Shotgun by Courtney Joyner Page A

sheriff’s away ’til tomorrow sometime, and he’s gonna be awful touched up about this. He makes a lot of money from Miss Kate.”
    Howard said, “You tell the sheriff that we got the killer, and he don’t need to bother with nothin’.”
    â€œSomebody’ll have to step up, take Kate’s place,” Lem said.
    Soiled Dove wrinkled her nose at him. “Maybe me?”
    â€œMaybe. Go on inside, and get warm for real.”
    Soiled Dove got up, and padded inside as Beaudine rode around the far side of the porch, sporting an officer’s hat that had been stripped of its braiding, and his many-grey tunic, newly sewn together. Even made of bits and pieces, Beaudine was again impressive, with the long cleaver tied behind his saddle, the blade wrapped in butcher’s paper.
    Beaudine said, “How’re you fixed?”
    Howard was still holding Betsy. “Belly wash and jerky.”
    â€œThat’s going to change.”
    â€œWords.”
    Beaudine looked to Howard. “We’ve had our wait, but now the Bishop gold is ours for the taking. Are you loyal or not?”
    â€œTo you?”
    â€œTo the mission. If you have to light out”—Beaudine pulled the cleaver from behind his saddle, and hefted it with both hands—“I’ll hold no ill feelings.”
    Lem said, “What if we turn our guns on you?”
    Chaney sat up alert, his hand on the Colt, but again, he was holding back. Waiting. He looked to Lem’s frozen eye, to Howard and his clenched fists, and finally to Beaudine.
    Everyone seemed ready to pull when Beaudine spoke, his eyes fixed on something none of them could see. “Delivering death is our mission. It’s your choice who we deliver it to: each other, or the bastards who’re denying us a better life.”
    Beaudine urged his horse, breaking away from the three. “I know where I’m heading.”
    Howard, Chaney, and Lem turned their mounts around, guns back in their holsters, or tucked into belts. Lem held the torch for all of them, showing the way.
    Howard said, “Shit-house rat crazy.”
    Deadeye Lem Wright added, “And we’re gonna follow.”
    Chaney said, “For now.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    The Heart of the Enemy
    â€œSir, I’m getting our dinner. I can’t be sitting around doin’ nothing. Uh, with your permission.”
    Hector stood at attention before Creed, pointing to a distant gathering of trees that were being swallowed by the long shadows of the setting sun.
    After a moment, it dawned on Hector that his pointing was useless and he dropped his arm. “Them rabbits went right for the woods. I can still see their tracks. Must’ve been five or six. I can get ’em and we’ll be eating for the rest of the trek, sir.”
    Captain Creed said, “Take one of the men with you, and be back in an hour. You can tell time?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    The pocket watch that Creed took from his jacket was a fine, ornate piece, presented to him by his men for his leadership skills. He held it in front of the boy by its gold chain. Hector swallowed air before gently putting it in his palm. “Thank you, sir.”
    â€œI expect my watch and you back in an hour, with or without dinner.”
    The hour bled forty minutes, and White Fox had built a fire to burn low and steady. The fire was obeying, shielded from the wind by a small wall of snow that she’d iced from a canteen, making it solid. Bishop and Creed were beside the flames, as she stood by, waiting for Hector to return from the woods with an armful of rabbits.
    Bishop said, “Hector’s a good boy.”
    â€œYes. He volunteers for every duty he can. Now he comes up with his own.”
    â€œMy son was a lot younger, but there’s a resemblance of spirit.”
    â€œAll boys look the same. That’s why we give them uniforms.”
    â€œThey weren’t the same to me,