Short Cut to Santa Fe by Medora Sale

the two uprights that marked the beginning of the aisle, crouched down, and said something directly into his co-worker’s ear.
    The sudden increase in speed startled them all. The Kellehers lost their dual snack trays on the first bump. Diana Morris’s cola can bounced onto the floor and rolled, dribbling dark liquid as it moved. “What in hell is going on?” said Kevin Donovan in a surprisingly clear and sober voice. He slid over to the aisle and tried to get a look at the road ahead, but he was hindered by the bulk of the relief driver and the fast-gathering dark. “What do you bastards think you’re doing?”
    â€œDeal with him, Wayne,” said the driver.
    â€œShut up.” There was an edge of panic in the relief driver’s voice. “And sit down.” He swung himself around, achieving stability in the crazy lurching environment by looping an arm around the pole and wedging his feet against the steel dividers. With a wary eye on Donovan, he bent over to recover something from his seat; when he straightened up again, he was holding a huge and cumbersome weapon.
    The only noise to be heard was the bus bouncing over gravel—the only movement that of the passengers swaying in spite of themselves from the mad careening of the bus. Donovan was half in the aisle, hanging onto the back of the relief driver’s seat, staring down at his weapon; Suellen Kelleher had shrunk into her corner, with her husband protectively in place between her and the gunman. Teresa Suarez watched it all without expression. Someone behind her gasped.
    Then everything happened at once. Donovan yelled, “Put that thing away, you fucking idiot.” The bus lurched violently to the right. Arms grabbed Karen from behind and toppled her to the floor. There was a burst of gunfire, agonizingly loud in that confined space. Hot air exploded beside her head and she heard a startled “oof” from behind. By now she was flat on her face on the carpeting that ran between the seats of the Archway Tour bus, bouncing painfully on the hard surface.
    Dizzy and confused, she lifted her head, knowing only that she had to be on her feet. She was in charge. That was her job. But the scene in front of her made no sense. Kevin Donovan was kneeling with his feet sticking out into the aisle, his torso flat down on his seat, very still. Ahead of him, the relief driver waved his weapon back and forth, in harmony with the swaying of the bus. Donovan raised his head, looked back at the relief driver, and began very slowly to resume his sitting position. How could either one of them have thrown her to the floor with so much violence? And as far as she could tell, she hadn’t been hit by a burst of gunfire. Then the sound of distressed breathing reached her and she turned her head to look.
    Diana Morris was crawling on her hands and knees toward the back of the bus. The pool of blood she’d left behind her was soaking into the carpeting. More dripped from her as she struggled. Karen scrambled along the aisle in a hunched position, picking up bruises as she was flung against the metal sides of the seats, until she was beside the wounded woman. “Where are you hurt?” Diana Morris fell over on her side, her hand pointing down at a huge, bleeding wound in her thigh.
    â€œYou could have killed us all, waving that gun around,” said an incisive voice. It was Mrs. Green. An invigorated Mrs. Green. “You’ve certainly hurt that young woman. We can’t leave her like that. Here—just a moment.” She reached into a capacious bag that was slung in the net in front of her and produced a plastic case with a red cross emblazoned on it. Then, rummaging farther, she pulled out a plastic bag containing a number of pastel scarves. “I’ll just make her a bandage—”
    â€œNo. I’ll take care of her.” This was a new voice, controlled and calm. “Get out of my way, Brett,