Shotgun Read Free

doubts at all. He had to.
    His face was sticky with the wash of blood from his sliced cheek, and as Bishop calmed, he started to feel the pain. The batwings creaked, and a few drinkers poked their heads over the doors. The whore moved to Bishop, holding out a lace handkerchief. “It’s clean.”
    Bishop wrapped the handkerchief around his face to soak the bleeding. He felt the girl behind him tying it off and caught her heavy perfume. Bishop thanked her and she nodded before wiping her wet eyes on her sleeve.
    The others hung back on Huckie’s porch, watching as Bishop hefted himself onto his saddle, again throwing himself wide and keeping the shotgun clear of any tangle. He played it slow for them, settling against the leather, and sliding his double-barreled right arm into the canvas sling.
    The bay was ready to run, but Bishop kept the reins tight around his only knuckles, holding her back.
    Old Spitter hollered, “Hey! You busted some good bottles killin’ that piece of sheep dip! Plus the door, and a couple of chairs!”
    Bishop took fifty from his vest and tossed it. “You’re going to tell folks about this, right, friend?”
    Spitter gum-grinned. “I’ll be talkin’ about tonight for the next five years, five months, or five days. Dependin’ on how much time I got left.”
    â€œGod only knows, and I’m obliged to you both.”
    Bishop brought his horse around slow for that last look, and then heeled her. The bay took off toward the blue-black silhouettes of the rising hills, and the high Colorados beyond.
    Spitter whistled with gums and two fingers, but Dr. John Bishop didn’t hear it. His horse was running strong into the winter night, knowing where to go, even if his mind was taking him someplace else beyond the hurt—maybe back to his wedding day, or the birth of his son.
    Behind him, a rider was charging hard to catch up, a Cheyenne war club in their hand.

CHAPTER TWO
    The Fox
    White Fox kept her body low and tight against the painted stallion. They moved as one, racing down the trail, the snow kicking up around them like bursts of brake steam. She grabbed the horse’s mane, fingers tangled in wiry brown, and gently pulled. The painted slowed as the path through the trees widened into an easier slope that led to the “town” just below. It was a mule squat for drifters who still had hopes for the played-out silver strike at Cherry Creek—stop for a drink or an ash hauling, and ride on.
    But this was where Bishop had to go, so White Fox had to follow.
    She pulled up to watch Bishop’s silhouette pause outside Huckie’s, say something with a roll of his shoulders, and then go in. White Fox dropped from the painted, and walked him around the burned skeleton of an old barn to a water trough thick with ice. She broke the icy surface with a kick and tossed away the pieces.
    The painted inspected the trough with his nose, then drank.
    While he watered, she scraped packed snow from his hooves with a six-inch blade. She had the feeling everything in this place was dying or dead. Two loud voices from Huckie’s stopped her.
    White Fox stepped into the moonlight, craning her neck toward Huckie’s to hear. A voice she didn’t know was yelling about Jesus. Two shotgun blasts followed; that low rumble mixed with those louder cracks that ring in the air and ears.
    The painted lurched as the blasts smashed against the hills. White Fox said, “ Nâhtötse ,” close to the stallion’s ear, calming him, before swinging herself on his back, and circling around the far side of the barn. She saw Bishop on his bay, talking to the Spitter on the porch. White Fox dug in, and the painted broke into a run, while Bishop rode off without looking back.
    The Spitter whistled loud after Bishop, before looking up to see White Fox charging toward him. It was either an image from some kind of holy book or his best damn whiskey