Shotgun by Courtney Joyner Page A

Chaney to proceed. Chaney held back, keeping his hand out of sight, ready to draw. Their words were steam in the air.
    The pretense meant nothing to Lem. “Your gun belt’s comin’ apart, partner. Better take care of that.”
    â€œIn case I haven’t told you, thanks for your brave sacrifice.”
    Lem stored his response for later. Chaney kicked the snow from his boots before going in.
    The sun sliced the dark of Gutterson’s in long slivers, landing against a small wooden pew, a rude coffin set up on a pair of saw horses, and paper flowers knitted into a wreath. What Chaney could make out in the rest of the room was unfinished: bare walls waiting for paint, against which there were two new rugs neatly rolled, floor planking, and some nail kegs. Ten raw coffin lids were stacked against the opposite wall, with prices scrawled on each. The prices had been crossed out several times, replaced by higher ones.
    Lem said, “Howard! Show your worthless ass!”
    The response was a dog barking up the street. Lem started for a small door at the back of the parlor, with Chaney following. Chaney regarded the empty pews and coffin, and Lem said, “That’s what you have to look forward to.” He continued into the backroom, adding, “Me too.”
    The back room was less finished than the rest of the place, with tools, scrap wood, and several bodies lying in rows on the dirt floor. The bodies were wrapped in heavy cloth, with lengths of rope securing the necks, arms, and feet like so much packed meat.
    There was a slapped-together box in the middle of the floor, with a man laid out inside, his huge arms folded on his chest. His mouth was smothered by a drooping moustache that laced into muttonchops along his jowls, covering most of his pitted face.
    Lem Wright looked into the box, which was just slightly smaller than a piano crate, then turned to Chaney. “You know a dead man can still break wind?”
    The man in the coffin sat up. “You want me to show ya?”
    â€œI think you already did. Jesus, Howard.”
    Howard said, “Those boys are just going a little ripe. Get me the hell out of here.”
    â€œYou could stuff a family in that thing.”
    â€œAll of them, or maybe just me.”
    Howard held out his tree-trunk arms, as Lem shouldered him from the crate. Lem bellowed in pain as Howard’s weight almost pushed him to the floor. Howard swung his legs over the side, with Chaney steadying it as best he could. The wood buckled.
    â€œJesus is crying, hurry up!”
    A couple of bent nails tore into Chaney’s hand, prompting Howard to say, “I ain’t much of a carpenter.”
    Lem said, “Then what the hell are you doing here?”
    â€œThere’s so many killin’s, with all the crews comin’ in. The coolies and the Micks and the Jews all want a piece of each other. Old man Gutterson can’t keep up, so he hired me on.”
    Chaney regarded Howard’s work, sucking the blood from his thumb and forefinger. “A gunny’d be nicer.”
    â€œPulled up the floor for the boards, got a stack of bags for when we run out. One more team of railroad men, and we’re good for at least five shootings. That’s money, man. I gotta finish this one and two more before tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat about those fellas?”
    Howard nodded toward the five on the floor. “Teamsters got ambushed outside of town. Nobody’s claimed ’em, so we’ll dump in the same hole. I’ll give ya each ten if you help me dig it.”
    Lem said, “Sounds like you’re doing all right.”
    Howard held up a pair of iron pliers and a small chisel. “Between their teeth fillin’s and whatever Gutterson misses in their pockets, yeah, I’m stayin’ out of jail.”
    Lem said, “Better that than dead.”
    Chaney said, “Especially if you’re handling the funeral.”
    â€œIt’s