Shotgun Read Free Page B

a gentle slap before allowing him a swallow of mescal.
    Bare-chested, he leaned to one side, his back toward her, so she could unhook the canvas strap that was tight across his shoulders and connected to the two triggers of the Greener twelve gauge. The strap dug into him, leaving marks like the bite of a whip, and was connected to a looped piece of fabric that ran down his right arm and anchored to the triggers, so that the action of bringing the shotgun up to waist level would pull on the strap, firing either or both barrels.
    The bleeding started around the leather cup that was fit to Bishop’s right arm just below the elbow joint. It was a standard prosthetic that rebel and union boys now wore as a battle prize, but had been modified to allow the short stock of the Greener to fit where a metal hook would replace the patient’s hand. The stock was secured in the cup with small metal bands that joined the shotgun and prosthetic together as one.
    White Fox loosened the ties that held the cup tight to Bishop’s arm, and pulled the entire rig away, revealing a bleeding stump. More mescal from the heel of the bottle, and Bishop’s head lolled back, his hand still holding the yucca against his cheek as she checked the arm for fresh wounds.
    He said, “Nothing’s opened up?”
    She examined the corrupted skin and muscle that was a knot around the bone, and saw that none of the crude surgical scars lacing it together had ruptured. The blood was smeared from small wounds around the elbow, where the amputation point met the healthy rest of the arm. White Fox swabbed away the streaks of wet red.
    Bishop said, “It’s not setting right, rubbing raw. I know you don’t understand everything, but you did a fine job. I’m the doc, but you’re the surgeon.”
    White Fox dressed the wound with salve and wrapped it, saying, “I still am, Bi-shop.”
    â€œNot always, not always.”
    White Fox allowed the corners of her mouth to turn up, as she settled Bishop down on the blanket. A last bit of mescal and he closed his eyes at her touch treating his wounds.
    â€œWhere’s my medical bag?”
    â€œClose.”
    Bishop barely opened his eyes to see the small, black leather bag, age-cracked, with L T. B ISHOP embossed in flaked gold on one side. It was Bishop’s field kit, bloodstained and heavy with instruments. White Fox had arranged it among the other supplies, but knowing that piece of himself hadn’t been lost eased Bishop, and he closed his eyes again.
    Bishop said, “You take care of me.”
    White Fox rested the shotgun rig between the medical bag and the stacks of ammunition, all the time watching Bishop as he drifted, his words folding into each other.
    â€œWhen your husband stabbed you, I sewed you up. And when he broke your arm? You were a good patient.”
    White Fox treated the slice on Bishop’s face with the last of the yucca pulp. His eyes were heavy with sleep coming, but his thoughts were fighting the peace.
    â€œPardee had never seen anything like me. Nobody had.”
    Bishop lifted what remained of his right arm to reach out to White Fox, but he couldn’t. She touched the side of his face, lightly tapping the pulp onto the wound so it would dry in place.
    Bishop said, “I’ve watched a lot of men die, but I never killed one. Not even in the conflict.”
    White Fox lay next to Bishop, pulling a blanket over them both, keeping one hand on his chest.
    Bishop said, “It felt different than I thought it would.”
    White Fox understood but didn’t react; she just lay next to Bishop, feeling the still-excited, rapid beat of his heart and quietly murmuring his name until his body eased, and he fell, peacefully, asleep.

CHAPTER THREE
    Deadeye
    â€œDeath ain’t much of a threat.”
    The Spitter pounded his glass on the counter of the old exchange station for another pour, while Lem “Deadeye” Wright