the pullin’ of this trigger.

We all pay, Tucker, one way or t’ other.

Tucker’s words edged like broken glass. Smart mouth and damn stupid.

The balled fist of Bishop’s left hand sledge-hammered Tucker just below the earlobe, pounding the bundle of nerves next to his jaw. The sheriff heaved over, stumbling away from the bunk, knees unsure.

Bishop jumped from the bunk. My ending isn’t coming from you!

A spasm travelled down Tucker’s arm, but the Colt stayed in his fingers. He tried to raise the gun, eyes refusing to focus. He blinked, tried again. His hand twitched, but pulled the trigger. A shot spit off the wall, before tearing into the wet Bible, thudding between the pages.

Bishop brought down his left arm again, a wide blow using all his shoulder strength. Tucker hit the floor hard, bifocal lens shattering, his face slopping into the mess he’d thrown from the wash bucket.

A bullwhip cracked.

The knotted leather snake wrapped around Bishop’s neck, jerking him to the floor. He grabbed for the long tail as it snapped back, splitting the air. The whip came down across his eyes, then again on his chest, face, and arm. Sharp-edged leather sliced muscle deep, then peeled off.

Crack.

Bishop fought back with his left, shielding his eyes. The lash kept ripping, spattering his blood in a fine rain. He didn’t see Sheriff Tucker stand or pick up his gun. He only felt the whip.

Crack.

Harvey said, He ain’t dropping!

The barrel of Tucker’s gun smashed the side of Bishop’s head, washing his eyes red, the blow pounding him down.

Bishop heard one of them say, Ain’t nobody can take that much punishment. Nobody.

CHAPTER TWO

Blood on the Horn

Colby had gone by so many names he’d forgotten most of them. It was usually something he picked at random from the Bible and then mumbled to the trail boss, hotel clerk, or whoever. Folks never seemed to question him, but sometimes would mention that he had the same Christian first name as their pa or grandpa. The only problem was that he had to remember to answer when the name was called out.

Everything else, including who was the priority kill if there was more than one target, always came off like clockwork. But he had trouble with damn names. That was something to work on.

He was rolling his cigarette too loose, the makings sprinkling the tops of the new boots he’d scarred with a heated edge of a bowie. His hands refused to cooperate with the task, the paper tearing between his thumbs and fingers until he finally managed to patch together something that was close to a misshapen cigar, bulging in the middle, ragged tobacco peeking out from both ends.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear whiskey-snickers from a couple other rope hands, lighting their own smokes and shaking their heads at his incompetence.

He called out, Any of you fellers spare a match?

One of them, older, with a Winchester repeater resting across his lap, rode over, still having a joke, but trying to be good-natured. Andy, I never seen nothing like you.

Andy! Why the hell did he think it was from the Bible? Colby took note of the name, tipping his hat and grinning wide.

Holding on to his laugh, Winchester handed him a match. So, you’re drawing wages?

The poor excuse for a cigarette didn’t want to be lit. Colby struggled until it finally flamed. He coughed, Yes, sir. I surely am.

Not wanting to offend, can I ask what for?

Same as you, I guess.

Not the same as me, son. I’m on a special contract with Mr. Chisum. Winchester’s voice was deep but quiet, commanding attention in the way he gave each word its proper measure.

Colby thought that if Winchester ever delivered a sermon, he’d listen to it. Well, I’m here to take care nothin’ happens that’s not supposed to, sir.

Make sure Chisum’s cattle get to the railhead. Winchester motioned to the herd of cattle behind him, 1,944 at the supper count.

They were decent stock, not spongy but not muscle-bound either. Settling down for the night, a couple heifers were pushing each other, rubbing hair, but nothing serious. It was a good quality herd for a rancher who wanted to build something for himself. A starter.

Colby had actually thought about having a nice place, a little extra security. Something like what his folks had.

That notion had nothing to do with the job at hand, and he stopped it as soon as it entered his mind. No imaginings was his rule, so he wasn’t listening when Winchester made another statement about the cattle and their value.

Colby’s grin took up his entire face when he replied, purposefully stumbling over his words. Yes, sir. That’s as fine a bunch of that shorthorn breed, you know, that I ever seen.

Durhams can fetch an all right dollar.

That’s a for sure, and I’ll be keepin’ a good watch on ’em.

But what about those men yonder? Winchester let the question hang, jerking a thumb toward the riders trolling the edge of the herd, listening for incomers and scooting back the strays. No muss, no fuss, just earning their pay.

Soon they would share the one low fire and take their grub quietly, with voices down, so the cattle would stay settled. It was the way professionals did it, and those men were all pros. It was the point Winchester was trying to make, but Colby already knew it. He’d been watching them closely, making note of who did what, and how.

And the guns they carried.

Winchester said, I’ve known some of them since they were kids, and they’ve grown up to be damn handy— he looked back at Colby—and all good with a gun. Good men.

Colby’s strained grin had gone lopsided, and he kept nodding his head in agreement, even when it wasn’t needed. Yes sir, you can see it. That’s why they’re drawing top wages.

You must have something on the ball, too, or you wouldn’t be ridin’ with us.

Well, I surely want to do a good job. I’m eager.

Winchester drew out his words. That’s fine, but you’re all elbows and thumbs. Seems like you should have more experience, given your age.

Colby inhaled deeply on his misshapen cigarette. The other fellas been talkin’?

They’re looking at you. So am I.

I surely don’t want to disappoint nobody.

Then step up. Throw a rope or show yourself with a gun. You have to do something, son.

The twisted cigarette went out. Colby tossed it before opening his stained jacket to show a shirt that had been patched so many times it didn’t deserve wearing and that he had no gun belt. By contrast, Winchester’s shirt was fresh, and buttoned to his neck, his new hat held in place with a chinstrap.

Colby said, I don’t carry no gun. Maybe you can teach me? I admire that rifle.

If you’re serious, we can give it a try. But—Winchester’s eyebrows came together, forming a gray question mark over his sandpaper face—if you can’t shoot, how are you standing guard over anything? This isn’t adding up for me, son.

Actually, I misspoke.

Colby held up a hand to pause Winchester’s next remark and took a gold pocket watch from his dirty jacket. The watch was polished diamond-clean, and he handled it delicately, snapping the engraved face cover open to note the time. I make sure things go the way they’re supposed to.

Winchester covered the hammer on the rifle with his palm, easing it back. What in the Sam Hill does that mean?

Colby held the watch, smiling at a cameo on the inside of the cover. It wasn’t a silly grin, but something real and satisfied. He snapped it shut. Swiss works. Always perfect. My meaning is, that you have a choice to not use that rifle, sir. I hope that’s the choice you make.

Winchester crooked his elbow, settling the rifle on Colby when shouts from the other cowboys startled him.

They were loud cries, and one had some panic. Whoa, Lordy, do you see that?

Winchester turned his attention for a heartbeat.

That heartbeat was all Colby needed to slip the blade down his arm into his palm and launch it, bullet-fast and sure, burying itself completely into Winchester’s chest. The blade had no handle, and plunged so deep, Winchester’s body seemed to swallow it whole, the wound just a slit above his heart, spraying a geyser of red.

Colby had hit the artery he was aiming for. It was perfect. Surgical. Winchester looked down at the blood soaking his starched-white shirt, then back to Colby, wounded surprise in his eyes. He tried to crack off a shot.

It was only a grazing as Colby dove from his horse, rolled, and came back up to his feet in a single acrobatic motion, before yanking the rifle from Winchester’s hands. There