Shotgun by Courtney Joyner Page B

Creed.”
    â€œKeep telling yourself that. You seem to need it.”
    Just beyond the fire, the horses and Creed’s other six men were dark shapes, outlined by the orange flicker. The six stretched out, assuming positions that favored their bandaged wounds. Their talk was all worn-out sneers.
    Fuller took hold of Creed’s horse, pulling the bottle of sipping bourbon from the saddlebag, where it was tucked next to the shotgun rig. Little of the bourbon was gone.
    Fuller said, “Captain, you think—?”
    â€œEach man gets one swallow to keep out the chill.”
    â€œI’ll make sure.”
    Fuller walked to where the guns were stretched out, and handed off the bottle to Fat Gut, who guzzled deep. Fuller snatched it back, wiped the top, and passed it on to the next.
    Fat Gut leaned against his Winchester like a crutch, bourbon wetting his chin. “You’re really pushin’ it with me, boy.”
    Fuller said, “No, I ain’t,” before letting the next one drink and throwing Fat Gut some more words. “I outranked you during the conflict, so I figure I still do. Wanna try? I’ll even help you stand up.”
    Fat Gut rubbed his leg wound, shrugging. “It’s too damn cold. Lucky for you.”
    Bishop watched Fuller pass the bourbon among the hired guns before saying to Creed, “Your bottle’s getting some real use. Grant’d be proud.”
    Creed’s voice was in the back of his throat. “I expected better of you than cheap jokes. We’re bundled around a campfire, not sitting back in front of a fireplace. Men who served are supposed to have a better fate.”
    â€œWho claimed that?”
    â€œIt’s not policy. It’s what you hope for: that sacrifice will be rewarded.”
    â€œLike the money you’re going to get for us?”
    Creed said nothing, just let the flames bounce across the dark amber of his glasses, outlining the edges. Finally, Bishop said, “There’s a bounty on me, and I never robbed a bank or a train.”
    â€œYou killed a man.”
    â€œThat you said needed killing. You agreed with me.”
    â€œI still do, but that don’t change what’s going to happen.”
    Bishop felt the piece of arm that remained through his sleeve. “So how the hell do you know about Beaudine ?”
    Creed took warmth from the fire. “Because he tried to join my regiment. The man’d worn the grey, claimed he had a change of heart. But then we found out he was wanted for strangling some strumpet, arrested right after he’d signed his papers. Not even Southern-born, but claimed he was a plantation owner—with acres of cotton and a hundred slaves—who felt the need to serve. He never served anywhere, except in prison or the crazy house.”
    Bishop let Creed’s words sink in before he said, “You told me something, Creed, but it’s not enough. It’s just a hell of a coincidence.”
    â€œOne of God’s jokes—the war connects us all.”
    â€œMore than the war. I want Beaudine dead.”
    â€œI know the feeling.”
    â€œYou lost your eyes, I lost my family.”
    â€œAnd your limb.”
    â€œI don’t care about that.”
    â€œI wouldn’t give it no never mind if I found the replacement you did.”
    Bishop paused, and then, “You’ve known me a hell of a long time. You’re really thinking you can play with me like this?”
    â€œI’m in command, and you’re a prisoner.”
    The back of Bishop’s left hand smashed into Creed’s jaw, sending his glasses flying into the fire. Bishop grabbed Creed’s blue lapel. “You’re talking in circles! Tell me what the hell your intentions are!”
    Creed smiled, his scarred-over eyes meeting Bishop’s. “Only give the enemy enough information to confuse.”
    The barrel of Fuller’s rifle was sudden, and steady, over