Not a bight, but the lake offered sight of Bishop's old canoe. Jack hadn't seen him in a while nor had Bishop's wife, there was rumour of bishop rowing upstream to an old cabin on the rivers edge where he kept secrets. A candle light the din of the cabin, cards lay on the pine wood table and Bishop held tight to a 5th of whiskey. He knew his cover was broke and they would be surrounding the old cabin in no time, he was spinning and grinning and welcomed the joust. Jack saw the dust cloud just behind the cabin and heard the whinny of horses, their guns were loaded as was Bishop's and when the candle was blown out Jack knew Bishop would prevail.
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Bishop wasn’t going to run. He looked at it as a vacation. If they were going to follow there was nothing he could do about it. He took the canoe. It was right were he left it.
Jack was the only one he knew who understood this country. That doesn’t come from good intentions or an honest effort. It comes from generations of pain, blood in the bush, gardens withering and watching loved ones drown. Weighing it against making love above the firs but below the crags, catching fish, heating red wine and whiskey over quiet fires and walking the same trails that never remind you of getting old.
Bishop had settled in. The cabin was as he left it. No bear or packrats. After supper a knock at the door. They had found him.
He heard, “Open up”. Bishop was off to the side when he swung the door. A rifle pointed in. Bishop grabbed hard and yanked the shooter in. It came out of his hands easy. Bishop hit him in the face with the butt. While spinning the rifle from barrel to butt it went off and blew the hat off the next intruder.
He thought he was dead sure as shit, but fell backwards down the steps upon his companion.
They had sent three to kill him.
Bishop swung the door shut. He had one inside with him and two outside. He wasn’t worried about the one inside or the one with a hole in his hat. But the third guy was a gunslinger. The other two carried rifles.
The one inside was coming to. He was on the floor, clawing at the floorboards with his heals. Bishop kicked him hard in the nuts. He moaned, threw up and went back to sleep.
A shot came through the pane and knocked over a tin of jam on the shelf near the opposite window. Bishop blew out the lantern. It would be dark in another hour.
He could hear them bringing the horses closer. He could hear the fish starting to jump. Just as he thought. Without them he would be paddling out, tossing a line.
Bishop looked out the window. A shot rang out. It was the one with a hole in his hat. Bishop saw him clear, silhouetted against the down sun. Bishop aimed for the biggest part of him but got him in the leg.
The cabin was under blaze. Bishop knew only one remained but a lot of bullets were coming his way. He dived under the table. The door came off. It was the gunslinger, the heavy hitter. He said, “No more fucking.”
He had him. Bishop was dead to rights.
“What’s the ruckus?”
It was Jack. Not surprising. After all, it was his cabin.
The gunslinger turned but was too slow. Jack hit him flush with the back of the axe.
They rounded them up. The one with a busted face and sore nuts. The one shot through the leg (just the fleshy part of the thigh). And the gunslinger knocked cold. They took them outside to the woodpile.
When the gunslinger came to. Jack grabbed his shooting hand, laid it on the chopping block and with one swing cut his hand off.
The other two saw it. The gunslinger was awake. Jack grabbed him off the ground by the scruff in one hand and grabbed the lifeless limb in the other.
He pulled him close, showing him his severed hand, said, “I’m going to cook this up tonight and taste every whore you ever fingered.”
They let them go. The gunslinger was last seen wrapping the bloody stump, running into the bush.
They kept the horses. Jack threw the hand into the water. “Fish food,” he said.
They realized there were only so many good fishing days remaining. That much they knew.
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