Shotgun Read Free Page A

dream ever: the beautiful Cheyenne woman, onyx hair spreading behind her, riding out of the night just to take the old man away. White Fox pulled a war club she’d tethered to her belt and held it high.
    Spitter closed his eyes and smiled, thinking, This is a hell of a way to go, and why not?
    White Fox rode close, swinging the club into the skull of the drunk standing next to the Spitter, creasing his head. The drunk fell forward, the revolver in his hand hot-blasting the muddy snow instead of John Bishop’s back, where he had been aiming.
    Spitter grabbed the pistol for a trophy, and White Fox threw him a stony nod while the painted galloped toward Bishop. Bishop turned at the sound of the shot, just as White Fox rode up next to him, still holding the war club. They rode side by side for a moment, the legs of the painted and the bay falling into sync.
    White Fox said, “ Hetómem .”
    Bishop spoke through the bloody handkerchief, “He remembered me.”
    White Fox pointed to the nearest mountains with the club, and broke ahead. Bishop heeled the bay.
    The cave was a huge, yawning smile beneath a jagged slope of blue rock, sheeted by snow and protected by daggers of ice formed by the water flowing from up-mountain. Bishop followed the barely-there trail for more than a mile, guided by a small fire White Fox had left burning inside the cave’s mouth, its drifting heat melting hanging icicles. Bishop felt comforted by the distant, flickering orange, even as a raw burning raced across his face and down his right half-arm.
    The painted was tied to a Rocky Mountain birch, eating fresh snow, when Bishop reached the cave. White Fox stood just inside, waiting to see if he could get down from the bay by himself. He did, a scream jamming the back of his throat. Fresh blood specked Bishop’s sleeve and the shotgun barrels. She took a step toward him that he stopped with a raised hand. He nodded that he could beat it, allowing himself a moment to let the throbbing from his arm and face ease with deep, cold breathing. It didn’t.
    White Fox slipped herself under his shoulder and helped him to the fire. “Bi-shop.”
    Bishop smiled at the way she said his name, breaking it gently in two, as if each syllable had a spiritual meaning. She eased him onto a blanket on the cave floor, where he stretched out, propping himself on his right elbow, the shotgun rig resting on his knees.
    White Fox pulled off the blood-flecked duster and folded it carefully, before putting more wood on the fire, sparking the flames. She then opened one of the redware jars she’d arranged around the cave, along with bedrolls, a cook pan, a coffeepot, a lot of ammunition, and a small leather satchel that had Bishop’s initials stamped on it in gold.
    Bishop said, “You’re nesting—Jesus!”
    He cried out raw as she peeled the pink handkerchief from the drying blood caking his cheek. White Fox tossed the rag, and dabbed the wound with a soft cloth she’d wetted with melted snow. It was cool, and felt good against the damage.
    Bishop said, “Stitches. You know how.”
    White Fox ran her fingers along the inside of the jar, gathering yellow salve. She smeared the mixture on the wound, then cut a piece of yucca in half, opened it flat, and pressed it against Bishop’s face.
    She took Bishop’s left hand to hold the plant in place and he said, “This won’t be enough. Ma’heo’o Ôhvó’komaestse .”
    Bishop got the words out, but White Fox didn’t hear them. Her jaw was set, which meant that she would take care of him in her own way; she didn’t need white medicine.
    She unbuttoned his shirt, and he automatically leaned forward so she could pull the right sleeve free, gathering the rest around the shotgun rig, then slipping it off. The shirt caught on the hammers, and White Fox yanked it.
    Bishop swore in Cheyenne, and White Fox gave the back of his head